I've been writing songs since I was a teenager, so one kind of

Host:
The alley behind the small club was soaked in neon rain, puddles glowing in soft pinks and electric blues. The city was awake — its streets humming with the restless pulse of youth, laughter spilling from open doors, cigarette smoke swirling in the damp air. Somewhere above, a faded billboard blinked erratically, advertising hope like a half-broken promise.

Inside, the bar was dim and alive. The walls were covered in graffiti — names of forgotten bands, scratched lyrics, half-broken hearts. Posters of old rock icons stared down like silent judges.

On the small stage, a guitar leaned against an amp, still buzzing faintly from the last note played. The crowd had left, leaving behind only the smell of beer, the hum of lights, and the echo of what had just been — something raw, unpolished, and utterly human.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his long coat folded beside him, his fingers tracing the rim of a glass half-filled with warm whiskey. His grey eyes stared at the floor, reflecting the flickering light like the surface of an old record.

Jeeny stood nearby, leaning against a speaker, her arms crossed, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes soft but searching. The faint smile on her lips seemed both wistful and understanding, like she’d seen this kind of weariness before — not just in him, but in every artist who mistook pain for truth.

Host:
Somewhere above the silence, the faint echo of Ezra Furman’s words lingered like a melody half-sung:

"I've been writing songs since I was a teenager, so one kind of song I've written a lot is about, I don't know, teen angst feelings — feeling unsure of yourself and immature."

And though neither said it aloud, both knew the weight of those words.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
It’s funny, isn’t it? How we never really outgrow that teenage feeling — that mix of confusion and hope. We just learn to wear it better.

Jack:
(chuckles dryly)
Speak for yourself. I think I just learned how to hide it better.

Jeeny:
You don’t hide it, Jack. You just put it in your songs.

Jack:
(smirks)
Yeah. Because if I didn’t, I’d probably still be that kid in his room, strumming out his insecurities on a cheap guitar, thinking the world might actually be listening.

Host:
The neon light outside flickered again, casting a brief flash of pink across his face, catching the faint smile he didn’t quite want to show.

Jeeny:
You know, Ezra’s right. That kind of angst, that immaturity — it doesn’t really leave you. It just grows up with you, changes its language, learns to pretend it’s wisdom.

Jack:
(sighs)
Or it just turns into regret.

Jeeny:
Maybe. But isn’t that still a kind of truth? All those songs, all that uncertainty — it’s what keeps us human.

Jack:
You call it human, I call it messy. And people don’t pay for messy anymore. They want polished pain — the kind that fits in a playlist.

Jeeny:
(smiles softly)
You’ve been in the business too long, Jack. You’ve forgotten that the best songs aren’t about fitting in. They’re about feeling out — reaching, stumbling, finding the right note in the middle of being lost.

Host:
He looked at her then — really looked — as if the truth of her words had hit some forgotten chord. The bar’s silence became a kind of rhythm: rain, breath, the faint buzz of a light above them.

Jack:
You ever think it’s weird how people romanticize that teenage ache? Like it’s some kind of sacred rite.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. It’s the one time in life we feel everything — love, fear, desperation, hope — all at once. That’s not immaturity, Jack. That’s honesty.

Jack:
But it’s also temporary. The songs you write in your teens are like open wounds — they bleed, but they also heal fast. The older you get, the less you want to hurt, but the harder it is not to.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why people stop writing. They get tired of bleeding.

Host:
A gust of wind pushed through the half-open door, bringing in a faint smell of rain-soaked asphalt and the distant echo of laughter — young, careless, alive.

Jack’s fingers tapped idly on the glass, keeping time with some invisible beat.

Jack:
You think we write songs to understand ourselves, or just to survive ourselves?

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Both. Maybe that’s the same thing.

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking the passage of time — something the room itself seemed to resist. The bar, the stage, the guitar — all of it felt suspended, like a moment that didn’t want to move forward, afraid that the next second might break the spell.

Jeeny:
You know what I loved about the songs you wrote when you were young? They didn’t care if they were good. They just wanted to be heard.

Jack:
Yeah, well… back then, I still thought being heard meant being understood.

Jeeny:
(softly)
And now?

Jack:
Now I think the world hears everything and listens to nothing.

Host:
She looked at him, her expression filled with that gentle kind of sadness reserved for those who love artists — not for what they create, but for what it costs them to keep creating.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why your music still matters, Jack. Because it’s not perfect. It’s still searching. It’s still… you.

Jack:
You really think that kind of searching means anything anymore? The world doesn’t want sincerity; it wants soundbites.

Jeeny:
Then keep giving it sincerity until it learns how to listen again. That’s your rebellion. That’s your art.

Host:
The room filled again with the faint hum of the amplifier, as if even the machines agreed — that imperfection was its own kind of truth.

Jack reached for the guitar, his fingers brushing the strings lightly. The sound that emerged wasn’t clean — it cracked, buzzed, wavered — but it was alive, like a heartbeat stumbling into rhythm.

Jeeny closed her eyes and smiled.

Jeeny:
There it is. That’s the sound of uncertainty — and it’s still beautiful.

Host:
Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle. The city lights softened, their reflections bleeding across the wet pavement. The night began to breathe again, steady and tired, but hopeful.

Jack kept playing — quietly, tenderly — the melody a mix of memory and melancholy, like a conversation between who he was and who he still didn’t know how to be.

Jeeny listened, eyes glistening, her heart caught between the ache of youth and the peace of forgiveness.

Host:
In that small, flickering bar, beneath the sigh of rain and the hum of neon, one eternal truth echoed —

That angst isn’t something we outgrow.
It’s something we carry —
a stubborn spark of self-doubt and wonder that reminds us we are still alive.

And maybe, as Ezra Furman once said,
the songs we write about our immaturity
are the only ones that ever truly make us mature.