Actually, we got signed in November of 2000 with Dreamworks which

Host: The recording studio glowed with dim amber light — the kind that seems to hum with memory. Guitars leaned in the corner like old friends, a coffee-stained notebook lay open on the mixing console, and the faint smell of burnt cables and hope hung in the air. Through the soundproof glass, the city night blinked in distant rhythm, as if keeping time to an unfinished song.

Jack sat slouched in the engineer’s chair, his fingers tracing the dials as though they were ancient runes. Jeeny perched on a stool, tapping her boot softly on the floor, her eyes following the soft flicker of a red standby light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Adam Rich once said, ‘Actually, we got signed in November of 2000 with Dreamworks which is the most amazing label. We have friends on other labels and though we are not selling millions of records, yet, they treat us with tons of respect and give us some very good guidance.’”

Host: Jack smiled, a slow, nostalgic curve of the lips — the kind of smile only those who’ve seen the underside of fame can make.
Jack: “You can feel the gratitude in that, can’t you? The innocence before the numbers took over the music.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what’s so striking — he’s amazed not by success, but by respect. By being treated like an artist, not a commodity.”

Jack: “That’s a rare feeling in this industry. Rarer than platinum.”

Jeeny: “And the way he says ‘the most amazing label’ — it’s not PR talk. It’s genuine. You can almost hear his voice catching between disbelief and hope.”

Host: The soundboard lights blinked, soft blue and red. The faint hum of an old amp lingered in the background — an echo of songs once alive in this room.

Jack: “You know what’s beautiful? He says, ‘We’re not selling millions of records, yet.’ That little yet — that’s pure dreamer. The belief that success is coming, but he’s not impatient. Just grateful for the journey.”

Jeeny: “That’s the essence of it — the amazement isn’t about arrival, it’s about belonging. About realizing you’re finally inside the world you used to stare at from the outside.”

Jack: “Yeah. That first label deal — it’s like being knighted by the gods of your youth.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Except the gods are A&R reps with cellphones.”

Jack: laughs “True. But in that moment, none of that cynicism exists. It’s pure — that giddy, dizzy amazement that your songs, the ones you wrote in your bedroom, suddenly have a home.”

Host: The studio speakers crackled softly as if waking from sleep. A faint melody drifted through — a demo track, rough and unfinished. The guitar was slightly out of tune, the vocals raw, but there was something honest about it — something real.

Jeeny: “Listen to that. That’s what he meant by guidance. Not perfection — direction. Someone believing in your potential enough to let you stumble without pulling the plug.”

Jack: “That’s what good labels used to do. They didn’t sculpt artists — they mentored them.”

Jeeny: “And treated them like people.”

Jack: “Right. Not just revenue streams.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft, consistent. It played against the studio window like percussion, adding an accidental rhythm to their quiet reflection.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how gratitude changes with time, Jack? When you’re young, you’re amazed by opportunity. Later, you’re amazed by survival.”

Jack: “And sometimes you’re amazed by how much you used to believe.”

Jeeny: “But that belief — that’s what makes creation possible. The moment you stop believing something good might happen, the art dies.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what keeps musicians alive — not the applause, but the amazement that people are still listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And Adam Rich — you can hear in his words that he wasn’t chasing fame. He was chasing connection.”

Jack: “That’s why it still feels pure. There’s no cynicism, no disappointment. Just this quiet joy of being seen.”

Host: The soundboard flickered again, and for a brief moment, the faint hum of the city synced with the song playing — car horns, raindrops, bass lines blending into something unintentional and perfect.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny — that kind of amazement feels like an endangered emotion now. In an age where every artist measures their worth by streams, likes, or followers.”

Jack: “Back then, it was about being on a label that believed in you. That was validation enough.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what makes his gratitude so touching — he found joy not in numbers, but in nurture.”

Jack: “Because that’s what the best art needs — not attention, but care.”

Host: The rain deepened, steady and cleansing. Jeeny turned toward Jack, her voice low, her tone reflective.
Jeeny: “Do you think that kind of artist-label relationship still exists? One built on trust, not transactions?”

Jack: “Rarely. But every once in a while, it happens. The magic doesn’t disappear — it just hides between the cracks of commerce.”

Jeeny: “And when it does, it still feels amazing.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because it reminds us that music isn’t just sound — it’s faith. Faith in collaboration, in creation, in the belief that your voice matters.”

Jeeny: “And that someone out there still wants to help you make it louder.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed, their glow softening into memory. Jack stood, stretching, eyes still on the mixing console.

Jack: “You know, I envy that version of him — Adam Rich, 2000. Standing at the edge of something, full of hope. The contracts unsigned, the songs unwritten, the future unworried.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real miracle of youth in art — not knowing the odds, so you believe anyway.”

Jack: “Exactly. The kind of innocence that builds masterpieces by accident.”

Jeeny: “Or at least writes songs that sound like prayers.”

Host: A final note from the demo played — the singer’s voice cracked on the last line, but it was beautiful in its imperfection. The sound lingered in the air like a ghost that refused to leave.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? That amazement he felt — it’s the artist’s first and last truth. You start amazed that anyone believes in you. And if you’re lucky, you end amazed that anyone still listens.”

Jack: “And in between, you make music to keep yourself from forgetting why.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain softened, the city exhaled, and the song — that fragile, unfinished demo — kept playing, looping quietly in the background.

And as the light from the console dimmed, Adam Rich’s words seemed to hum through the air, not as a statement but as a melody —

that the amazing part of creation
is not fame,
but faith;

that respect is worth more than sales,
and guidance more precious than glory;

and that the greatest success
isn’t in millions of records sold —
but in the rare, luminous moment
when someone says,
“We believe in you.”