I'm not angry, I'm not an angry person, but I do sometimes like

Host:
The recording booth glowed in red light, like the inside of a pulse. Sound waves shimmered across the monitor screen — living proof that silence could be sculpted. The air smelled faintly of metal, sweat, and late-night ambition. Empty coffee cups littered the desk. Outside the booth’s glass, the city blinked in cold neon, distant and indifferent.

Jack sat behind the mixing board, headphones hanging around his neck, fingers tracing the sliders like a pianist lost in improvisation. Across the glass, Jeeny stood at the mic, her voice still lingering in the air from a half-sung verse. She smiled faintly, a mix of exhaustion and control — that rare expression artists wear when they’ve revealed just enough, but not all.

Jeeny: “Calvin Harris once said — ‘I’m not angry, I’m not an angry person, but I do sometimes like playing with the perception of anger, as in pretending that I’m more angry than I actually am, and sometimes it works quite well.’”
Jack: [smirking] “Now that’s honesty wrapped in performance. The art of emotion as design.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. He’s not confessing — he’s curating. Playing with how we see him.”
Jack: “Which is what all artists do, isn’t it? You don’t sell emotion; you stage it.”
Jeeny: “But his point’s deeper than that — he’s not talking about deceit, he’s talking about expression as illusion. Sometimes, to feel understood, you have to exaggerate.”
Jack: “You mean anger as theater.”
Jeeny: “Or therapy.”

Host:
The studio lights dimmed, the soundboard blinking like constellations across the console. Jack leaned forward, adjusting the gain, his eyes sharp but thoughtful. The soft hum of machinery filled the space between them — a steady, mechanical heartbeat.

Jack: “You ever fake emotion, Jeeny? You ever pretend to be angrier, sadder, happier than you really are — just to see if the world reacts?”
Jeeny: [grinning] “Every day. It’s how you survive conversations. You amplify the emotion that people understand.”
Jack: “So authenticity’s just another performance?”
Jeeny: “No — it’s the performance that feels true. There’s a difference.”
Jack: “That’s clever. Like anger — real anger burns, but performed anger directs. It’s control disguised as chaos.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. And Harris knows that. He’s not angry; he’s conducting the idea of anger — like a DJ spinning emotion.”
Jack: “Emotion as sound design.”
Jeeny: “Emotion as art direction.”

Host:
A faint bass line leaked from the speakers, slow and heavy, vibrating the room. It sounded like something unfinished — a heartbeat not yet resolved. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening, the rhythm reflecting in her breath.

Jack: “You know, I like what he said — it’s almost psychological. He’s not faking emotion; he’s exploring it. Playing with perception the way some people play with melody.”
Jeeny: “Right. Because perception’s the real instrument. You can’t control how people feel, but you can tune what they hear.”
Jack: “That’s power, isn’t it? Not in emotion itself, but in the illusion of it.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes pretending you’re furious gets people to listen in ways honesty never could.”
Jack: “So authenticity isn’t the goal — impact is.”
Jeeny: “Yes. But irony — impact only works when there’s a seed of truth underneath.”
Jack: “Like distortion in a clean mix — it’s the imperfection that makes it real.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
The room glowed in rhythm with the lights from the mixing board, red-blue-yellow, the steady pulse of creation. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly, like applause from the distance. Jeeny’s voice softened, reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Harris was really talking about identity. How we curate our own emotions to fit our context. Like when we act angrier online, or calmer at work, or tougher when we’re scared.”
Jack: “Yeah. The world’s a soundstage, and we all mix our feelings differently depending on who’s listening.”
Jeeny: “And sometimes you have to amplify anger just to be heard at all.”
Jack: “That’s true. The quiet ones get drowned out in a world tuned to outrage.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The spectacle of anger becomes a language. Even when you don’t feel it, you know its rhythm.”
Jack: “And the irony is, pretending to be angry sometimes becomes real anger. The mask writes the man.”
Jeeny: “It’s emotional feedback — the loop between performance and experience.”
Jack: [nodding] “And art is the amplifier.”

Host:
The thunder grew louder, a slow roll that vibrated through the glass. The rain began to patter against the window, steady, hypnotic. Jack stood, stretching, pacing slowly as he spoke.

Jack: “You know, there’s something fascinating about that — the idea that pretense can lead to authenticity. Like method acting for the soul.”
Jeeny: “Or like music — where imitation becomes innovation. You start playing a feeling until it becomes yours.”
Jack: “So emotion isn’t something you have — it’s something you build.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger, sadness, joy — they’re creative states. Sometimes you construct them to access what’s real underneath.”
Jack: “That’s dangerously beautiful.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “That’s art.”
Jack: “And life.”

Host:
The music stopped, leaving only silence. The sudden quiet felt raw, revealing — the kind of silence that shows what’s hiding beneath sound. Jeeny took a slow breath, her reflection doubled in the studio glass, one real, one spectral.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Pretending to be angry — it’s not manipulation. It’s a mirror. You reflect what others project onto you.”
Jack: “So the anger’s a costume people demand?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Society expects emotion to be visible. Anger becomes shorthand for strength.”
Jack: “So when Harris says he plays with it, he’s saying he performs strength.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Not because he feels it, but because people understand it.”
Jack: “And the trick is to know the difference between performance and possession — when the act becomes the self.”
Jeeny: “And that’s where control becomes art.”

Host:
Lightning flashed, illuminating their faces for a heartbeat — stark, cinematic. The studio looked like a confession box made of glass and neon. Jack’s voice dropped, quieter, more honest now.

Jack: “You ever feel that, Jeeny? Like you have to act stronger than you feel — not to deceive, but to survive?”
Jeeny: [softly] “Every day. Anger is armor. And sometimes, pretending to be unbreakable is the only way to keep from breaking.”
Jack: “So anger’s not the lie. It’s the shield.”
Jeeny: “Yes. And pretending to be angry can be safer than admitting you’re afraid.”
Jack: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Emotion as disguise and revelation at once.”
Jeeny: “The human condition in one sentence.”

Host:
The rain slowed, the sound thinning into silence. The storm was fading, leaving the air clearer, sharper. Jeeny stepped out of the booth, joining Jack at the console. They stood side by side, looking at the frozen sound waves on the screen — the visible trace of invisible emotion.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, Harris wasn’t just talking about himself. He was describing every artist who ever lived — those who manufacture emotion to tell the truth.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because honesty isn’t always found in what’s real, but in what’s revealed.”
Jack: “And pretending can be a path to feeling.”
Jeeny: “If it’s done with intent.”
Jack: “So the performance becomes prayer.”
Jeeny: “And perception becomes power.”

Host:
The storm passed. The first light of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the studio in soft gray. The monitors dimmed, the world slowing to stillness.

Jeeny smiled faintly, her voice low, final.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Calvin Harris meant. Anger, joy, sadness — they’re not about honesty or deception. They’re about resonance. Sometimes, to reach others, you have to play louder than you feel.”
Jack: [nodding] “And if it works, that’s not fake — it’s connection.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Emotion’s a bridge, not a boundary.”
Jack: “And even the act of pretending can carry truth across.”

Host:
The city outside began to wake, traffic murmuring like a distant drumbeat. Inside, the last of the red light faded.

The soundboard flickered one final time, its lights blinking in sync with their breathing — two artists, two frequencies, one understanding.

And as the morning took the night’s last echoes away,
the truth of Calvin Harris’s words remained —

that emotion is not always authenticity,
but architecture —
the deliberate shaping of feeling into form.

That sometimes,
to be understood,
you must raise your voice above truth —
not to deceive,
but to connect.

For anger, when performed,
is not a lie,
but a language —
a bridge between the quiet heart
and the noisy world.

And in that act of pretending,
we find not pretense,
but power —

the power to be heard,
the power to be seen,
and the power, finally,
to be felt.