I didn't make my first solo record until 1981 so I don't have any

Host: The recording studio smelled of time — dust on analog boards, varnish on wood, and the faint electric tang of amplifiers that hadn’t been powered down in decades. The walls were lined with old reel-to-reel tapes and new digital screens, history and progress humming in harmony.

It was late — well past midnight — the hour when creativity feels more like memory than thought. Jack sat cross-legged on the studio floor surrounded by cables, open cases, and scratched vinyl sleeves. His fingers tapped idly on the body of an old guitar, the kind that had seen both smoke and silence.

Jeeny sat in the booth behind the glass, lit by the soft glow of the mixing desk, watching him with that patient, amused look of someone who’s learned that art and madness are just two sides of the same tape.

Host: The world outside slept, but inside this small temple of sound, time itself was looping — recording, erasing, repeating.

Jeeny: [into the mic] “You’ve been down there for three hours. Are you playing or meditating?”

Jack: [grinning without looking up] “Both. Same thing when you’re chasing ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Ghosts?”

Jack: “Songs. Memories. The dust of sound.”

Jeeny: “Ah. You mean like that Adrian Belew quote you love?”

Jack: [nodding] “Yeah. ‘I didn’t make my first solo record until 1981 so I don’t have any 60’s or 70’s recordings, but I am working on a large boxed set called DUST to be released next year, the 20th anniversary of my first solo record.’”

Jeeny: [smiling] “DUST. That’s a perfect name.”

Jack: “It is. Because that’s what music really is — layers of memory you keep brushing off until it sounds new again.”

Host: The guitar hummed, a low open string vibrating the air — a single frequency caught between nostalgia and creation.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that — legacy? What your own ‘dust’ might sound like one day?”

Jack: “All the time. It’s strange, you know — you spend your life trying to make something that lasts, but everything in music fades.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it holy.”

Jack: “Holy?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Temporary holiness. Every song’s a prayer that disappears the moment it’s heard. You can’t own it — you can only witness it.”

Jack: “So music’s a kind of faith, then?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Except instead of saving souls, it remembers them.”

Host: The light above the console flickered, as if agreeing, its hum mingling with the faint buzz of the amps — a small orchestra of imperfection.

Jack: [plucks a chord, listens to it fade] “Belew understood that. You can hear time in his playing — all those guitar loops, layers of yesterday built into tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you envy him.”

Jack: “Not envy. Respect. He made the future sound like the past remembering itself.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s what you’re doing with this project of yours?”

Jack: “Maybe. Trying to bottle something that’s already gone. Every musician’s secretly an archaeologist — digging through old feelings, old riffs, looking for something that still breathes.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes you find it.”

Jack: “Yeah. And sometimes it finds you.”

Host: The tape recorder clicked, beginning to spin again — a soft mechanical heartbeat filling the room.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about dust?”

Jack: “Nothing. It means you’ve neglected something.”

Jeeny: “No. It means something’s been still long enough to remember you.”

Jack: [pausing] “That’s… poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. Dust is memory that’s settled. You only see it when the light hits right.”

Jack: “So this boxed set you’re building — it’s not a monument. It’s sediment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sediment of self.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s why Belew called it DUST. He wasn’t archiving his past — he was illuminating it.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the rhythm of their reflection. Somewhere in the background, an old tape played faintly — guitar loops whispering like the language of time.

Jeeny: “You ever worry about being forgotten?”

Jack: “Constantly. But then I remember — even dust glows in sunlight.”

Jeeny: “You mean the little things live longer than we think.”

Jack: “Exactly. A melody hummed by a stranger on the street — that’s immortality. Small, invisible, contagious.”

Jeeny: “So you’re okay with that? With not being a name — just a note?”

Jack: [smiles] “If it’s the right note, yeah.”

Jeeny: “That’s rare humility for you.”

Jack: “Not humility. Realism. Legacy’s just ego with reverb.”

Host: The tape hissed slightly, a comforting sound — imperfection immortalized.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s kind of poetic that Belew talked about releasing DUST on the twentieth anniversary of his first solo record. There’s something defiant about celebrating the past by re-recording it.”

Jack: “Defiant or hopeful?”

Jeeny: “Both. Hopeful rebellion. Like saying, ‘Time hasn’t won yet.’”

Jack: “Yeah. He didn’t chase nostalgia. He turned it into a collaborator.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I’m just trying to make peace with my mistakes — turn them into tracks worth listening to.”

Jeeny: “Then this isn’t a boxed set you’re making. It’s confession in stereo.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every chord a small apology.”

Host: The candle on the console guttered, casting wavering shadows over the reel-to-reel — like ghosts dancing to their own playback.

Jeeny: “So tell me something, Jack — what’s your earliest recording? The one you’d put in your own DUST box.”

Jack: [thinking] “Probably the song I wrote at eighteen. It was awful. Off-key, overdramatic, desperate.”

Jeeny: “Sounds like honesty.”

Jack: “It was. I didn’t know how to be clever yet. And maybe that’s why it still feels pure.”

Jeeny: “You ever think about remaking it?”

Jack: “No. Some things should stay bad. They’re proof of who you were.”

Jeeny: “And who was that?”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “A boy who thought truth was loud. Now I know it’s quiet — and sometimes out of tune.”

Host: The music faded out, leaving only the sound of the tape wheel spinning — the perfect symbol of continuity: motion that never truly arrives.

Jeeny: [softly] “You know, maybe that’s what art really is — finding a way to talk to your younger self.”

Jack: “Yeah. And hoping they forgive you for growing up.”

Jeeny: “Or for forgetting.”

Jack: “Or for still trying.”

Jeeny: [leans back, eyes half-closed] “Then keep trying, Jack. Keep making dust.”

Jack: [picks up the guitar again, whispering] “Dust is all we ever leave behind, anyway.”

Host: The string rang out — one clean, lingering note —
hanging in the air like a memory refusing to fade.

Because as Adrian Belew said,
“I didn’t make my first solo record until 1981… but I am working on a large boxed set called DUST.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by that midnight hum —
past, present, and possibility colliding in every sound —
they understood that art isn’t about escaping time;
it’s about giving time a soundtrack.

Host: The tape clicked, ending the reel.
But in the silence that followed,
the dust still danced in the light.