I have those songs as well. It depends on what I'm going through

Host: The night hummed with the low neon glow of a downtown recording studio. The streets outside were wet from a recent rain, reflecting light in blurred streaks of amber and electric blue. Inside, the studio was dim, the air thick with the scent of old vinyl and coffee gone cold. A faint hum of instruments and reverb filled the space — that peculiar silence that only exists between takes.

Jack sat behind the soundboard, his sleeves rolled up, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers. The flicker of the console lights glowed across his face, catching the fine lines around his eyes — the kind carved by both laughter and fatigue. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against an amplifier, her headphones resting around her neck, her eyes bright and alive in the glow of the monitors.

Jeeny: “Ashlee Simpson once said, ‘I have those songs as well. It depends on what I’m going through in my life, but I’m a huge fan of Björk. Sometimes I get so emotional because she’s so amazing.’”

Jack: smirks faintly, glancing at her “Björk, huh? The Icelandic siren of chaos and beauty. That tracks.”

Host: He took a long drag, exhaling smoke that twisted into the blue light above them, dissolving like a thought half-finished. Jeeny reached for a vinyl sleeve beside her — Homogenic — tracing her finger over Björk’s surreal, alien face.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? The way music finds us differently depending on what we’re living through. The same song that made you dance once can make you cry later — just because you changed.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about songs — they don’t change. We do. But we blame them for making us feel things we buried.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe that’s why she said she gets emotional. Björk’s songs aren’t about melody or rhythm — they’re about truth. She doesn’t perform emotion; she becomes it.”

Jack: “Yeah, but there’s a danger in that. You drown in her kind of honesty. She doesn’t give you comfort — she hands you your heart and says, ‘Here, hold this. Don’t drop it.’”

Host: The studio lights dimmed slightly, the track meters still pulsing with faint green lines. In the corner, a guitar leaned against its stand, quietly resonating from the bass that had played minutes before.

Jeeny: “And yet that’s why we need artists like her. To remind us it’s okay to feel that deeply. To remind us that emotion isn’t weakness — it’s evidence.”

Jack: “Evidence of what?”

Jeeny: “That we’re still alive. That we still care enough to feel something when the world keeps trying to make us numb.”

Host: Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the cigarette burning low. He stared at the flickering sound levels as though they were measuring his pulse.

Jack: “You know, I used to have a song like that — one that hit me like a freight train. Jeff Buckley’s Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. The first time I heard it, I thought I’d never feel that open again. I had to turn it off halfway through.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Yeah. I know that kind of song. The ones that find you before you’re ready to face yourself.”

Host: Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but every word was precise — sharp as the edge of glass under candlelight. Jack turned toward her, his expression softening.

Jack: “You think that’s what Ashlee meant? That the songs we love most are the ones that hurt us the deepest?”

Jeeny: “No. I think she meant that the songs that hurt the deepest are the ones that remind us who we are. Björk doesn’t make sad music — she makes human music. The kind that feels like your veins are singing.”

Jack: quietly “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: grinning “It’s true. Björk sings like she’s trying to breathe underwater — half drowning, half praying. It’s raw, it’s pure, and it’s terrifying because it’s real. That’s why Ashlee called her amazing. Because she feels what we only dare to admit when we’re alone.”

Host: The faint buzz of a fluorescent light filled the silence between them. Outside, the rain began again, tapping against the glass like fingertips — steady, gentle, infinite.

Jack: “It’s strange. People mock emotion like it’s indulgence. But it’s the only real currency we’ve got. Without it, all this—” he gestures toward the soundboard, the equipment, the empty stage beyond the glass “—is just noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Emotion is what turns sound into music, pain into meaning. Maybe that’s why people like Ashlee hold on to artists like Björk — because they translate chaos into something we can stand to listen to.”

Jack: chuckles softly “You think emotion can be translated? Feels to me like it just spills — messy, unpredictable, untranslatable.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Björk’s genius is that she doesn’t try to translate anything. She just emits. She gives permission to feel without needing to explain.”

Host: Jack’s eyes drifted toward the window, where streaks of rain blurred the lights of the city into slow, shifting patterns.

Jack: “You ever get scared of feeling too much?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But feeling too much is better than feeling nothing. At least when it hurts, you know it’s real. That’s the risk of art — and love. You let it change you.”

Jack: half-smile “So you’d rather drown with Björk than float in silence?”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: She reached over and flipped a switch. The studio filled with the opening synth chords of “Jóga.” The sound was otherworldly — glacial, ethereal, vibrating deep enough to stir the air between them. The strings rose and fell like breath.

Jeeny closed her eyes, her head tilting slightly. “She called it emotional landscapes,” she said softly. “That’s what songs like this are. Maps of who we are when the world stops pretending.”

Jack: watching her “And where are you on that map?”

Jeeny: eyes still closed “Somewhere between heartbreak and gratitude. Where are you?”

Jack: “Stuck between cynicism and hope. But maybe that’s the same neighborhood.”

Host: The music swelled, the violins like light breaking through clouds. Jeeny opened her eyes and smiled at him, her gaze full of quiet fire.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what all this is for — these songs, these moments. To remind us that being human isn’t a curse, it’s the chorus.”

Jack: “And the verses?”

Jeeny: “The verses are just us — surviving long enough to reach the next refrain.”

Host: The camera would have panned back, rising above the two of them — Jeeny with her eyes half-closed, feeling every note, Jack watching her, caught between envy and awe. The studio lights flickered in rhythm with the music, the city lights beyond like stars reflected in glass.

And as Björk’s voice filled the air — strange, aching, alive — the scene became a kind of prayer:

a prayer for those who still allow music to break them open,
for those who dare to feel when the world has gone numb,
for those who — like Ashlee Simpson — still get emotional
because something beautiful reminded them
that feeling this much is its own kind of amazing.