I have very diverse tastes in music, and I don't, like, make

Host: The rain had just ended, leaving the streets slick, glimmering under streetlights that buzzed like tired bees. A small music studio, tucked between a laundromat and a tattoo shop, glowed with a faint red light from within. The walls were lined with instruments — guitars, keyboards, drums — all scarred by years of use. The air carried the scent of coffee, amp dust, and memory.

Inside, Jack sat on a stool, a guitar in his hands, his fingers idly tracing the strings. His grey eyes were focused, but tired, the kind of tired that comes from perfectionism, not work. Jeeny leaned against the mixing board, her hair wet from the rain, her eyes bright with something unspoken.

On the wall, a poster of Corey Taylor hung, the quote scribbled beneath it in black ink: “I have very diverse tastes in music… I can’t make music if I don’t like music.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “He’s got a point, doesn’t he? You can’t make music if you don’t love it — all of it. Even the parts that don’t sound like you.”

Jack: (dryly) “That’s easy for him to say. He’s Corey Taylor. He can scream one day and sing the next and everyone calls it art. When I do it, people call it confusion.”

Host: A soft hum of a bass amp filled the room, a faint electrical ghost. The rain dripped from the gutter outside, steady, like the tempo of a slow song.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you’re still trying to fit into a genre. You treat music like it has borders.”

Jack: “It does. Every audience wants to label what they’re hearing. It makes them comfortable. The industry wants that too — a clean category, a tagline, something to market. If you try to mix everything, you just lose everyone.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you find the ones who were lost too.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, warm, defiant. Jack looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching, half amused, half annoyed.

Jack: “So you’re saying what — that music should be some kind of free-for-all? No rules, no boundaries? Just noise?”

Jeeny: “Not noise, Jack — honesty. The truth doesn’t always sound polished. Sometimes it’s screaming, sometimes it’s silence, sometimes it’s a lullaby that hurts. Why should music be any different than life?”

Jack: “Because life is chaos. Music is supposed to make sense of it.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense, just to make feeling.”

Host: A crack of thunder rolled far off in the distance, like a drum beat out of time. Jack set the guitar down and stood, his voice low, almost a growl.

Jack: “You sound like a dreamer, Jeeny. But the real world doesn’t care about your feelings. You make music for money, for listeners, for labels. If they don’t get it, you don’t eat.”

Jeeny: “That’s not music, Jack — that’s commerce. You’re talking about products, not songs.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference anymore? Even art needs a platform now. You think Corey Taylor isn’t part of that machine?”

Jeeny: “He might be, but at least he fights it from the inside. That’s what he meant. You can’t create something true if you’ve forgotten how to feel it. You can’t make music if you don’t love music — not just your style, but the whole language.”

Host: A silence followed, thick, like the pause before a chord resolves. Jack rubbed his temple, his eyes dark, tired. The rain outside softened into a steady rhythm, like snare brushes in a jazz song.

Jack: “You really believe that? That there’s no such thing as bad music?”

Jeeny: “There’s dishonest music. That’s worse. You can hate a song’s sound, but if it’s real, it still matters. The moment you pretend, that’s when it dies.”

Jack: “So you’d listen to anything — pop, metal, polka, noise rock — and call it all art?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “If it’s honest, yes. I’d rather hear something ugly and true than something beautiful and empty.”

Host: The lights flickered, the amp buzzed, and Jack laughed, not mocking, but worn.

Jack: “You’re talking like a philosopher, not a musician.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what music needs again — a heart, not a brand.”

Jack: “You think that’ll sell?”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to sell. It’s supposed to speak.”

Host: A car passed outside, splattering through puddles, its headlights flashing across the instruments. For a moment, the studio looked like a cathedral — strings and wires like veins, amps like altars, notes waiting to be worshipped.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first time you played? Before the shows, before the money, before anyone cared?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Yeah. I was twelve. My dad had an old radio that only played AM. I’d sit by it and pretend I was in the band. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I just… wanted to feel something.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the point. You felt it. That’s what music is supposed to do. It’s not about being right, it’s about being alive.”

Host: Jack’s face softened, the tension in his jaw loosening. He picked up the guitar again, his fingers testing a chord, the sound rough but real. Jeeny watched, smiling, her eyes reflecting the strings’ shimmer.

Jack: “You think maybe that’s what Corey meant? That genres are like walls, and you can’t build anything beautiful inside one?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Music isn’t about walls, Jack — it’s about bridges. It connects what we think is too different to belong.”

Host: The room filled slowly with sound — notes that rose, hesitant, then merged into a melody. Not perfect, not even tuned, but alive. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening, and for the first time, Jack played without thinking.

Jeeny: (softly) “See? That’s it. That’s what I mean. You’re not playing a style — you’re speaking.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe I just forgot how to listen.”

Jeeny: “Then listen now. To this. To yourself.”

Host: The camera would pan slowly — the studio lights dimmed, the rain faded, the song continued — imperfect, raw, true. Two figures, silhouetted against the window, creating something wordless, honest, and alive.

Outside, the city moved in its own chaotic rhythm, but in that small room, the world had harmony again.

Because faith, in the end, is not just in music — it’s in the sound of two souls finally hearing each other.