Before the music and before the fame, I loved Apl for Allan

Host:
The recording studio pulsed with a low, steady beat — not from the speakers, but from the hearts of those who had lived too long inside its walls. The walls, padded and painted with memories, bore the faint echo of past songs, laughter, and the occasional silence that comes when art forgets how to breathe.

It was past midnight. Outside, the city was sleeping under a thin veil of neon and mist, but inside, time had stretched — suspended in rhythm and light.

Jack sat slouched in the corner, a pair of headphones hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes, sharp and grey, studied the unmoving microphone in the booth as if it were a mirror that reflected more than sound.

Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rug, scribbling lyrics into a worn notebook, her brow furrowed, her hair tumbling carelessly over her shoulders. The faint hum of an unfinished track played on loop in the background — a heartbeat waiting for words.

And somewhere in that loop, in the repetition of creation, something human was about to surface.

Jeeny:
Taboo once said, “Before the music and before the fame, I loved Apl for Allan Pineda, for being a brother that he is and for the inspiration — for him to actually come to the States from the Philippines and make something of his life. That's inspirational.”

(She looks up)
That line always gets me. Not because it’s about music — but because it’s about loyalty. About remembering the person before the performance.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
That’s rare in this industry. People remember hits, not hearts.

Jeeny:
But Taboo didn’t talk about Apl as a partner or an artist. He talked about him as a person. That’s what makes it real.

Jack:
(Leaning back)
You think that’s what inspiration really is? Remembering people instead of praising them?

Jeeny:
Exactly. Fame fades. Humanity doesn’t.

Host:
The music looped again — a soft, melodic rhythm like the pulse of memory itself. Jack’s hand tapped absentmindedly on the armrest, his mind flickering through the fragments of his own past — faces, voices, unkept promises.

Jack:
Funny, isn’t it? How fame turns people into symbols. Once you’re successful, your story stops belonging to you. It becomes public property — edited, exaggerated, sold.

Jeeny:
And the people closest to you — the ones who knew you before the noise — become your witnesses. They’re the proof you were ever real.

Jack:
(Smiling bitterly)
You sound like someone who’s seen it happen.

Jeeny:
I have. We all have. Every dreamer’s got a friend who got famous first.

Jack:
And what happens then?

Jeeny:
You either become jealous… or inspired.

Jack:
And which one were you?

Jeeny:
(Smiling faintly)
Depends on the day.

Host:
The light from the console reflected off the window, catching her eyes like a candle’s flame — bright, flickering, alive but unsteady. Jack watched her, his face caught somewhere between amusement and regret.

Jack:
You know what I hear in Taboo’s words? Gratitude — the kind that’s rare among people who make it big.

Jeeny:
Because gratitude doesn’t sell. It’s too quiet. The world prefers noise — headlines, drama, reinvention. But real inspiration whispers.

Jack:
And most of us are too busy shouting to hear it.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Jack:
(After a pause)
You think Allan knew he was going to inspire people? When he left home — the Philippines — did he know?

Jeeny:
No one who truly inspires ever plans to. They just live honestly enough for someone else to see themselves in that story.

Jack:
So inspiration is accidental.

Jeeny:
Accidental, but divine.

Host:
The music shifted — a bass line rising softly under their words, like emotion sneaking into rhythm. Jeeny glanced toward the booth, eyes distant, as though she could see the ghosts of every dreamer who had ever stood behind that microphone.

Jack:
You know, when I was a kid, I thought fame was the destination — the end of the map.

Jeeny:
And now?

Jack:
Now I think it’s a mirage. You chase it until you realize it’s just sunlight on sand.

Jeeny:
(Smiling softly)
Then maybe inspiration is the water — the real thing. The part that keeps you alive while you chase.

Jack:
So people like Taboo — they remember the source, not the storm.

Jeeny:
Yes. He didn’t just honor success — he honored survival.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
That’s a rare kind of love — to admire someone not for what they became, but for what they endured.

Jeeny:
That’s brotherhood.

Host:
Her words filled the space like harmony — subtle but unshakable. The beat beneath them softened, slowing, almost breathing.

Jack looked at her then — not as a collaborator, but as something more essential: a mirror.

Jack:
You ever think about what keeps us here? Why we still do this — the writing, the music, the endless trying?

Jeeny:
Because someone somewhere needs it. Because someone’s going to hear what we make and think, “I’m not alone.”

Jack:
You really believe that’s enough?

Jeeny:
It has to be. That’s how inspiration works — it’s contagious, not measurable.

Jack:
And yet we still measure it — likes, streams, applause.

Jeeny:
(Smiling sadly)
That’s not measurement, Jack. That’s fear disguised as validation.

Jack:
(Quietly)
Maybe that’s what Anne Murray meant — not wanting to fake inspiration.

Jeeny:
Exactly. You can’t fake what’s born of truth. You can’t market love.

Host:
The music looped one final time, fading into near-silence — the sound of a heart steadying itself.

Jeeny stood and stepped into the booth, her reflection merging with the microphone. Jack watched her, leaning forward slightly, hands poised over the soundboard.

She took a breath — not the kind that precedes performance, but the kind that precedes honesty.

Jeeny:
(Speaking softly into the mic)
Before the music. Before the noise. Before the world told you who you should be — there’s you. That’s where inspiration lives. That’s where it starts.

Jack:
(Quietly)
And where it returns.

Host:
He hit record.

No countdown. No cue. Just silence blooming into sound — the kind that carried the weight of everything human: struggle, loyalty, gratitude, and grace.

Jeeny’s voice rose, low and trembling, then steady and alive —
not a song about fame,
not about God,
not about success —

but about one person believing in another.

Host:
When she finished, the silence after the last note felt sacred.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Through the glass, Jeeny smiled, that quiet, knowing kind of smile — the one that happens when something real has just been born.

Jack lifted his hand in a small salute, half grin, half awe.

Host:
And in that small, holy space of creation,
they understood what Taboo had meant —
that before the fame,
before the lights and the applause,
what endures is connection.

That inspiration is not an achievement —
it’s a shared pulse between souls who remember each other’s courage.

Host:
The lamp dimmed. The music faded.

And as the night leaned in closer,
the world outside seemed to listen —
to two dreamers in a quiet studio,
magnifying not success,
but the beauty of being seen.