I've always treated the music business as a business.

Host: The recording studio was bathed in low amber light, its air thick with the scent of coffee, cordite, and unspoken pressure. The glass window separating the booth from the mixing room was fogged faintly, the after-breath of long arguments and longer ambitions. A single red ON AIR sign still glowed in the dark, like a stubborn reminder that performance never truly ends.

Behind the console, Jack sat slouched in a producer’s chair, his grey eyes fixed on the audio levels that pulsed rhythmically across the screen. Across the room, Jeeny leaned against the wall, holding a lyric sheet in one hand and a half-drunk cup of tea in the other.

Pinned to the corkboard above the mixing console was a small printed quote, torn from a magazine profile:
“I’ve always treated the music business as a business.” — Simon Cowell

Host: The line glowed beneath a small lamp, blunt and unapologetic, like a contract signed in ink and ego.

Jack: (without looking up) “He’s right, you know. Strip away the romance, the rebellion, the art — it’s all just supply and demand. Cowell just had the decency not to pretend otherwise.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “Decency? You call that decency?”

Jack: “Honesty, then. Same difference in his world.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like music’s just a product, Jack. Like melody is something you package and price per unit.”

Jack: (dryly) “Isn’t it? Emotion sold wholesale. Dreams in downloadable format.”

Host: The faint buzz of an amplifier filled the silence. In the corner, a lone guitar leaned against the wall, its strings humming slightly in the heat — as if even the instrument resented the conversation.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve forgotten what it’s for.”

Jack: “Oh, I remember exactly what it’s for. It’s for rent. For power. For headlines. That’s what business means — turning talent into currency.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without the art, there’d be no currency at all.”

Jack: (finally turning toward her) “Without the market, there’d be no art left to sell.”

Host: Their eyes locked, two philosophies meeting like the clash of cymbals — truth ringing on both sides, harsh and resonant.

Jeeny: “You can’t tell me you started in this for money. I’ve seen how you look when the music hits. When something lands right. You still believe in it — even if you won’t admit it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Belief doesn’t pay studio time.”

Jeeny: “No, but it’s what makes the studio worth existing.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her words struck with precision. She stepped closer, holding the lyric sheet between them — a fragile truce made of paper and passion.

Jeeny: “You can treat the business like a business. But the moment you forget it’s built on feelings — you’re just selling noise.”

Jack: “Feelings fade.”

Jeeny: “But sound lasts.”

Jack: “Sound fades too.”

Jeeny: “Not if someone remembers it.”

Host: The silence swelled. The clock ticked above the door, marking time like a metronome for human folly. Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the console — a rhythm of frustration and reluctant truth.

Jack: “You know what Simon understood? That emotion is a product — and that’s not cynical, that’s practical. You package what people crave: love, rebellion, heartbreak. You turn it into a chorus they can hum while they drive to jobs they hate. You give them a soundtrack for survival. That’s not manipulation, that’s service.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or exploitation, depending on your tempo.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “You can’t exploit what’s already for sale. Every artist who walks through that door wants to be known. Wants to be heard. Fame’s the price tag they write themselves.”

Jeeny: “But that doesn’t make it sacred.”

Jack: “No. It makes it real.”

Host: Jeeny set her cup down, the faint clink cutting through the quiet. She looked at the glowing red ON AIR sign, its light bleeding across the floor.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think business and art were opposites. But maybe they’re just reflections of each other. One creates meaning, the other sustains it.”

Jack: (softly) “So you agree with Cowell now?”

Jeeny: “Not exactly. I think he built a factory in a field of flowers. But at least he kept the field alive.”

Host: The flicker of recognition crossed Jack’s face — that rare spark of shared understanding between cynic and idealist.

Jack: “So what’s your version then? What’s music to you?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “A promise. Between whoever’s singing and whoever’s listening. A promise that somebody, somewhere, felt exactly what you did — and turned it into something you can carry.”

Jack: “And the business?”

Jeeny: “The business is the price we pay to keep the promise heard.”

Host: Her words lingered, and in the silence that followed, something shifted — not in the air, but in him. Jack’s gaze softened; he looked down at the board, at the rows of sliders and knobs like soldiers awaiting command.

He pressed one button. The speakers crackled to life. A slow, unfinished melody filled the room — a rough mix, haunting but pure.

Jeeny recognized it instantly.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You still working on that one?”

Jack: “Yeah. Haven’t found the right ending yet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you’re still treating it like an equation.”

Jack: “And what should I treat it like?”

Jeeny: “A confession.”

Host: The music filled the silence between them — no words, just sound. A reminder that business might fuel the machine, but art was still the ghost that haunted it.

Jack leaned back, eyes closing briefly as the melody swelled — imperfect, unpolished, alive.

Jack: (softly) “You know, maybe that’s the real trick — to treat the business like business, but never forget that somewhere inside it, a song is still trying to be born.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can manage art. But you can’t own it.”

Host: The track faded out. The silence after was richer than sound.

And somewhere between the glow of the ON AIR light and the faint hum of the studio walls, Simon Cowell’s words echoed — not as cynicism, but as clarity:

I’ve always treated the music business as a business.

Host: Because art might belong to the heart,
but survival belongs to the ledger.

And maybe true mastery —
in music, in love, in life —
is learning to move between the two,
with just enough rhythm
to make the transaction sound like a song.