Music is in me. I don't have much of a choice. People might

Host: The rain tapped against the fogged-up windows of the small recording studio, its rhythm steady and hypnotic, like the heartbeat of a tired city. A single lamp glowed in the corner, throwing warm light across tangled wires, half-empty coffee cups, and sheets of scribbled lyrics scattered like fallen leaves.

Jack sat in the far corner, cigarette between his fingers, his eyes gray and distant, reflecting the dim amber light. Jeeny stood by the piano, her fingers brushing over the keys but never pressing down — as if the instrument might wake and breathe if she touched it too hard.

It was late. The studio clock read 11:47 p.m. The air was thick with smoke, music, and the kind of silence that follows creation — fragile, uncertain, alive.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what James McCartney said? ‘Music is in me. I don’t have much of a choice.’ It sounds… fated. Like something that possesses you.”

Jack: “Yeah. Or traps you.”

Host: His voice was low, husky — the kind that came from too many nights of whiskey and half-truths. He leaned forward, tapping ash into an empty glass, his eyes narrowing as he spoke.

Jack: “Everyone romanticizes it — the idea of being born into music, into fame. But you ever think how cruel that is? Living under a shadow that’s larger than your own life? McCartney’s got that last name like a tattoo he never asked for. You can’t outrun that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t have to outrun it. Maybe you just have to earn it.”

Jack: “Earn it? Come on, Jeeny. You think people see James McCartney — they don’t hear him. They hear echoes of Paul. Every note he plays, every word he sings, is haunted by comparison. It’s not art — it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Survival is art sometimes. Every artist faces ghosts — their parents, their past, their own insecurities. What matters is whether you let the ghosts play the music, or you take back the melody.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, thrumming against the roof like the steady beat of a drum. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, staring at the smoke as it curled upward and disappeared.

Jack: “You talk like it’s a choice. But for some people, it isn’t. McCartney said it himself — ‘Music is in me. I don’t have much of a choice.’ That’s not destiny. That’s possession. It’s like something’s eating you from the inside, demanding to be heard. And if you fail — if the world doesn’t like what they hear — you’re left hollow.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it real? If music didn’t demand everything, it wouldn’t mean anything. Think about Van Gogh — painting alone, broke, half-crazed. No one listened to him when he was alive, but he couldn’t stop. He painted because he had to. That’s what McCartney means.”

Jack: “Van Gogh didn’t have the Beatles breathing down his neck.”

Jeeny: “No — but he had his own name to live with. Sometimes the shadow you’re trapped under isn’t someone else’s. It’s your own.”

Host: Jeeny moved toward the piano, her hair catching the glow of the lamp, her hands trembling slightly. She pressed a single note — soft, hesitant. The sound lingered, trembling in the air like a question.

Jack watched her, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You really think people can hear the real him? That they can forget his father long enough to listen?”

Jeeny: “They can — if the music’s honest. People can tell when something’s real. It’s like blood in water; it spreads.”

Jack: “You have too much faith in people’s ears. They don’t want real — they want familiar. That’s why nostalgia sells more records than truth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe at first. But truth lasts longer. Familiarity fades. A famous last name might get you the first listen, but it won’t make them stay.”

Host: Her words echoed in the small room, and for a moment, even the rain seemed to pause. Jack turned toward the mixing console, absently running his fingers across the sliders, adjusting nothing — as if touching control could replace having it.

Jack: “You ever wonder if talent’s a curse, Jeeny? Like, what if the music’s in you but you don’t want it? What if every song just drags you deeper into someone else’s expectations?”

Jeeny: “Then it means you’re fighting yourself instead of listening. Maybe music isn’t something to control. Maybe it’s something to surrender to.”

Jack: “Surrender’s just another word for giving up.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes surrender means becoming what you already are.”

Host: There was a long silence. The kind that felt heavy, like wet cloth. Jeeny played a few chords — slow, deliberate — the notes carrying warmth into the cold metallic air.

Jack closed his eyes, and something shifted in his face. The lines of cynicism softened; what replaced them was almost pain.

Jack: “You know… my brother used to play guitar. He had this way of closing his eyes when he played — like he was somewhere else. I used to envy that. I picked up the same chords once, but they didn’t sound the same. He had… soul. I had precision.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the difference between performance and expression. One comes from the hands, the other from the heart.”

Jack: “He died when I was nineteen. Car accident. I never touched a guitar again. Guess I didn’t want to hear the echo.”

Host: Jeeny stopped playing. Her fingers hovered above the keys, her eyes wet with the kind of empathy that never asks questions.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re wrong about yourself, Jack. Maybe that silence you’ve been carrying — that’s still music. Just unfinished.”

Jack: “Unfinished songs don’t get remembered.”

Jeeny: “Not true. Some songs are meant to stay incomplete — like prayers whispered instead of sung.”

Host: The rain began to slow. Outside, the city exhaled. A single neon sign flickered through the mist, its reflection trembling on the wet pavement below.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “You think McCartney feels that? That pressure to finish a song just so he can prove he belongs?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But maybe belonging isn’t the goal. Maybe it’s about being honest enough to play the notes that hurt.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not born in someone else’s legend.”

Jeeny: “Every artist is. Every human, too. We’re all born inside someone else’s story — our parents’, our past’s, the world’s. But eventually, you have to write your own chorus.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the piano keys. His reflection in their black gloss looked older, more tired, but more human too.

Jack: “You really believe music can save a person?”

Jeeny: “Not save. Reveal.”

Host: That single word — reveal — hung in the air like smoke curling toward the ceiling. Jeeny pressed another key, then another. A simple melody took shape — tender, hesitant, but alive. Jack listened, silent.

The notes filled the room with something ancient — the sound of truth, perhaps, disguised as sound.

When the last note faded, Jack spoke softly, almost to himself.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he meant — McCartney. That it’s not about choice. It’s about something inside you that refuses to stay quiet.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t choose music. It chooses you. Fame can make people listen, but only authenticity makes them stay.”

Host: The lamp flickered. The rain had stopped now, leaving only the faint hiss of the city’s night air. Jack reached for his cigarette again, but didn’t light it. Instead, he looked at the piano — at Jeeny — at something he’d long forgotten how to feel.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve still got a song left in me.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You always did. You just stopped believing it mattered.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, framing the two figures in the small room — the musician who’d forgotten how to listen and the believer who reminded him why silence still sings.

Outside, the first hint of dawn began to creep along the skyline — a faint light, fragile yet certain.

And in that quiet hour, James McCartney’s words seemed to echo through the walls, through the smoke, through their hearts:
“Music is in me. I don’t have much of a choice. People might listen because of my famous last name, but if my music’s not good, they won’t hang around.”

Host: The scene faded with Jeeny’s melody still lingering — a song without fame, without perfection, but alive — proof that what’s real doesn’t need to be inherited. It only needs to be heard.