It is kind of easy for me to speak out. Just because I am very

Host: The studio hummed with low bass, the kind that vibrates through the walls and lingers in your bones. The room was dim, the air heavy with smoke and the faint smell of coffee and electricity. A single neon sign flickered above the mixing board, reading: “No Fear in the Frequency.”

Jack sat behind the console, his grey eyes focused on the glowing waveform that danced across the screen — every beat a controlled eruption. Jeeny stood in the vocal booth, her hair falling like dark ribbons, her hands gripping the mic, her voice still ringing in the air from the last take.

For a moment, there was only silence, then Jack leaned forward, his voice low, practical.

Jack: “You hit that raw. Like you were bleeding emotion right into the mic.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “That’s the point, Jack. Rico Nasty said it best — ‘It’s kind of easy for me to speak out… because I’m vocal in my music about a lot of different emotions, like anger. Stuff people hide, I’m okay with as a woman.’ That’s how I feel too. Anger, pain, all of it — it’s not weakness. It’s truth.”

Host: The machines hummed, the lights from the control board flashing like a mechanical pulse. The night outside stretched endlessly — wet streets, neon reflections, and the distant sound of sirens cutting through the city’s insomnia.

Jack: “Truth? Maybe. But anger’s a dangerous currency to trade in. It gives you attention, sure, but it also burns everything it touches — including you.”

Jeeny: “Only when you use it wrong. The problem is, people think women’s anger is ugly, something to hide. But it’s not. It’s the most honest thing we’ve got. You ever notice how when a man rages, he’s passionate, but when a woman does it, she’s hysterical?”

Jack: “Maybe because we’ve seen what unchecked emotion does — it destroys focus. Music, business, life — all need some kind of discipline. You let anger run the show, and the whole stage collapses.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around the mic, her reflection in the glass a ghost of fire — small, intense, untamed.

Jeeny: “And yet, anger is what built most of the art you worship. Nina Simone, Janis Joplin, Björk, even Billie Holiday — they all sang from places that hurt. They shouted what others swallowed. Rico’s not saying ‘let rage consume you’; she’s saying, ‘let it breathe.’ That’s the power.”

Jack: “Power, yes — but temporary. Anger can ignite, but it can’t sustain. You can’t build a life or a movement on flame alone. Eventually, the fire needs something else — love, direction, maybe even forgiveness.”

Host: The studio’s low light flickered, the air dense with creative tension. Jack tapped a key, rewinding the track. The beat kicked back in — heavy, metallic, like steel being forged.

Jeeny: “Forgiveness comes after the scream, Jack. You can’t forgive what you won’t face. Music — this kind — it’s where I face it. The rage, the rejection, the silence people push on women. When I spit a lyric, I’m not trying to be nice. I’m trying to be real.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You talk like the world’s out to mute you.”

Jeeny: “It is. Look around. Every industry, every room — men speak, women apologize. When a woman raises her voice, she’s told to ‘calm down.’ Rico didn’t calm down. She screamed into the mic, and it worked — because it scared people. Truth usually does.”

Host: The rain started again, soft but steady, tapping against the windowpane like an impatient metronome. The rhythm of their conversation had turned from philosophical to emotional — raw, human, necessary.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But the danger is turning expression into performance. There’s a line between healing and branding. Between using pain and selling it.”

Jeeny: (sharply) “You think I’m selling it?”

Jack: “I think the industry does. It packages rebellion, sells anger in glitter and beats, and calls it empowerment. Sometimes it’s real, sometimes it’s just marketing with eyeliner.”

Jeeny: (stepping closer to the glass, eyes burning) “That’s not on the artist — that’s on the audience. We’re told to be palatable, marketable, soft. But when we’re not — when we growl, spit, or scream — the world calls it too much. And yet, that’s what authenticity sounds like.”

Host: Her voice rose, no longer part of a discussion but a declaration. Her reflection in the glass split — two faces, one in the light, one in the shadow.

Jeeny: “It’s easy for you to say control, Jack. You’ve always been allowed to shout. You’ve never had to ask for the right to feel. Women have to earn even their anger. That’s why Rico’s words matter. Because she says, ‘I’m okay with it. As a woman.’ That’s revolutionary.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, the sharp edges of his logic beginning to bend under her truth. He stood, walked into the booth, and sat opposite her, the glass between them no longer a wall but a mirror.

Jack: (quietly) “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I worry. You wear your emotions like armor, but even armor cracks. I’ve seen too many artists burn out from trying to be the message instead of just sharing it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the risk, Jack. Maybe the only way to speak for real is to let some of yourself burn in the process. The ones who play it safe — they’re forgotten. But the ones who bleed into the mic — they change something.”

Host: The beat still played, low and steady, like a second heartbeat. Outside, the sky flashed with lightning, a sudden burst that illuminated the entire room.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “With everything. Because when I sing, when I scream, when I cry into that mic — I’m not just a woman, I’m a human being unfiltered. And if one girl hears that and thinks, ‘I don’t have to hide either,’ then I’ve already won.”

Host: The storm raged harder now, the rain pounding the glass, like the world itself drumming in agreement. Jack watched her — this small, fierce figure who stood taller than any system, her anger not as destruction, but as light.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been wrong about anger. Maybe it’s not about control — maybe it’s about permission. To feel. To exist. To not apologize for taking up space.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Now you’re starting to sound like a woman.”

Host: They both laughed, a brief, electric sound against the storm. The music faded, leaving only the rhythm of the rain.

Jeeny lowered the mic, closed her eyes, and whispered, almost to herself:

Jeeny: “Anger isn’t hate. It’s the sound of someone finally being heard.”

Host: Jack nodded, and in the stillness that followed, the world seemed to hold its breath. The studio, the city, the storm — all of it listened.

And as the last echo of her words faded, the neon sign flickered once more — No Fear in the Frequency — a silent mantra glowing through the darkness, a reminder that truth, no matter how loud, is always worth the noise.