I work in a dramatic context, meaning we write with a lot of

Host: The piano sat in the center of the studio, its black lacquered surface reflecting the dim gold of the overhead lamps. Sheets of music lay scattered across the floor like fallen leaves — notes, half-finished lyrics, scribbles in pencil and passion. The faint hum of a string section played from the old speakers, looping endlessly, filling the air with both longing and structure.

Jack sat on the piano bench, fingers resting on the keys, though he hadn’t played in minutes. Jeeny stood near the wall, reading through one of the lyric sheets. The clock ticked above them, slow and soft — the rhythm of creation.

Jeeny: “Alan Menken once said, ‘I work in a dramatic context, meaning we write with a lot of character specifics, a lot of story specifics. There’s a lot of architecture in our songs.’”

Host: Her voice had that quiet reverence of someone who knew the difference between melody and meaning. Jack smiled faintly, pressing a soft chord — something unresolved, something almost yearning.

Jack: “Architecture in songs. I like that. Makes it sound like music’s built to last, not just to entertain.”

Jeeny: “It is. Menken’s songs aren’t just melodies — they’re rooms people live in. Whole worlds with walls, arches, emotion. That’s why you remember them — because they hold you.”

Jack: “Or trap you.”

Jeeny: “You think a song that moves people traps them?”

Jack: “Sometimes. Nostalgia’s just emotional gravity — keeps you orbiting moments that don’t exist anymore.”

Host: The air shifted with his words — the room itself seemed to exhale. The melody from the speakers swelled quietly, violins bending into melancholy. Jeeny moved closer to the piano, her hand brushing the keys.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve forgotten how to love a song.”

Jack: “No. I just learned not to trust them.”

Jeeny: “Trust?”

Jack: “Every song promises catharsis — that three-minute illusion that you’ve made peace with your pain. But when it ends, you’re still here.”

Jeeny: “That’s not failure, Jack. That’s design. Architecture doesn’t erase weather — it gives you shelter through it.”

Host: She sat beside him now, her voice lowering as if the conversation itself needed rhythm.

Jeeny: “Menken understood that. The way he wrote — it wasn’t about the tune, it was about what the tune was doing to the story. He built feelings into form. The bridges weren’t just musical — they were emotional.”

Jack: “So you’re saying every note’s a blueprint?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t just write — you construct. Every chorus a window, every verse a foundation. Songs stand like buildings. You can walk through them.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or get lost in them.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes that’s the point.”

Host: A long silence fell, thick with the weight of the unsaid. The piano sat between them like an altar — an instrument of both creation and confession.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to play ‘A Whole New World’ on the piano every Sunday morning. He wasn’t a musician — he just liked the feeling it gave him. I remember thinking — that song had more structure than our house did.”

Jeeny: “Because songs, unlike houses, know when to resolve.”

Jack: “Unless you write one.”

Jeeny: “Then you live inside it.”

Host: She leaned forward, pressing a key — a soft C, ringing clear, lonely. The note lingered in the air, shimmering, like the last drop of something beautiful before silence swallows it.

Jeeny: “That’s what Menken meant, I think. Architecture isn’t about the walls; it’s about the space between them. Songs are the same — what moves you isn’t the note, but the silence after it.”

Jack: “You think structure creates emotion?”

Jeeny: “No. I think emotion builds structure. Look at ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ Every note in that song holds restraint — the longing isn’t in the melody, it’s in the pause before it resolves. That’s architecture. That’s storytelling.”

Host: Jack’s fingers hovered over the keys again. This time, he played a short phrase — something minor, fragile. The kind of melody that sounds like memory learning how to breathe again.

Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jeeny: “See? Even that. It’s not just music — it’s architecture for a feeling. You built sadness with symmetry.”

Jack: (softly) “Or maybe sadness built me.”

Jeeny: “Same difference.”

Host: The rain began outside, faint but steady, the kind of sound that turns time into background. Jack kept playing — slow, deliberate chords that filled the room like light filtering through stained glass.

Jeeny watched him quietly, her expression softening, as though something in the music had drawn her closer to truth.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think art’s just the human way of saying, ‘I was here, and I felt this?’”

Jack: “Yeah. But we wrap it in structure because chaos terrifies us.”

Jeeny: “So we build cathedrals of sound — songs, scripts, symphonies — to prove that emotion can be contained without dying.”

Jack: “And we call that beauty.”

Jeeny: “And we call that survival.”

Host: The melody faltered — one wrong note, sharp, raw — then fell back into rhythm. Jack winced. Jeeny smiled.

Jeeny: “See? Even the mistake belongs. Architecture isn’t about perfection. It’s about integrity. The cracks let the light through.”

Jack: “You sound like a stained-glass window.”

Jeeny: “Better than sounding like a cracked foundation.”

Host: They both laughed softly — the kind of laughter that breaks the heaviness in half and leaves something lighter behind.

Jeeny: “Menken built songs that could outlive the moment. You feel them decades later because they’re more than music — they’re design for empathy. That’s the architecture he was talking about.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real art isn’t in writing — it’s in construction. Building something that stands when you’re gone.”

Jeeny: “Something that can still make strangers feel at home.”

Host: The rain grew louder, tapping the windows in sync with the soft rhythm Jack played. The world outside blurred — city lights bending, shimmering — while inside, the music filled every shadow, every silence.

Jack’s voice lowered, almost a whisper:

Jack: “You think all art is architecture, then?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Architecture for the soul. For what would otherwise collapse.”

Host: The song ended. The piano went quiet. Only the rain remained.

Jeeny reached out, touching the keys one last time — not to play, but to feel.

Jeeny: “Every song is a house for emotion, Jack. Some people just pass through. Others — they live there forever.”

Host: And as the rain washed against the window, and the studio dimmed into stillness, the two of them sat surrounded by invisible walls — built from melody, memory, and meaning — the architecture of the human heart.

Because Alan Menken was right:
Art doesn’t just tell stories.
It builds them —
one heartbeat, one note, one truth at a time.