It could be fun to sing with Prince or Michael Jackson. Justin

Host: The recording studio hummed with the low, living heartbeat of electricity. A red light glowed above the door — RECORDING. Beyond the thick soundproof glass, the night pressed close, soft with city rain. Inside, cables snaked across the floor, microphones waited like sentinels, and a single neon sign over the console read ON AIR.

The air smelled of coffee, vinyl, and warm circuitry, the ghosts of songs and sound lingering between breaths.

Jack leaned over the soundboard, sliding a fader up, his grey eyes focused, precise — the look of a man who had spent years trying to translate feeling into frequency. Jeeny sat in the booth beyond the glass, headphones on, hair pulled back, eyes closed, her voice rising softly through the speakers, clear and tender as light through smoke.

Her song ended. Silence fell. The red light went out.

Jeeny: into the mic, smiling “So? Was that terrible or just mildly tragic?”

Jack: pressing the talkback button, grinning faintly “I’d call it dangerously good. The kind that ruins everything after it.”

Jeeny: laughing “You always say that when you’re about to make me record it again.”

Jack: leaning back in the chair, voice calm but amused “Maybe. But only because perfection deserves a second take.”

Jeeny: grinning through the glass “You sound like a producer who believes in ghosts.”

Jack: quietly “Every song has one.”

Host: The rain outside drummed against the windows, steady and hypnotic. The soft buzz of the amp filled the silence, like the world humming in a different language.

Jeeny: pulling off her headphones “You know, Taryn Manning once said, ‘It could be fun to sing with Prince or Michael Jackson. Justin Timberlake has an amazing new sound now.’”

Jack: smiling faintly “Now there’s a dream team.”

Jeeny: walking into the control room, still holding the mic cable “She was right though. There’s something about the way those artists blend energy — how they make sound feel alive. Prince, Jackson, Timberlake… it’s like they never sang at you. They sang through you.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. They turned pop into religion.”

Jeeny: nodding “And made rhythm feel like revelation.”

Host: She sat on the arm of the chair next to him, still catching her breath, the warmth of the studio lights painting her face in gold. The space between them buzzed — electricity and memory intertwined.

Jack: softly “You ever notice how some voices don’t age? Like when you hear Prince, or Michael — it’s not nostalgia. It’s timelessness. Like they escaped time completely.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s because they weren’t chasing sound. They were chasing spirit.”

Jack: turns to her “Spirit?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yeah. Every great artist, the real ones — they’re not performing; they’re praying. Prince did it with sex and silence. Michael did it with motion. Timberlake did it with rhythm and risk.”

Jack: half-laughing “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe it is. Music’s the only religion the world agrees on.”

Host: Her voice carried a warmth that hung in the air long after she stopped speaking. Jack’s fingers traced the edge of the console absently, the quiet hum of the equipment beneath his hand grounding him — the heartbeat of creation itself.

Jack: after a pause “You know, I used to think pop was superficial. Just sugar-coated noise. But watching you sing tonight… it reminded me how wrong that is.”

Jeeny: softly “What changed your mind?”

Jack: looking up at her “You. You didn’t just sing the words. You believed them. Like you were speaking something only your soul could translate.”

Jeeny: blushing slightly, eyes falling to the floor “That’s what Prince did. What Michael did. What Timberlake does in his best moments. They turn the ordinary into pulse.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Pulse. I like that.”

Jeeny: grinning “Of course you do. You live off rhythm, not air.”

Host: Outside, a flash of lightning painted the walls for a heartbeat, followed by thunder that seemed to echo in time with their unspoken thoughts.

Jack: quietly, after a moment “You think that’s what she meant? When Taryn said it would be fun — to sing with legends like that?”

Jeeny: softly, nodding “Yeah. Not fun like fame. Fun like freedom. Singing with people who made you forget you were performing.”

Jack: murmurs “Who made you remember you were alive.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly.”

Host: The rain softened, the sound now a whisper. Jeeny turned toward the wall of records — old vinyls framed under glass, names etched in gold: Prince. Jackson. Timberlake. Aretha. All ghosts of brilliance.

She reached out, her fingertips grazing the glass, her reflection merging with theirs.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what’s amazing about artists like them? They didn’t just make music — they made mirrors. They let people see themselves at their most beautiful and most broken at the same time.”

Jack: softly “Yeah. That’s what real sound does. It vibrates something inside you that you forgot was there.”

Jeeny: turning to him “And when it’s honest, it doesn’t fade. It just changes shape.”

Jack: smiles “Like truth with a backbeat.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Exactly.”

Host: Jack’s laughter joined hers, the sound mixing with the faint hum of the speakers — a harmony made of exhaustion, reverence, and joy.

Jack: after a pause “You know what I think? Those legends, they didn’t just make songs — they made permission. For everyone who came after.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “That’s what Taryn was saying, I think. She grew up on the sound of possibility. Prince taught her rebellion. Michael taught her vulnerability. Timberlake taught her reinvention.”

Jack: quietly “And she taught herself courage.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Yeah. To dream out loud in a world that tells you to stay quiet.”

Host: The studio light dimmed automatically — the night mode — casting everything in soft amber. Outside, the rain had stopped; the silence felt lighter now, like air after applause.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know what I envy about them, Jack?”

Jack: turning toward her “What?”

Jeeny: softly “They sang without fear. Without needing approval. They trusted the music to catch them.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s the trick — to trust the fall as much as the flight.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. The fall’s where the sound is born.”

Host: She walked back into the booth, her silhouette framed by the glow of the console lights. She put her headphones back on, adjusted the mic, and closed her eyes.

Jack leaned forward, hit record, and whispered into the talkback:

Jack: “One more time. But this time… don’t sing it. Feel it.”

Jeeny: smiling through the mic “You sound like Prince now.”

Jack: grinning “Then make me believe it.”

Host: The red light blinked back on. The first note rose — tender, aching, alive. It filled the studio like a promise kept.

And as the melody wove through air and silence, the spirit of Taryn Manning’s words became truth in motion:

That music isn’t about fame or imitation.
It’s about the thrill of collaboration — the dream of standing among giants and finding your own voice beside them.
It’s about the adventure of sound, the joy of creation that transcends ego, race, or genre.

Host: And as Jeeny sang — her voice rising, trembling, becoming —
Jack closed his eyes, letting the sound wash through him like memory,
and thought:

Maybe the miracle isn’t singing with legends.
Maybe the miracle is realizing —
for one fleeting, shining moment —
that the song you’re creating belongs with them.

And in that room of rain, rhythm, and radiance,
he finally understood what it meant to call something
amazing.