I don't play pyrotechnic scales. I play about frustration

Host: The night hummed with the low sound of amplifiers and the faint crackle of vinyl. A neon sign flickered outside the window, washing the small studio in an electric blue that bled across the floorboards like liquid fire. Cables coiled like snakes around pedals, and the faint smell of burned strings lingered in the air — that scent of creation born out of frustration.

Jack sat slouched on a stool, guitar across his knee, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. His grey eyes were still, fixed on the amp’s light as though waiting for it to blink first. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, her reflection half-swallowed by the glass, the city’s lights blooming like constellations behind her.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘I don’t play pyrotechnic scales. I play about frustration, patience, anger. Music is an extension of my soul.’”
She turned, her voice quiet but vibrant, like a violin string barely touched. “That’s not just about music, Jack. That’s about truth — about being honest with your own pain.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s about indulgence, Jeeny. Not everyone’s anger needs to be turned into an anthem. Some people just need to keep it quiet. To keep moving.”

Host: The amp’s light flickered once, as though agreeing or disagreeing — no one could tell. A faint buzz filled the room, the kind that settles in when words begin to cut deeper than strings.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in that kind of expression, do you? You think music — or any art — should be some kind of calculated craft, not a wound that bleeds.”

Jack: “I believe in control. In discipline. You think Dick Dale built his sound by crying into the strings? No — he practiced until his fingers bled, until he could command that anger instead of being consumed by it.”

Host: The cigarette ash fell, breaking the silence. The light shifted slightly as a car passed outside, scattering the neon into shards that danced across their faces.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what he meant — the control isn’t the point. The feeling is. He wasn’t showing off his skill. He was showing his soul — the rage, the patience, the struggle. That’s what makes the notes real.”

Jack: “Real? You talk like emotion is a kind of truth. But emotion lies, Jeeny. It changes with the hour, with the weather, with the person. What’s real is the craft — the discipline that outlives the mood.”

Jeeny: “Then why do people cry at music, Jack? Why do they feel their hearts break when a melody rises out of silence? That’s not mathematics. That’s humanity.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling, fragile. The hum of the amp deepened, like a heartbeat growing restless. Jack leaned forward, the smoke curling around his jawline, his voice lowering into a near growl.

Jack: “And how many have destroyed themselves chasing that ‘humanity’? You ever read about Syd Barrett? The man got lost in his own sound — the emotion swallowed him whole. What’s the point of the soul if it burns you down before you can share it?”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still listen to him, Jack. Still feel something when his songs play. Isn’t that a kind of immortality? Even if the flame burns fast, it leaves light behind.”

Host: A faint rain began to fall outside, tapping against the window in uneven rhythms. The sound mingled with the amp’s static, creating a strange, accidental music — the kind that’s born only from accident and atmosphere.

Jack: “You romanticize pain too much. You think every broken heart deserves an audience. But most pain just makes noise, Jeeny. It doesn’t make music.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re wrong. Noise becomes music when someone has the courage to listen to it. When someone doesn’t turn away.”

Host: Her eyes flashed — dark, determined — and for a moment, even the city’s hum seemed to pause. Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming once against the strings, a restless beat that said what he couldn’t yet.

Jack: “You think courage is all it takes? You ever watched someone break down on stage because they poured too much of themselves into a song? I have. I’ve seen musicians destroy their minds for the sake of ‘honesty’. They call it art, I call it madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the price, Jack. Every kind of truth costs something. Van Gogh, Amy Winehouse, Beethoven — they all paid that price. But because of them, we know what beauty sounds like when it’s been through hell.”

Host: Her words hit like chords struck hard. The room filled with a tense silence, thick enough to touch. Jack’s eyes flickered with something — recognition, maybe, or a buried memory.

Jack: “And what did they get in return, Jeeny? A few people crying over their records? Statues? Quotes on posters? They lost everything for that ‘beauty’ you worship.”

Jeeny: “They didn’t lose, Jack. They gave. There’s a difference. When Dale said ‘Music is an extension of my soul,’ he didn’t mean the soul was separate from the pain. He meant it’s made from it. You can’t fake that. You can’t rehearse honesty.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, the window streaked with silver lines like notes on an invisible score. The city lights blurred, and in that distortion, their faces seemed almost to merge — two reflections, one arguing for control, the other for truth.

Jack: “Maybe the truth isn’t in the soul, Jeeny. Maybe it’s in the craft — in the repetition, the discipline, the long hours when nothing sounds right and you keep going anyway. That’s where the real music lives. Not in the moment you cry, but in the moment you don’t stop.”

Jeeny: “But why don’t you stop, Jack? Why keep going if not for what you feel? You think anyone keeps practicing out of pure duty? No — they keep going because the sound pulls at something inside them. Because the soul wants to speak, even if it hurts.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, the smoke curling between them like a fragile veil. The amp hummed, steady, almost meditative. Then he spoke — softer this time, his voice carrying something close to fatigue.

Jack: “You know, there was a night — years ago — I was playing a small club in L.A. My hands were shaking. I was tired. But when I hit that one note, the crowd went silent. Not because it was perfect — it wasn’t — but because it felt… real. Maybe that’s what you mean.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s it. That’s the soul talking through the sound. You didn’t plan it. You just let it happen.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a gentle drizzle. The neon sign outside steadied its light, painting both of them in calm, electric blue. The tension began to ease — not because either had won, but because both had been heard.

Jack: “So maybe the soul needs the discipline, and the discipline needs the soul. Maybe that’s the balance. You can’t play from just one side.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Frustration, patience, anger — they’re not just feelings. They’re the language the soul uses to teach discipline how to feel. Without that, it’s just… pyrotechnics.”

Host: A faint smile touched Jack’s mouth, and he set the guitar on his lap, fingers tracing the wood as though it were alive. The amp gave a low, final hum, then fell silent.

The city outside was still awake, still breathing, its sounds mingling with the faint echo of their conversation. The neon blinked once more — then steadied, a single glow in the rain-washed dark.

And in that quiet, something unspoken passed between them — not agreement, but understanding.

A truth neither could claim, but both could feel.