Music is my religion.

Host:
The moon hung low over the city, wrapped in a faint mist of neon and noise. Somewhere in the distance, a lone saxophone cried from an open window, its notes drifting down the empty street like pieces of a dream that had forgotten where to land.

In a dimly lit record store, tucked between an abandoned theater and a bar that never closed, the air pulsed with a quiet hum of vinyl static. The walls were lined with rows of old albums — Coltrane, Bowie, Aretha, Miles, and the ever-watchful gaze of Jimi Hendrix, his poster glowing faintly under a purple light.

Jack stood near the turntable, tall and worn, his grey eyes fixed on the spinning record, his hand hovering over the needle. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, her long hair spilling over her shoulders like ink, her eyes closed as she swayed lightly to the faint rhythm that filled the room.

Outside, the city was chaos. Inside, it was almost sacred.

Jack: “‘Music is my religion,’” he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue like a confession. “You think Hendrix meant that literally, or was he just high on genius?”

Host:
The needle scratched softly against the groove, releasing a faint hiss before the melody bloomed — a slow, trembling guitar, alive with electricity and soul.

Jeeny: “I think he meant it exactly the way it sounds,” she said, her voice warm, reverent. “For him, music wasn’t worship — it was God.”

Jack: “God, huh?” He smirked. “A feedback loop and a fuzz pedal as the Holy Trinity.”

Jeeny: “Don’t mock it, Jack. You do the same thing — just with words instead of chords. We all pray to what makes us feel alive.”

Host:
The record spun slowly, the guitar’s cry climbing and falling, like a human voice learning how to forgive itself.

Jack: “You’re saying sound can be sacred.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying sound is spirit.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but the universe doesn’t care about rhythm or harmony. It’s chaos — pure math and dust.”

Jeeny: “Then why does chaos make music when you listen closely?”

Host:
The question hung between them, shimmering in the dim light. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t answer right away. The song on the turntable changed — a solo unfurling like a revelation, electric but strangely tender.

Jack: “You make it sound like music is salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Jack: “Salvation from what?”

Jeeny: “Silence.”

Host:
The word struck him — simple, direct, unflinching. The kind of truth that doesn’t shout; it hums, softly, in tune with your bones.

Jack: “Silence isn’t always bad.”

Jeeny: “No. But the wrong kind of silence can kill.”

Jack: “And the right kind?”

Jeeny: “It’s the space between notes — the breath that makes the melody matter.”

Host:
Her eyes opened now, catching the faint glow of the purple light. The record spun on, and the music filled the room not like sound, but like air itself — something invisible yet entirely necessary.

Jack: “So you really think music is divine?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only religion that never started a war.”

Jack: “Give it time.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “Because in music, no one’s wrong. You can’t prove a note false — only feel it.”

Host:
A faint smile crossed his face, reluctant but real. He leaned against the counter, watching her as she lifted an old vinyl sleeve, tracing her finger along the faded liner notes like scripture.

Jack: “So this is your church, huh?”

Jeeny: “It’s everyone’s, if they’d just listen.”

Jack: “And what’s the gospel?”

Jeeny: “That you’re already forgiven, as long as you can still feel the beat.”

Host:
The rain outside grew heavier, its rhythm syncing with the bassline. Jack looked toward the window, where the neon sign outside bled color into the puddles below — purple, red, blue — a kaleidoscope of imperfection.

Jack: “You know, there’s something strange about music,” he said. “It’s invisible. It doesn’t exist until you make it. And the moment it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “That doesn’t bother you?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s proof that not everything sacred needs to last forever.”

Host:
He studied her — the serenity on her face, the way her body moved almost imperceptibly with the rhythm, the quiet faith that needed no church, no doctrine, just a heartbeat and a melody.

Jack: “You sound like you’re in love with sound itself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Music is the only thing that touches you without asking permission.”

Jack: “And yet people ruin it. Industry, fame, algorithms — they turn art into noise.”

Jeeny: “They try. But music always finds its way back. It’s too human to die.”

Host:
The record reached its end — the soft crackle of vinyl filling the silence like a ghost refusing to leave. Jack didn’t move. For once, he didn’t fill the quiet with words.

Jeeny: “See?” she whispered. “Even the silence sings, if you let it.”

Jack: “You really think that’s enough — music, I mean — to replace God?”

Jeeny: “Who said it replaces Him?”

Jack: “Hendrix did. ‘Music is my religion.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t mean instead of. Maybe he meant because of. Maybe music is how God speaks — in rhythm, not commandments.”

Host:
A faint rumble of thunder rolled outside, deep and resonant — the kind of sound that could’ve been a drumbeat if you believed in poetry. The purple light flickered once more, then steadied, wrapping the two of them in its strange glow.

Jack: “So maybe the divine isn’t a person, or a place, or a prayer. Maybe it’s just the sound we make when we finally stop pretending we’re separate.”

Jeeny: “That’s the closest definition of harmony there is.”

Host:
He reached out, lowering the needle back onto the record. The music rose again — slow, raw, infinite. Neither spoke. They just listened. The rain, the notes, the faint hum of the turntable — all of it became one single sound.

The camera would pull back now, drifting through the window, out into the street, where puddles shimmered like melted color and the city’s heartbeat throbbed in sync with the song.

In that moment, there was no church, no dogma, no difference between sacred and profane — only rhythm, only breath, only the sound of being alive.

And above it all, in Hendrix’s unseen voice, the quote became not a declaration, but a prayer:

“Music is my religion.”

And for one fleeting, eternal beat — it was everyone’s.