After we covered Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now,' Brian May and Roger

Host: The stage lights still glowed faintly in the dim rehearsal hall, the air heavy with the scent of dust, wood, and the fading echo of music. A single spotlight burned overhead, cutting through the haze like a memory refusing to die.

Scattered across the floor were microphones, cables, and half-empty bottles of water. The faint hum of an old amp lingered in the background — a heartbeat that hadn’t realized the performance was over.

At center stage sat Jack, guitar in hand, his fingers idly brushing across the strings. The last note of a Queen song still hovered in the air. Jeeny leaned against the edge of the stage, watching him, her dark hair glinting in the soft amber light.

A framed photo of Freddie Mercury — vivid, alive — leaned against the nearby piano. His grin seemed almost to approve of the silence.

Jeeny: (softly) “Tom Fletcher once said, ‘After we covered Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now,” Brian May and Roger Taylor sent us a bottle of champagne and asked us if we’d sing it on stage during the “We Will Rock You” musical on what would have been Freddie Mercury’s 60th birthday.’”

Jack: (smirks, tuning a string) “Imagine that. Playing Freddie’s anthem, on his birthday, with the band’s blessing. That’s not a moment — that’s immortality shaking your hand.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that. It’s like the torch being passed — the living saluting the legend.”

Jack: “Yeah. Except no one can hold it like he did.”

Jeeny: “No one’s supposed to. The point isn’t to become Freddie. It’s to honor what he made possible — the permission to be unapologetically alive.”

Host: The amp crackled, the sound small but alive — like a ghost testing the air. The spotlight flickered, its circle of light warming the dust that danced within it. Outside, a faint rumble of thunder rolled across the distance, low and melodic, like the drumbeat of memory.

Jack: (picks a few notes, softly) “You ever notice how certain songs outlive the people who wrote them? Like they just… detach from mortality.”

Jeeny: “That’s because some songs aren’t written. They’re born — from emotion so raw it stops belonging to one person.”

Jack: “And becomes everyone’s.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Queen did. They didn’t write music for people. They wrote with them.”

Jack: “Yeah, but you still need someone like Freddie to make that real. The world’s full of voices, but he had a roar.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “A roar that could be joy and defiance at the same time.”

Jack: “He sang like life was both the wound and the cure.”

Host: The rain began, tapping gently against the high windows of the hall. The sound blended with the hum of the amp, creating a rhythm that felt unplanned — organic, like music improvising with the world.

Jeeny: “That’s why Fletcher’s story hits me. Think about it — imagine being handed champagne from the men who made the legend, and being told, ‘Now, it’s your turn.’”

Jack: “It’s both an honor and a dare.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The dare to not just sing the song, but to mean it.”

Jack: “That’s the hard part. You can hit every note, but if you don’t believe the words, the music dies before the applause starts.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Freddie’s gone but not gone. He didn’t perform — he confessed.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think that’s what art really is? Confession with rhythm?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The artist bleeds truth, and the audience drinks it until they feel alive again.”

Host: Jack struck a chord, slow and deliberate. It echoed across the empty space, filling the silence with something fragile and human. Jeeny’s gaze softened — the sound touched her in the way only honesty does.

Jack: “You know, I used to hate covering other people’s songs. Felt like stealing someone else’s heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you play Queen?”

Jack: “Because his heartbeat never stopped. It just changed bodies.”

Jeeny: “Beautifully said.”

Jack: “No. True. Every time someone sings his songs, Freddie gets another breath.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what Fletcher meant. The champagne wasn’t just a gift. It was a toast to resurrection.”

Host: The lights dimmed, and for a moment, the photo of Freddie on the piano caught a flicker of lightning from outside. His smile seemed alive — mischievous, defiant, eternal.

Jack: “You know, the funny thing about fame is that it looks immortal but feels fragile. Artists spend their lives trying to leave a mark, but what lasts isn’t their name — it’s their truth.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And Freddie’s truth was joy. Unfiltered, unashamed joy.”

Jack: “You think that’s what art’s supposed to do? Make people happy?”

Jeeny: “Not happy — free. There’s a difference.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Freddie didn’t make people escape reality. He made them dance inside it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. His songs told you to take your pain and make it sing.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled again, this time softer — a rhythm almost in time with the hum of the amp. The rain fell harder, like applause from the sky.

Jack: (strumming) “So, tactics, skill, rhythm, soul — they all fade. But the voice? The voice that meant something? That’s eternal.”

Jeeny: “Because it reminds us of who we could be if we stopped being afraid.”

Jack: “Afraid of what?”

Jeeny: “Of being seen. Of being loud. Of being ridiculous. Freddie was all those things — and that’s why we still listen.”

Jack: (grinning) “He turned audacity into religion.”

Jeeny: “And invited everyone to join the choir.”

Host: The rain softened, falling into rhythm with the faint strumming. The sound became one — thunder, guitar, voice, silence — blending like the last verse of a song that refuses to end.

Jack: “You know, I think about what Fletcher said — about singing ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ on Freddie’s 60th birthday. Can you imagine that? Singing to a ghost who’s somehow still the loudest person in the room?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what legacy really is. Not remembrance — presence. The proof that some voices echo so deeply, they start speaking through other people.”

Jack: “You think he’d have smiled, hearing them play it?”

Jeeny: (gazing at the photo) “No. He’d have laughed — then told them to make it louder.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Yeah. Louder, faster, and with teeth.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, then steadied. The hall glowed with a quiet warmth, like light rising from memory itself.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s why artists die young but live forever. They burn so hot that even their ashes keep glowing.”

Jack: “And the rest of us just keep trying to warm our hands.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need to warm them, Jack. Just play. Play like no one’s judging. That’s how Freddie did it. That’s how legends breathe.”

Jack: (softly) “Don’t stop me now.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The guitar strings trembled beneath his fingers, the notes climbing into the air — fragile, defiant, eternal. The rain stopped, leaving behind a faint scent of electricity and renewal.

As the last chord faded, so did the moment — but not the feeling.

And as the scene dissolved into the soft hush of the empty hall, Tom Fletcher’s words lingered like champagne bubbles rising through memory —

a reminder that art is inheritance,
that music is resurrection,
and that when one voice stops,
a thousand others rise to carry its melody forward.

For in the echo of Queen,
in the trembling of the strings,
and in every heart that dares to sing too loud —
the universe still hums its oldest anthem:

Don’t stop now. Don’t ever stop.