As far as I'm concerned, I'm now in the business of making

Host: The recording studio was wrapped in dim gold light, the kind that made the dust look like floating memories. The walls were covered in old sound foam, scarred by years of songs and screams. The faint hum of an unused amplifier filled the air like a sleeping animal.

Outside, rain tapped the windows, soft but steady. Inside, two figures sat across from one another—Jack, in a faded leather jacket, cigarette unlit between his fingers, and Jeeny, her hair loose, her eyes reflecting the quiet light of the mixing board.

On the table between them, a sheet of paper bore the quote that hung in the air like incense:

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m now in the business of making spiritual records and using my voice for that purpose.”
— Sinéad O’Connor

Jeeny: (softly, almost in reverence) “She meant it, you know. It wasn’t about the charts, the fame, or the money. It was about truth. That kind of courage—to turn your voice into a prayer, even when the world laughs at it—that’s rare.”

Jack: (leans back, his voice rough) “Courage or madness—depends who’s listening.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “That’s what they always say about prophets, Jack.”

Jack: “Prophets? Don’t turn her into a saint, Jeeny. She was just a singer. A brilliant one, sure—but a human one. Broken, angry, loud. She wasn’t spiritual, she was raw.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what made her spiritual.”

Host: The microphone stood between them like a quiet confessor, its cords coiled on the floor like sleeping serpents. The rain outside thickened, tapping against the glass with rhythmic patience, almost like applause from a world that had stopped listening too soon.

Jack: “You want to talk about spiritual records? Fine. But let’s not pretend that music saves souls. It sells records. Everyone talks about purpose, but in the end, it’s still commerce. Even faith gets marketed now.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, eyes sharp) “You’re wrong. It’s not about saving others—it’s about redeeming yourself. Music can be a form of prayer, Jack. Not the church kind, but the kind where you stand naked before the truth and let it hurt you into something real.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Sounds poetic. But I’ve seen too many people drown in that kind of idealism. The world doesn’t care how honest your song is—it just wants a beat it can dance to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world’s tired of dancing. Maybe it wants to feel something again.”

Host: The lamplight caught the smoke from Jack’s unlit cigarette, turning it into a pale, ghostly ribbon. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy—not empty, but full, like a deep note that vibrated beneath everything unsaid.

Jack: (lowly) “You talk like you’ve never been disappointed. Like you still believe the voice can change the world.”

Jeeny: (smiling, sadly) “No, Jack. I just believe it can change the singer.”

Jack: “And what does that get you? Peace?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not peace. But meaning. Sinéad O’Connor wasn’t singing to please us—she was trying to survive. Every scream, every note—it wasn’t performance, it was confession. She didn’t want to be a star, she wanted to be heard.”

Jack: (pauses) “Heard by who?”

Jeeny: “By God. By herself. By anyone who ever felt like their voice didn’t matter.”

Host: A low thunder rolled in the distance, soft but certain. The soundboard lights blinked like tiny altars, each glowing square a pulse in the studio’s dim heart.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like her? They turn their pain into art. The rest of us just drown in it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe art is just pain that’s learned how to sing.”

Jack: (chuckles darkly) “Or scream.”

Jeeny: (nods) “Sometimes a scream is a kind of prayer too.”

Jack: “You think she believed in God?”

Jeeny: “I think she believed in truth. And when truth hurts enough, it starts to look like God.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a kind of hush. The clock on the wall ticked like a heartbeat that refused to fade. Jack turned toward the microphone, staring at it for a long time, as if it might speak first.

Jack: “You ever wonder what it feels like—to pour your whole soul into something, and still be misunderstood?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But maybe being misunderstood is the price of authenticity.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You sound like her.”

Jeeny: “I wish I did. She had that rare thing—conviction. She tore down the illusions around her, even when it meant tearing herself apart. And the world called her crazy for it. That’s how it always goes, doesn’t it? The ones who try to speak truth end up being burned by it.”

Jack: “And yet, they can’t stop.”

Jeeny: (nods) “Because when you’ve tasted what’s real, the false world becomes unbearable.”

Host: A faint melody played from the corner—an old recording, warped and fragile. The voice that filled the room was unmistakable: Sinéad’s—haunting, trembling, alive. It wasn’t perfect. It was human, naked in a way that made the heart ache.

Jeeny closed her eyes. Jack didn’t move. The song filled the silence like a quiet form of forgiveness.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You ever think maybe she wasn’t making spiritual records at all? Maybe she was just trying to find a reason to keep breathing.”

Jeeny: (opens her eyes) “Maybe that’s what a spiritual record is—a reason to keep breathing when the world’s gone silent.”

Jack: “Then maybe we’ve all been listening to the wrong kind of songs.”

Host: The rain outside stopped. The city lights reflected in the puddles, a broken symphony of gold and gray. Jack finally lit his cigarette, the flame flickering against his face like a fragile moment of clarity.

Jeeny: “You ever going to sing again?”

Jack: (exhales smoke slowly) “I don’t know. Feels pointless sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Then make it pointful. Don’t sing to be heard. Sing to be whole.”

Jack: (looks at her, quietly moved) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise the silence wins.”

Host: The studio hummed with a strange new stillness, not the kind that follows the end of sound—but the kind that waits for something to begin. Jack reached for the microphone, his fingers brushing the metal as though touching something sacred.

His voice, when it came, was low and trembling—half confession, half defiance.

Jack: “Alright then. One last song. For the ones who never stopped listening.”

Jeeny: (softly, smiling) “And for the ones who finally started.”

Host: The recording light blinked on—red, steady, alive.

The first note rose, unpolished, human, filled with the quiet truth that Sinéad once lived by: that the voice, when used with faith, could still reach the divine hidden inside the ordinary.

Outside, the rain began again—but gentler now, as if keeping rhythm.

Host (final line):
“In that fragile hour, amid static and silence, Jack’s song became more than sound—it became a small, trembling act of faith. And perhaps that was all a spiritual record ever needed to be.”