I'm still dancing - my mum owns a dance company - but I felt like

Host: The studio was quiet except for the pulse of a single neon sign outside the window — flashing red, fading blue, repeating like a heartbeat. Cables coiled across the floor, half-empty coffee cups scattered near a soundboard. The faint hum of amps filled the silence like memory refusing to fade.

A lone microphone stood center stage — waiting, patient, like it knew the secrets of every voice that had ever trembled before it.

Jack sat by the console, sleeves rolled up, eyes grey and intense, the kind of gaze that cut through noise. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones around her neck, her fingers tracing the outline of a lyric sheet. The glow from a monitor washed her face in soft light, her expression both wistful and fierce — the look of someone caught between art and fear.

Host: Outside, the city slept, but here, creation still burned — messy, fragile, alive.

Jeeny: “Tate McRae once said, ‘I’m still dancing — my mum owns a dance company — but I felt like there was more freedom in the music industry. You can take your vision and really bring it to life no matter what, because it’s just you.’”

Jack: half-smiles, tapping the console “Freedom, huh? Funny word for an industry built on contracts and control.”

Jeeny: grinning softly “You always find the cage in every cathedral.”

Jack: “Because the walls are real, Jeeny. Everyone talks about artistic freedom like it’s this divine gift, but it’s just another illusion — you trade one set of rules for another.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But music is different. It’s direct — no stage choreography, no lighting cues, no ensemble to hide behind. It’s one person, one voice, one vision. That kind of solitude isn’t confinement — it’s clarity.”

Jack: “Or isolation.”

Jeeny: “Or independence.”

Host: The light from the console blinked in time with her words — green, yellow, red — like the heartbeat of a truth neither wanted to surrender to.

Jack: “She’s young, McRae. She still believes the world will let her ‘bring her vision to life.’ Wait until the label steps in. Wait until someone tells her who she’s supposed to be.”

Jeeny: leans forward, eyes fierce “And maybe she’ll fight back. Maybe that’s what she meant. Freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want — it’s about fighting for what you love without apology.”

Jack: “That’s romantic. But it’s also exhausting. You pour yourself into something, and the world edits it until it’s sellable.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t sell it. Create anyway. Even if it’s just for you.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say until rent shows up.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed, the last flicker of neon from outside painting their faces in contrast — his in sharp edges, hers in soft defiance.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about her words? The way she connects movement and sound. Dance is collaboration — music is confession. She didn’t abandon one for the other. She just shifted from performing emotion to creating it.”

Jack: “So you think music’s purer than dance?”

Jeeny: “No. Just lonelier. But sometimes loneliness is where art breathes best.”

Host: The soundboard crackled, and a faint melody played from one of the tracks — an unfinished song, a woman’s voice humming through static. Jeeny closed her eyes, letting it move through her, like something ancient and familiar.

Jack: “You really believe in this freedom thing, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve tasted it — that moment where it’s just you and the art. No audience, no critique. Just creation. That’s the closest thing to grace I’ve ever known.”

Jack: softly “Grace doesn’t pay bills either.”

Jeeny: smiling “No. But it makes the bills worth paying.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his face caught in the light — and for once, the skepticism faltered. He looked tired, yes, but underneath it, there was something else. Recognition.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to paint. Not for anyone. Just to see what I could make. I stopped when people started asking to buy them.”

Jeeny: “Because it stopped feeling like yours?”

Jack: “Because it stopped feeling like truth.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the difference between a job and a calling. A job takes from you; a calling becomes you.”

Host: The music looped again, the unfinished song haunting the air like a whisper that refused to resolve. Outside, thunder rolled faintly — the kind of thunder that doesn’t scare, only reminds you that something bigger still exists.

Jeeny: “Freedom doesn’t mean no limits, Jack. It means no permission. That’s what Tate’s saying. In music, you don’t wait for someone to choreograph your soul — you just let it move.”

Jack: “And what if it’s ugly?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s honest.”

Jack: after a pause “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: “I am. And you sound like someone who forgot how to dance.”

Host: He said nothing for a long time. The rain started outside, soft and insistent. Jack stared at the microphone, as if it might speak first.

Then, almost reluctantly, he reached for an old guitar leaning in the corner. The wood creaked as he tuned it, the strings humming low, tentative.

Jeeny watched in silence — not pushing, just present.

Jack: quietly, half to himself “You know, when I was painting, I used to hum. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Maybe I’ve been chasing that sound ever since.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Then maybe it’s time you stopped chasing and started listening.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, the storm outside deepened, and for a fleeting moment, the studio became a world of its own — a sanctuary built of chords and silence.

Jack strummed, hesitant at first, then fuller, his voice low, raw, uncertain but real. Jeeny closed her eyes, the sound wrapping around them both — imperfect, unpolished, but alive.

Jeeny: softly, almost whispering “See? That’s what freedom sounds like.”

Jack: half-smiling through the chords “Feels more like falling.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the same thing.”

Host: The music lingered — notes trembling in the air long after they’d been played. And for once, there were no critics, no contracts, no cages — just two people rediscovering what it meant to make something because they had to.

Outside, the storm broke, and the city glowed anew beneath the rain — a rhythm reborn, a dance unseen.

Because maybe Tate McRae was right. Freedom isn’t about being alone — it’s about being true enough that you don’t need permission to create.

And in that quiet studio, under the hum of rain and resonance,
two souls remembered that every artist — dancer, singer, dreamer — must first learn to move alone before the world learns to listen.