Me and my family used to have a Christian covers band together...

Host: The garage smelled of amplifier dust, sweat, and the faint sweetness of instant coffee left too long on a counter.
Strings hummed with memory, and old stickers — “Jesus Rocks,” “Jakarta Sound,” and one half-peeled decal of a peanut cartoon wearing sunglasses — clung to the walls like relics from a younger faith.

It was late — that blue hour between night and morning — when Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by guitars, cables, and nostalgia. A broken drum kit leaned in the corner, silent but ready, like an old friend who still remembers every beat.

Jeeny: “Rich Brian once said, ‘Me and my family used to have a Christian covers band together... like rock Christian music, upbeat, all in Indonesian. The band was called Roasted Peanuts.’”

Jack: [grinning] “Roasted Peanuts. That’s probably the most sincere band name I’ve ever heard — funny, unpretentious, and somehow... holy.”

Jeeny: “It’s perfect, isn’t it? Faith wrapped in playfulness. It’s like saying, ‘Yeah, we believe — but we also groove.’”

Host: The light bulb above flickered, the faint hum of old wiring mixing with the quiet drone of a distant city. Jack picked up a guitar, strumming a few tentative chords — clumsy, heartfelt.

Jack: “You know, I love that image — a whole family playing together. Not for fame, not for charts, just for joy. Just to feel something real shake the walls.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. Before the world told him to ‘brand himself,’ there was just music. Simple, communal. You could almost taste the warmth in it — faith through rhythm, laughter through distortion.”

Jack: “Yeah. Music as devotion, not performance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You think about that — a kid in Jakarta with his family singing hymns in their own language, making them loud, electric, alive. That’s what culture does — it remixes belief until it fits the heartbeat of a people.”

Host: The rain started tapping softly on the garage roof, a syncopated counterpoint to Jack’s slow chords. The air grew heavier — intimate, sacred in its imperfection.

Jack: “It’s strange, though. That kid becomes a global hip-hop star — talking about struggle, fame, loneliness — and yet, at the core of it, there’s still that garage, that family, that joyful noise.”

Jeeny: “Because the roots never die. You can travel as far as you want, reinvent yourself a thousand times, but the sound of your childhood always follows. It’s the rhythm beneath every lyric.”

Jack: [softly] “Maybe that’s what art is — growing up without letting go.”

Jeeny: “And keeping the ‘Roasted Peanuts’ inside you — the humble, awkward, pure beginning.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, nodding. The strings of his guitar buzzed slightly, imperfect but alive.

Jack: “It’s funny — people think faith is solemn, all hymnals and silence. But faith can be noise too. It can be amps turned to ten, kids singing off-key but meaning every word.”

Jeeny: “That’s the faith that matters — the one that dances instead of kneels.”

Jack: “You think maybe that’s what he was remembering? The way music made belief physical? How you could feel God in the vibrations?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In the way the drum kicks, the chords blend, the voices layer — it’s communion, but louder.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, drumming against the tin roof, drowning the edges of silence.
The sound filled the space, and for a brief moment, it felt like an audience.

Jack: “You know, I think about that sometimes — how we all start by imitating something sacred. We cover what we admire until one day we find our own sound.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Cover bands aren’t copycats — they’re apprenticeships in love.”

Jack: “And sometimes imitation is the purest kind of faith — repeating the words until they become your own.”

Jeeny: “That’s how every artist begins. Every believer too.”

Host: Jack let the final chord ring out — a single note vibrating into stillness. The air between them shimmered faintly with the residue of sound and meaning.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what made them choose that name?”

Jack: [smiling] “Roasted Peanuts? Maybe because it’s simple. Ordinary. Maybe they knew the sacred doesn’t need to be polished — it just needs to be shared.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And because peanuts feed you, but roasted ones bring warmth.”

Jack: “So it’s a metaphor for faith.”

Jeeny: “And for family. For taking what’s small and turning it into something that fills a room with laughter.”

Host: The lamp above them buzzed one last time, then dimmed into a softer glow. The rain began to slow, replaced by the quiet drip of runoff — a rhythm gentler, almost like a closing prayer.

Jack: “You know, maybe the real miracle of music isn’t in stadiums or fame. Maybe it’s in moments like that — a family in a garage, turning belief into noise and love into melody.”

Jeeny: “That’s where every artist’s truth begins — not in ambition, but in communion.”

Jack: “And every faith too.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We sing because words aren’t enough.”

Host: The camera would pull back — the two of them small in the vast, cluttered garage, framed by the soft glow of a single bulb and the lingering echo of a guitar string. The rain outside slowed to a whisper, leaving only silence, alive with memory.

And as the frame faded to black, Rich Brian’s words would echo — playful, profound, eternal:

Before fame, before fear,
there was the music of belonging —
the sound of family,
faith,
and laughter turned electric.
Every artist begins
as a ‘Roasted Peanut’ —
ordinary,
humble,
and hungry to make noise
in the name of love.