From the artist's standpoint, are you getting more from streaming

Host: The record shop had the kind of silence that only dust and memory can make. Rows of vinyls lined the shelves like forgotten worlds — each sleeve a story, each scratch a ghost of someone’s youth. The turntable in the corner spun a soft blues track, a melody half-drowned in static, half-resurrected by devotion.

Through the front window, the city lights flickered, restless and digital — the rhythm of a world that no longer waited for the needle to drop.

At the counter sat Jack, his fingers idly tracing the grooves of an old Led Zeppelin record. Across from him, Jeeny perched on a stool, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, her dark eyes reflecting the faint shimmer of the spinning vinyl. Between them lay a small clipping from a music magazine, folded and worn.

She unfolded it, her voice low and deliberate as she read aloud:

“From the artist’s standpoint, are you getting more from streaming than you used to, prior to the days of the Internet? No — and I don’t know if those days are ever going to come back — but at least, technically speaking, it’s the legal way to do it.” — Myles Kennedy

Jack: (half-smiling) “The legal way to do it.” That’s such a polite way of saying we got robbed by progress.

Jeeny: (softly) Or maybe progress never promised to pay.

Jack: (leaning back) That’s the problem, isn’t it? The world moved on, and art got left with the bill.

Jeeny: (nodding) The Internet turned music into air — everywhere, free, infinite. But the moment something becomes infinite, it loses its weight.

Host: The record’s crackle filled the quiet between them, a small, persistent heartbeat in the still room. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, the sound sharp, fleeting.

Jack: (thoughtfully) You remember when people used to save up to buy an album? When the cover art meant something — the smell of plastic, the sleeve notes, the ritual of it all?

Jeeny: (smiling) Of course. Listening was an act of worship then. Now it’s a habit.

Jack: (dryly) And habits don’t pay rent.

Jeeny: (gently) Neither does nostalgia.

Host: She said it softly, not as criticism but as fact — the kind of truth that doesn’t need volume to hurt. Jack looked down at the magazine clipping, the ink smudged slightly by years of handling.

Jack: (quietly) Kennedy sounds almost resigned — like he knows the fight’s over.

Jeeny: (after a pause) Maybe it’s not resignation. Maybe it’s realism. The world doesn’t go backward, Jack. We don’t get to rewind to the analog age just because the sound was warmer.

Jack: (murmuring) Warmth costs something, though.

Jeeny: (softly) It always has.

Host: The music changed tracks — an old vinyl squeak, a few seconds of silence, then a slow guitar riff began, steady and melancholic.

Jack: (staring at the turntable) You know what streaming did? It democratized access but sterilized connection. Everyone can listen — no one listens.

Jeeny: (nodding) We traded depth for reach. And we called it evolution.

Jack: (with a bitter laugh) Artists used to dream about being heard. Now they’re background noise for people folding laundry.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Maybe that’s still something. Even ghosts like to be remembered.

Host: The rain started again — faint, steady, rhythmic — like applause for the wrong reasons. Jeeny turned to look out the window, her reflection merging with the shimmering lights outside.

Jeeny: (quietly) I think what Kennedy meant wasn’t just about money. It’s about meaning. About how creation used to be sacred — the way songs carried weight, like confessions. Now they’re just files, data to be skipped.

Jack: (grimly) And the artists — priests without a congregation.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe that’s too tragic. Maybe it’s just... new worship in a new temple.

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) The temple of convenience.

Jeeny: (gently) Or connection.

Jack: (snorts) Connection? You call streaming connection?

Jeeny: (looking at him) Yes. Millions of people can listen to the same song at the same moment. Across time zones, languages, lives. Maybe that’s not sacred in the old way — but it’s sacred in a new one.

Host: The lamp above them buzzed faintly, its light flickering over the record grooves like a skipping memory. Jack reached out, flipped the record, and the old tune stuttered to life again — a song about love, loss, and a world that used to wait for meaning.

Jack: (quietly) “At least it’s legal,” he said. That’s the saddest part. As if art needed permission to exist.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe legality is the last illusion left — that control and fairness can coexist. But art never obeyed rules. It survived them.

Jack: (murmuring) You think it still can?

Jeeny: (nodding) Always. Because no system — not even one made of algorithms and profit margins — can calculate what a song does to the human heart.

Host: The music swelled, its melody soft but insistent — the sound of something enduring, refusing to fade. The two of them sat in silence, the glow of the turntable spinning slow circles of light and memory across their faces.

Jack: (quietly) You know, maybe streaming didn’t kill art. It just exposed us — how much we take for granted what saves us.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe that’s what every age does. Takes art for granted until it’s gone — then tries to resurrect it as nostalgia.

Jack: (softly) Like pressing a vinyl against your chest just to hear a heartbeat.

Jeeny: (whispering) Exactly.

Host: The record reached its end — the faint static looping like the echo of a sigh. The rain had stopped, and the air was still, heavy with the scent of dust and time.

Jack stood, closing the magazine, and looked at Jeeny — his tone softer now, the cynicism in his voice worn down by her faith.

Jack: (gently) So what’s the point, then? If the artist doesn’t win, and the system doesn’t change?

Jeeny: (after a pause) The point is that art still exists — even when it’s underpaid, overlooked, overplayed. It’s still being made. That’s the rebellion. That’s the proof of life.

Host: Outside, the neon sign flickered once more, its light reflecting in the window like an echo of the moon.

And in the hum of that forgotten record shop, Myles Kennedy’s words seemed to float between them — not as complaint, but as testimony:

That art may not profit in the age of streaming,
but it still breathes —
legal, fragile, uncontained.

And as long as someone listens —
even through the static —
it will never stop singing.