But I do think that we approach music, in of itself, with a

Host: The night hung over the city like a veil of black silk, rippling with the distant sounds of laughter, traffic, and a faint street saxophone that played somewhere out of sight. Inside a dimly lit music bar, the air was thick with smoke, jazz, and the smell of aged whiskey. The stage lights had gone dark after the last set, leaving only a few candles flickering along the tables — tiny, trembling halos against the dark.

Jack sat at the bar, his fingers tapping the wood in rhythm to a song only he could hear. His eyes, cold grey, drifted toward the piano where no one sat now — just the memory of sound still breathing through the room.

Jeeny arrived moments later, her scarf damp from the night air, her eyes soft but alive with something unspoken. She slipped onto the stool beside him.

For a long while, they said nothing. The silence between them wasn’t empty — it pulsed. Like the echo after the last note of a song.

Jeeny: “Jon Fishman once said, ‘But I do think that we approach music, in of itself, with a religious attitude.’”

Jack: “A religious attitude?” He smirked, the kind of half-smile that never reached his eyes. “That’s giving too much credit to sound waves.”

Host: The bartender moved quietly in the background, wiping glasses, while the neon sign outside blinked with tired persistence. The air was heavy, charged — like something holy might be hiding behind all the noise.

Jeeny: “You don’t see it, do you? The way people surrender when they hear a melody — the way their walls drop for a moment. That’s not just listening. That’s devotion.”

Jack: “Devotion’s too big a word. It implies belief. And belief implies delusion.”

Jeeny: “You think music’s delusion?”

Jack: “It’s chemistry. Pattern recognition. The brain’s reward system lighting up because it’s heard something it likes before. We don’t worship music, Jeeny — we’re just addicted to it.”

Jeeny: “Addicted? Maybe. But addiction isn’t always a bad thing. Maybe music is the closest thing to worship we have left — because it’s one of the few things people still feel without needing proof.”

Jack: “So you’re saying listening to Miles Davis is like praying?”

Jeeny: “Haven’t you ever closed your eyes during a song and felt like you disappeared into something bigger than yourself?”

Jack: “That’s not God. That’s dopamine.”

Host: The room seemed to tighten with their words — like an instrument being tuned. The jazz player in the corner began to pack up his sax, the faint click of metal echoing through the hush. A low hum of the air conditioner replaced the music, a dull heartbeat of the night.

Jeeny: “You always have to explain everything, Jack. Can’t something just be?”

Jack: “Not if we’re calling it sacred.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what sacred really means — something that defies explanation?”

Jack: “Or something people use to escape responsibility for thinking.”

Jeeny: “And yet, music makes you feel, doesn’t it? You can’t argue that away. You sit here every night, listening. You don’t call that a kind of faith?”

Jack: “Faith implies expectation. I don’t expect anything from music.”

Jeeny: “You come back to it, though. Over and over. Maybe not for answers — but for silence that sounds like understanding. That’s faith, Jack. Even if you don’t name it.”

Host: Jack looked away. His reflection caught in the mirror behind the bar — fragmented, distorted, as though even he wasn’t sure which version of himself was real anymore.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher tonight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just listening differently.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To everything. The way the world hums even when no one’s singing. The way footsteps on the pavement make rhythm, or how the rain has tempo. Music isn’t something separate from life, Jack — it’s woven through it.”

Jack: “You make it sound divine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what Fishman meant — that music is our modern temple. We gather, we lose ourselves, we confess, we heal.”

Jack: “And then we go home.”

Jeeny: “Even worshippers leave the church, Jack. That doesn’t mean what they felt wasn’t real.”

Host: The bartender refilled their glasses. The sound of liquid pouring was soft, rhythmic, almost ritualistic. Outside, a bus hissed as it stopped, a single figure stepping out, umbrella opening like a quiet bloom.

Jack: “You know what I think?”

Jeeny: “You’re going to tell me either way.”

Jack: “I think people project meaning onto sound because they can’t handle silence. Silence forces you to face yourself. Music distracts you from that.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe music translates it — gives silence a voice so we can survive it.”

Jack: “So music is therapy now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it always was. Think of ancient rituals — the chants, the drums. Every culture that ever lived used sound to reach something higher. Before religion, before language, there was rhythm. Maybe we were worshipping long before we knew the word for it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but it carried weight, like an echo from the past. Jack’s hand paused on his glass. He didn’t speak, but his eyes flickered — like he’d heard something ancient stir in him.

Jeeny continued, her tone quieter, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “There’s a story about Beethoven — how, when he went deaf, he pressed his ear to the piano just to feel the vibration. He couldn’t hear the notes, but he could feel the truth of them. That’s not science, Jack. That’s prayer.”

Jack: “Prayer without a god.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “So the music itself becomes God?”

Jeeny: “No. The music reminds us that we are. That we’re more than logic and noise.”

Host: The rain returned, gentle this time, like an instrument tuning itself against the glass. The candles flickered, shadows swaying like dancers. A quiet energy filled the room — not passion, not chaos — but reverence.

Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His jaw loosened, his eyes softened, his tone no longer defiant.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father used to play Coltrane at night. He’d say nothing — just close his eyes and listen. I used to think it was stupid — sitting there in the dark, doing nothing. But once… I remember… the light hit his face just right, and I could see tears. Not sadness. Just… something I didn’t understand.”

Jeeny: “You understand it now.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean by religious. It’s not about doctrine or rules. It’s about reverence. About the moments that strip you bare and remind you you’re still human.”

Jack: “Reverence. Huh. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s what I felt then — like being small in front of something infinite.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “You think the infinite lives in sound?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It lives in silence between the sounds.”

Host: A beat of stillness. Even the rain seemed to pause. Jack’s breath hitched slightly — the kind of breath that comes when you realize something you’ve known all along.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe music is the last honest religion we have left. No idols. No judgment. Just feeling.”

Jeeny: “And faith. The faith that every note means something, even when you don’t understand it.”

Jack: “And when the song ends?”

Jeeny: “You wait for the next one.”

Host: The piano player returned, quietly, without announcement. His hands fell onto the keys like rain finding the earth. The first notes drifted out — soft, searching — and the entire room seemed to breathe again.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their faces lit by the gold light of the candles and the music curling through the air.

Jack: “You know, I used to think music was just escape.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s the only thing that ever really brings me home.”

Host: The melody swelled, wrapping around them like a benediction. Outside, the rain softened, and the city lights shimmered through the windows like stained glass in a midnight cathedral.

For a moment — brief, fragile, eternal — the world was holy again.

And there they sat — two souls, raw and human, worshipping not a god, not a doctrine, but the sound itself — that invisible, living prayer that asked for nothing and gave everything.

Because in that night, in that song, they both remembered:
sometimes, the most sacred thing of all is simply to listen.