I got problems. I freak out, go to a shrink, go through all kinds

Host: The warehouse was alive with the pulse of sound — low, relentless, almost alive. Spotlights sliced through the dark, cutting across faces and smoke as a crowd swayed in the half-light. The air tasted like electricity, beer, and something rawer — human exhaustion trying to turn itself into rhythm.

On the small stage, under a dripping red light, Jack sat on a flight case, his guitar slung low, his jaw tight. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

At the edge of the stage, Jeeny stood in her usual calm defiance — a small figure in the storm, arms folded, her eyes bright and knowing.

Scrawled across the back of an old concert poster on the wall behind them was a quote — black marker, all caps, jagged with emotion:

“I got problems. I freak out, go to a shrink, go through all kinds of therapy and stuff, but I'm learning how to deal with it. That's why I've chosen one hour a night to get all of my aggressions out — to really tell the world the way I feel.”
— Jonathan Davis

Host: The quote pulsed with the heartbeat of the place — confessional, defiant, stripped of polish. It wasn’t artifice. It was survival.

Jeeny: “You look like you’re about to explode.”

Jack: “That’s the point.”

Jeeny: “You call this therapy?”

Jack: “No. I call it breathing.”

Jeeny: “Most people just talk to someone.”

Jack: “Most people don’t know how to scream without permission.”

Host: Her brows furrowed, but there was no judgment in her gaze — just a quiet recognition of the storm behind his eyes. The crowd’s murmur filled the pauses between them, like the world waiting for confession.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why it takes pain to make something real for you?”

Jack: “Because pain’s the only thing that doesn’t lie.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Jack: “It’s the truest thing there is. Everything else — happiness, peace, love — it’s temporary. Pain lingers. It carves you into shape.”

Jeeny: “That’s not shaping, Jack. That’s scarring.”

Jack: “Maybe scars are the only proof we existed.”

Host: A light flickered, then steadied — catching the sweat on his temple, the faint tremor in his hand as he reached for a pick. It was the look of someone who had learned how to turn collapse into craft.

Jeeny: “So, this hour — this screaming, this chaos — this is how you heal?”

Jack: “It’s how I survive.”

Jeeny: “By hurting yourself in front of people?”

Jack: “By not hiding it anymore. I’ve spent my life pretending to be fine. That kind of pretending kills you slower than any drug.”

Jeeny: “And screaming saves you?”

Jack: “No. It saves the part of me that still remembers what being alive feels like.”

Host: The bass from the next band’s soundcheck rolled through the floor, deep and physical, like the echo of a heartbeat that belonged to everyone and no one.

Jeeny: “Jonathan Davis said something like that once.” She gestured toward the quote. “That his music was his therapy — his way to bleed without dying.”

Jack: “Exactly. The world calls it performance. But it’s confession with a rhythm section.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound holy.”

Jack: “It is. Pain’s the only prayer most of us remember how to say.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s the only language worth learning?”

Jack: “It’s the only one that feels honest.”

Host: Her eyes softened, catching the glow of the stage light. She stepped closer, her tone quieter, almost intimate.

Jeeny: “You’re not the only one who hurts, Jack. You just happen to have a microphone.”

Jack: “Yeah, but the mic’s not for me. It’s for everyone else who’s too scared to say it out loud.”

Jeeny: “And what are you saying, exactly?”

Jack: “That being broken isn’t shameful. That therapy doesn’t erase you. That sometimes the loudest scream is the closest thing to peace.”

Jeeny: “You think that helps people?”

Jack: “It helps me. And if they hear it, maybe it helps them too.”

Host: The spotlight flickered over his face — half in light, half in shadow — a portrait of contradictions: rage and tenderness, destruction and clarity.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange?” she said softly. “You talk about aggression, about screaming your way through the pain. But the moment you play, you look… calm.”

Jack: “That’s the trick. The music burns the chaos into something I can control.”

Jeeny: “So control is your therapy.”

Jack: “No. Creation is.”

Jeeny: “Even if it’s ugly?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The sound of the rain began to tap faintly on the warehouse roof — soft percussion to the silence that followed. It seemed to synchronize with his breathing, steadying him, grounding him.

Jeeny: “You ever think healing might mean learning how to stop fighting?”

Jack: “If I stop fighting, I stop feeling.”

Jeeny: “That’s not healing, Jack. That’s surviving.”

Jack: “Then maybe survival’s enough for now.”

Jeeny: “And what about peace?”

Jack: “Peace is overrated. It’s just silence with better PR.”

Host: She laughed quietly, the sound warm and tired. The lights flickered again, catching the smoke in the air like a silver mist.

For a moment, the warehouse didn’t feel like a venue — it felt like a sanctuary.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?” she said after a pause. “I think music isn’t about aggression or therapy. It’s about translation. You take what can’t be said and turn it into sound. Pain becomes pulse. Fear becomes rhythm. And somewhere in that noise, people find themselves.”

Jack: “And what do I find?”

Jeeny: “Yourself — stripped of filters. The part of you that still believes words can change something.”

Jack: “Words don’t change the world.”

Jeeny: “No, but they can stop you from disappearing from it.”

Host: He looked at her then — the kind of look that belongs to someone suddenly realizing they’ve been understood too deeply. He picked up his guitar, fingers trembling slightly, then steadied.

Jack: “You know, I used to think art was about talent. Now I think it’s just about endurance.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where the healing really lives — in showing up, even when it still hurts.”

Jack: “Every night.”

Jeeny: “Every night.”

Host: The crowd outside the curtain began to roar, the energy building, the pulse tightening like a heart before release.

Jeeny stepped back, her silhouette framed in the half-light.

Jack turned toward the stage, adjusting his strap, his breath deep and deliberate.

The quote on the wall glowed faintly as the spotlight rose — those words vibrating with new meaning:

“I’ve chosen one hour a night to get all of my aggressions out — to really tell the world the way I feel.”

Host: The lights burst to life. The first chord screamed through the air — raw, defiant, alive.

And in that single instant —
beneath the roar of amplifiers, the sweat, the ache, the trembling —
the world finally listened.

Not to the perfection of a man,
but to the sound of his survival.