Any musical form that has been around long enough to have

Host: The theatre was empty now — the echo of voices long gone, the smell of dust and velvet still hanging in the air. On the old stage, light from the half-open curtain spilled across the wood, catching the faint marks of years — heels, hope, heartbreak. The ghost light stood center stage, a single bulb glowing in the dark, like a small sun that refused to die.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his coat folded beside him, his eyes grey and watchful. He tapped his fingers against the worn floor, as though hearing a rhythm no one else could.
Jeeny stood in the aisle below, a notebook in her hands, her hair falling forward, her expression thoughtful — tender but alive, like someone caught between art and memory.

Between them, Alan Menken’s quote was written on the chalkboard at the back of the stage:
"Any musical form that has been around long enough to have cultural resonance beyond just being a cutting edge kind of communication — but, especially, when it begins to reflect on a time and reflect on a culture — is effective in a musical."

The theatre hummed faintly, as though the very walls remembered the applause.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that music becomes meaningful not just when it’s new, but when it starts to remember.”

Jack: “Beautiful, yes. But also... misleading. Nostalgia is a dangerous kind of drug.”

Host: His voice echoed softly, low and rough, blending with the creak of the old boards.

Jeeny: “You think Menken was wrong?”

Jack: “Not wrong. Just romantic. He’s a composer — of course he believes that music ‘reflects a culture.’ But music doesn’t reflect the world, Jeeny. It decorates it. It gives the illusion of meaning.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “Illusion? You think Les Misérables is an illusion? Or West Side Story? Those weren’t decorations. They were reflections — of revolution, of violence, of love struggling against hate.”

Jack: “And now they’re sold as Broadway souvenirs. Turned into movie soundtracks and ringtone samples. That’s what culture does — it consumes its art.”

Host: The ghost light flickered slightly, its small glow trembling, like the heartbeat of the stage itself.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point, Jack? That something survives consumption — that art still breathes even after it’s commercialized? When Menken wrote for Beauty and the Beast, he wasn’t chasing the cutting edge. He was channeling something ancient — the fairytale, the myth. That’s why it worked. Because it remembered humanity.”

Jack: “Or because it was safe. People love songs that sound like what they already believe. Familiar chords. Predictable endings.”

Jeeny: “You mean comfort.”

Jack: “I mean conformity. There’s a difference.”

Host: A shadow crossed Jack’s face, cast by the stage light — sharp and angular, like the cut of skepticism itself.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in resonance then — in a melody echoing through generations?”

Jack: “I believe in survival. A melody lasts because it adapts. Not because it’s profound.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You sound like you’ve stopped listening to music altogether.”

Jack: (with a bitter laugh) “Maybe I have. Too much noise in the world already.”

Host: The wind rattled the back door, carrying with it a faint sound of the city — horns, laughter, a bus braking hard. And beneath it all, the faintest hum of a street performer’s violin.

Jeeny: “Listen to that.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Out there. That violin. You hear it?”

Jack: “Barely.”

Jeeny: “That’s culture, Jack. Right there. A stranger playing on the street — probably out of tune, probably ignored — but still trying to connect with something larger than himself. That’s what Menken meant. When art starts reflecting life, not chasing it.”

Jack: “You think that man with the violin is reflecting culture? He’s reflecting survival. A few coins in a cup.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what’s wrong with survival being art?”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, carrying the kind of tremor that only truth carries when it collides with pain.

Jeeny: “Every song that lasts — blues, jazz, gospel, hip-hop — came from struggle. That’s why they still matter. Because they weren’t made to impress. They were made to endure.”

Jack: (quietly) “Endure. Or repeat. There’s a thin line.”

Host: A pause, filled with the sound of rain beginning to fall on the roof, a slow rhythm, syncopated like a heartbeat in a ballad. The light dimmed, leaving only a halo on their faces.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first song you ever loved?”

Jack: (after a moment) “Yeah. Sinatra. My father used to play him every Sunday morning.”

Jeeny: “And how did it make you feel?”

Jack: “Like home had a soundtrack.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s resonance, Jack. That’s what Menken meant. It’s not about the notes — it’s about the memory they unlock. The moment a song becomes part of who we are — it stops being sound and becomes story.”

Jack: (looking away) “You always turn pain into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what music does, too.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, each drop a drumbeat, each pause between thunder like the space between two measures.

Jack: “You know, maybe Menken’s right in theory. But when I look at musicals today — they’re not reflecting culture. They’re parodying it. They package rebellion and sell it for $79 a ticket.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still cry in the audience. Still feel something. Doesn’t that mean it’s working?”

Jack: “Or maybe people are just nostalgic for emotion itself.”

Jeeny: “You can’t fake emotion, Jack. You can stage it, but not fake it. That’s the difference between spectacle and sincerity.”

Host: Her hand moved unconsciously to her chest, where the light hit softly, her eyes shimmering in the glow.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen Hamilton, haven’t you?”

Jack: “Once.”

Jeeny: “Then you know what I mean. It wasn’t just rap or history — it was reflection. It captured the anger and ambition of a generation. It made the founding fathers sound like the streets. That’s what happens when music evolves beyond novelty — it starts speaking in the voice of its time.”

Jack: (grudgingly) “And becomes a movement.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A moment passed. The rain eased. The ghost light hummed softly again — steadier now, brighter. The stage no longer looked abandoned; it looked waiting.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too cynical. Maybe it’s not about nostalgia or novelty. Maybe the real power is in recognition. When we hear ourselves in a song — when a culture sees its own reflection and doesn’t look away.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s when art becomes mirror — and mercy.”

Host: She stepped onto the stage, joining him beneath the light. Her shoes made a faint sound on the wood, like the start of a rhythm.

Jeeny: “Every era leaves its echo, Jack. Every song a confession of what it meant to be alive then. That’s why musicals endure — because they make us remember not what happened, but how it felt.”

Jack: “So, when Menken says a musical is effective when it reflects culture... he’s really saying it becomes immortal when it reflects our hearts.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Yes. Culture is just the heart of people, translated.”

Host: The ghost light glowed brighter now, bathing them both in gold. Outside, the rain had stopped. The air was heavy with silence — the kind of silence that feels sacred.

Jack: “Maybe the cutting edge isn’t the point anymore. Maybe the real art is learning to listen to the echoes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The cutting edge fades. But echoes — they linger.”

Host: She took a deep breath, then softly began to hum — a simple tune, half-forgotten, half-born. The sound drifted through the theatre, wrapping around the seats, the walls, the dust. It was a melody that could’ve belonged to any time — yesterday, or a hundred years ago.

Jack listened, his eyes softening, his hand resting on the stage floor, feeling the vibration of her voice travel through the wood.

Jack: “You know... I think maybe that’s what Menken meant all along. When music starts reflecting its time — it’s not about the style. It’s about the soul that refuses to stay silent.”

Jeeny: “And when that soul finds harmony — it becomes culture.”

Host: Her humming faded into stillness. The ghost light flickered once, then held steady, illuminating their quiet understanding.

In the final moment, the camera would pan out — the stage, the two figures, the soft halo of gold, and the empty seats that once held a thousand hearts.

And in that stillness, Alan Menken’s words whispered across the air like a timeless refrain —

"When music remembers us, we remember ourselves."