It's fun to play for the 12- and 13-year-olds. The looks on their

Host: The gymnasium was still humming with the afterglow of music — streamers clung to the basketball hoops, the faint smell of popcorn and sweat hung in the air, and the stage lights glowed in slow, sleepy pulses of pink and blue. Outside, the night pressed softly against the tall windows, but inside, it felt like the world was still alive, still reverberating from laughter and sound.

Jack stood at the back of the stage, his guitar still slung across his shoulder, fingers absently brushing the strings as if reluctant to let go. Jeeny sat on a folding chair nearby, her brown eyes full of that half-smile she wore when she saw something human and beautiful.

Jeeny: “Alison Sudol once said, ‘It’s fun to play for the 12- and 13-year-olds. The looks on their faces are amazing. Young kids don’t have social anxieties. They’ll yell things out and sing loudly.’”

Host: Jack laughed — a quiet, almost tender sound.
Jack: “She’s right. You can feel their energy before you even hit the first chord. It’s raw. Untamed. They don’t perform joy — they just live it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the part we forget as we grow up, isn’t it? How to feel without embarrassment.”

Jack: “Yeah. Adults listen with filters. Kids? They listen with hearts wide open.”

Host: The light from the stage shimmered across the empty seats, illuminating discarded glow sticks and plastic cups — remnants of unrestrained celebration.

Jeeny: “When she says ‘young kids don’t have social anxieties,’ it’s not just about age. It’s about purity. Before shame gets taught, before self-consciousness builds walls.”

Jack: “It’s the age before mirrors start to matter more than moments.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They haven’t learned to edit themselves yet.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why their reactions are the truest kind of applause. There’s no pretending.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her voice growing softer — the kind of tone people use when nostalgia starts to ache.
Jeeny: “Do you remember being that age? When music could take over your whole body — when you’d sing along even if you didn’t know the words?”

Jack: “Yeah. I remember thinking songs were magic spells. You’d hear a lyric, and suddenly your whole world made sense for three minutes.”

Jeeny: “That’s still true. We’ve just learned to hide how much it moves us.”

Jack: “Because vulnerability became uncool somewhere along the line.”

Jeeny: “And yet, watching those kids tonight — they reminded me that joy isn’t about control. It’s about surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender to what?”

Jeeny: “To the moment. To connection. To being seen without fear.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed further, leaving them in a pool of soft gold. The faint echo of laughter from the hallway drifted in — the kids, still buzzing, still alive in the freedom of unfiltered excitement.

Jack: “You know, I used to think playing for adults was the dream. That the big crowds meant you’d made it. But Sudol’s right — nothing beats the look on a kid’s face when they realize they’re allowed to feel everything out loud.”

Jeeny: “It’s honesty. Kids haven’t learned how to fake wonder yet.”

Jack: “And they haven’t learned how to protect it either.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes them amazing — that fragile openness.”

Jack: “And terrifying. Because it reminds us of everything we’ve lost.”

Host: He took a seat beside her, the guitar now resting quietly in his lap. The last traces of stage smoke curled lazily upward, disappearing into the rafters.

Jeeny: “You think we can ever get it back? That kind of innocence?”

Jack: “Not innocence. But maybe sincerity. If we stop performing for each other and start participating again.”

Jeeny: “You mean — stop trying to be something and just feel something.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: A faint breeze slipped through the open door, fluttering the paper programs still scattered on the floor. The words “School Music Night” were printed in bright, uneven letters — a banner of imperfection made beautiful by intention.

Jeeny: “You know what I loved tonight? Watching them sing off-key but with every ounce of belief they had. That kind of faith is contagious.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “That the world is listening.”

Jack: “And that their voices matter.”

Jeeny: “Even when they crack.”

Jack: “Especially when they crack.”

Host: Silence lingered — not empty, but full, like the pause after a song ends and everyone’s hearts are still in the last note.

Jeeny: “You think that’s why Sudol finds it so amazing — not the sound, but the spirit?”

Jack: “Yeah. Because when a kid yells your lyrics back at you, they’re not performing fandom — they’re claiming belonging. You’ve built a moment big enough for them to live inside.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s rare. The purest art happens before the world teaches us to calculate meaning.”

Jeeny: “So, you’re saying kids remind us what authenticity feels like.”

Jack: “Exactly. They make you believe in the possibility of joy without irony.”

Host: The hallway lights flickered. Somewhere, a janitor pushed a broom, the sound faint and rhythmic — like a coda to the night’s melody.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was their age, I used to sing in my room until my throat hurt. No audience. No applause. Just me and the feeling of being infinite for a moment.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s what music is supposed to be — not performance, but expansion.”

Jeeny: “So maybe playing for kids is a reminder of that. That creation isn’t about control. It’s about connection.”

Jack: “And courage. It takes courage to sing loudly when the world hasn’t taught you to whisper yet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what growing up really is — learning to whisper when you should still be singing.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered once, then steadied, bathing them in amber. Jeeny turned toward Jack, her expression soft but firm.
Jeeny: “So what do we do, then? As adults?”

Jack: “We unlearn the fear. We listen to the kids. We let them remind us that being alive isn’t something to apologize for.”

Jeeny: “And we sing again.”

Jack: “Loudly.”

Host: They both smiled — tired, content, illuminated by the glow of memory and meaning. The sound of distant laughter drifted back once more, fading into the hum of the city beyond.

Jeeny: “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How kids can teach you everything about art without ever trying.”

Jack: “They teach you everything about living, too.”

Host: The last light on stage dimmed, leaving only their silhouettes against the soft shimmer of the instruments waiting in the dark.

And as they sat there, surrounded by echoes of music and innocence, both knew what Alison Sudol had really meant:

that art, at its purest, isn’t about performance or polish —
it’s about presence.

It’s about the joy that forgets to be self-conscious,
the song sung too loudly but perfectly sincerely,
and the faces of children who remind us —

that being unfiltered is the truest kind of amazing.