George wrote Taxman, and I played guitar on it. He wrote it in

Host: The recording studio lay steeped in the soft haze of memory — wood panels, scuffed floors, and the faint scent of coffee and stale smoke lingering in the air. It was the kind of room where both creation and confession seemed to live forever. The faint glow of red bulbs still burned above the control booth — relics from an era when every note mattered and every silence meant something.

A single vinyl record spun lazily on the turntable, crackling with life — George Harrison’s “Taxman”, the raw guitar riff looping like a smirk against the clean air of the night.

Jack sat by the mixing console, leaning back in the swivel chair, his fingers idly tapping the rhythm on the armrest. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the city lights outside, a steaming mug of tea in her hands.

The track faded out, and the crackle of vinyl was all that remained.

Jeeny: reading from her notebook, softly, like she was quoting a relic

“George wrote ‘Taxman,’ and I played guitar on it. He wrote it in anger at finding out what the taxman did. He had never known before then what could happen to your money.”
— Paul McCartney

Host: The words hung in the dim studio like the last note of a forgotten song — part history, part human frustration, part melody turned manifesto.

Jack: smiling faintly “It’s funny — only the Beatles could turn a tax policy into rock and roll.”

Jeeny: grinning “Only the Beatles could turn anything into art. Even anger.”

Jack: “Especially anger. The best songs aren’t written from peace — they’re written from protest.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. ‘Taxman’ isn’t just about money. It’s about awakening. That moment when innocence dies and you realize the world takes more than it gives.”

Host: The vinyl popped once — a tiny, perfect imperfection — and kept spinning.

Jack: quietly “Yeah. George found out about the cost of success. The invisible price tag behind fame.”

Jeeny: “The system always finds a way to remind you who really owns what you earn.”

Jack: laughs bitterly “You make it sound biblical.”

Jeeny: smiling “In a way, it is. The first betrayal was always about value — who gets to keep the fruit of your labor.”

Host: The faint hum of the city pulsed through the walls, blending with the crackle of the record — modern noise and history harmonizing like reluctant bandmates.

Jack: “You know what I love about that story? Harrison didn’t write a speech. He didn’t start a protest. He wrote a riff. Anger turned melodic. Rage that rhymes.”

Jeeny: “That’s the artist’s revenge. To transform what frustrates you into something unforgettable.”

Jack: smirking “Rebellion with rhythm.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why McCartney played guitar on it. Even Paul — the diplomat, the soft voice — understood the power of righteous irritation.”

Host: The red recording light flickered, reflecting in Jack’s eyes like a spark — small, steady, alive.

Jack: after a pause “It’s strange, isn’t it? Success and disillusionment are always neighbors. You climb a mountain thinking you’ll find freedom, and instead you find a bill.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Because freedom’s never free. Every dream gets taxed — money, time, soul.”

Jack: “And if you’re lucky, you turn the receipt into a song.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s what George did. He took frustration and built rhythm from it. He realized that even injustice has a beat.”

Host: The turntable stopped spinning. The needle hissed softly in its groove, the silence after the music holding its own melody.

Jeeny: “It’s a beautiful irony, isn’t it? The system taxed his income, but it couldn’t tax his spirit. That’s the thing about artists — they find profit in pain.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why McCartney admired him. Because George didn’t just complain — he created. He didn’t hold a press conference. He picked up a guitar.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between bitterness and brilliance.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Bitterness stays quiet. Brilliance plays loud enough to be remembered.”

Host: A distant siren wailed outside, fading quickly — just another note in the great city’s own restless symphony.

Jeeny: thoughtful “You know, it makes me think — maybe every generation has its ‘Taxman.’ A moment when idealism collides with reality. When you realize the cost of living isn’t just financial — it’s emotional, spiritual.”

Jack: “And you either pay quietly or write your version of the song.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. Some people curse the system. Others make art that outlives it.”

Host: The lights from the mixing console glowed gently — red, green, amber — like the pulse of something eternal: creation refusing to die, even when disillusionment tries to drain it.

Jack: leaning back, eyes on the ceiling “You know, maybe that’s why ‘Taxman’ still matters. It wasn’t just about one guy being mad at his paycheck. It was about realizing that even gods get invoices. Fame doesn’t save you from reality — it just amplifies the sound of it.”

Jeeny: smiling, sipping her tea “And McCartney’s quote — that’s the quiet part of it all. The shock. That moment George looked at the numbers and saw the world’s machinery at work. That’s when the boy became the man.”

Jack: “And the man became the musician.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because art always begins the moment innocence ends.”

Host: The camera drifted across the room — the still instruments, the scattered cables, the quiet aftermath of creation. The record lay stopped now, the grooves shining under the soft studio light like the rings of an old tree — each one holding a story, a sound, a truth.

And as the screen faded into the warm hum of silence, Paul McCartney’s words echoed, quiet yet resonant, a reminder that even genius must face the banal laws of the world:

That anger, when honest,
is not destruction,
but awakening.

That the taxman exists
in every system,
every soul —
the force that reminds us
that freedom always has a cost.

And that true rebellion
doesn’t live in protest or wealth,
but in the unyielding act
of creation —
in turning frustration
into something the world
can sing forever.