For a Jewish guy, I've recorded a lot of Christmas albums.

Host: The snow was falling softly outside the recording studio, coating the streetlamps in pale silver, muting the city’s restless pulse into something almost sacred. Inside, the air was warm — filled with the faint smell of coffee, electric cables, and that familiar, invisible hum of instruments sleeping between sessions.

The studio lights were dim, except for a single lamp over the grand piano, where sheets of music lay scattered like fallen wings.

Jack sat on the piano bench, fingers idly pressing a few notes, not enough to form a melody — just enough to feel the keys breathe under his touch. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup, watching him with that soft, steady gaze that always seemed to catch the light just right.

Jeeny: “Barry Manilow once joked, ‘For a Jewish guy, I’ve recorded a lot of Christmas albums.’”

Jack: grinning faintly “That’s either irony or genius. Probably both.”

Jeeny: “I think it’s self-awareness — the kind that turns contradiction into harmony.”

Jack: tapping a single key “Or survival. The man figured out what people wanted to hear and gave it to them. Over and over. Nothing wrong with that.”

Jeeny: “Unless you forget to hear yourself in the process.”

Host: The piano strings vibrated faintly from his idle touch, a thin, metallic echo hanging in the warm air. Jack’s face — lit only by the lamp — looked somewhere between amusement and melancholy.

Jack: “You know what I like about that quote? It’s honest. It’s funny, but it says everything about how art and identity collide. You make what the world loves, and sometimes it’s not what you grew up loving. That’s the deal.”

Jeeny: “But it’s also the paradox, isn’t it? A Jewish man recording songs about Christmas. It’s not just commerce — it’s connection. Music doesn’t care about religion. It just asks to be felt.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But the industry cares. Everything’s branding now. Even sincerity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe sincerity’s the last rebellion left.”

Jack: laughs softly “Try telling that to a record executive.”

Host: The wind outside howled faintly, pressing against the glass. Somewhere down the hallway, a janitor’s broom scraped, rhythmic and lonely.

Jeeny: “I think Manilow knew exactly what he was doing. He was building bridges with melodies. You don’t need to celebrate Christmas to understand the ache in ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ That’s not religion — that’s longing.”

Jack: “So you’re saying it wasn’t irony. It was empathy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t fake warmth like that. It’s why his songs still stick. They sound like nostalgia even when you hear them for the first time.”

Jack: quietly, pressing a chord “Yeah. Nostalgia’s the easiest emotion to sell — because it’s already waiting in people’s bones.”

Jeeny: “You talk about it like a product.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? He turned sentiment into currency. And people paid gladly.”

Jeeny: “Because he gave them permission to feel.”

Host: The piano hummed as his hands found a few chords, slow and deliberate. The notes trembled, like the memory of a song half-forgotten but never gone.

Jack: “You think it’s easy for someone like that — to sing about something you don’t believe in?”

Jeeny: “Belief takes many shapes. Sometimes belief is in the music itself. The lyrics are just the wrapping.”

Jack: “So faith in sound?”

Jeeny: “Faith in connection.”

Jack: pauses “You’re saying he wasn’t pretending.”

Jeeny: “No. He was translating.”

Host: The lamplight softened as her words hung between them. Outside, the snow continued to fall — slow, thick, forgiving.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? My father hated Christmas music. Said it was fake, sentimental garbage. But every December, he’d sit by the window with a drink and hum along to it anyway. Like he couldn’t help it.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s the magic of contradiction. It finds the truth hiding in resistance.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just melody. The right notes bypass everything — faith, pride, ego. You don’t think. You just feel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about who wrote it or why. It’s about the moment when sound becomes belonging.”

Jack: “So maybe Manilow wasn’t crossing lines. Maybe he was erasing them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Making the universal intimate.”

Host: The snowlight outside reflected off the glass, spilling into the studio — pale, shimmering, quiet. The room looked softer now, as though the world itself was exhaling.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how holiday music always feels like memory — even when you’re in the middle of it?”

Jack: “Because it’s written for ghosts. For the people we miss and the moments that won’t come back.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “That’s why it works. You don’t need to celebrate the holiday to understand the ache of wanting warmth in a cold room.”

Jack: softly “Like this one.”

Jeeny: smiles “Exactly like this one.”

Host: Jack’s hands drifted over the keys again, this time forming something tender, uncertain — a melody trying to find its own way through the silence.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Manilow was really saying. That art doesn’t belong to belief systems. It belongs to the feeling that binds us despite them.”

Jack: “So the Jewish guy sings about Christmas. And the listener who’s never been religious feels saved for three minutes.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the miracle. Not divine — human.”

Jack: “A kind of borrowed holiness.”

Jeeny: “The best kind.”

Host: The music began to take shape — soft, imperfect, full of spaces where emotion breathed. Jeeny set her coffee down and closed her eyes, letting it wash over her.

The song didn’t have lyrics, but it said everything words couldn’t. The quiet struggle between irony and sincerity, faith and form, heart and habit — all folded into sound.

Jack: after a while “You know, I think that’s what he meant. You can make something that doesn’t fit your label and still mean it. Maybe being an outsider helps you hear what insiders can’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Outsiders translate longing into something everyone understands. Maybe that’s why his Christmas songs worked. He wasn’t singing as someone who belonged — he was singing to those who wanted to.”

Jack: “So every time he sang ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas,’ he was really saying ‘I wish I could be.’”

Jeeny: “Yes. And everyone listening nodded, because they wished the same.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted to the window. The snow outside was falling heavier now, blanketing the street in quiet white. The city — the whole noisy, unfeeling machine — had gone still.

The melody faded. The silence that followed was fuller than any applause.

Jeeny: softly “Funny, isn’t it? A Jewish man sings about Christmas, and suddenly everyone feels understood.”

Jack: “That’s what great art does — it sneaks truth past the gatekeepers.”

Jeeny: smiling “And leaves it humming in our hearts.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed as the snow thickened. Jack sat quietly, his fingers still on the keys, while Jeeny watched him — both of them suspended between irony and grace.

In the hush of that moment, the studio felt like a chapel — not of religion, but of resonance. A place where contradiction became communion.

And as the final note of his unplayed song dissolved into silence, it carried with it the essence of Manilow’s joke, transformed into quiet wisdom:

That faith need not match the lyric,
and belonging need not require belief —
only the courage to sing about warmth,
even when standing in the cold.

Fade out.