Music is the way I understand how to communicate now, the way

Host: The studio was a dim sanctuary of sound — a half-lit cave of instruments, cords, and ghosts of unfinished songs. A single lamp glowed over the mixing console, its light flickering like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, old wood, and the faint hum of electricity. Outside, the city slept under a rain-soaked sky, but inside, something restless was awake.

Jack sat in front of the console, headphones hanging around his neck, his fingers tapping the edge of the soundboard in sync with an imaginary rhythm. Jeeny stood by the window, watching the rain slide down the glass, her silhouette reflected in the neon blur of a sign that read, “Live Tonight.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been sitting there for hours. What are you trying to find in that silence, Jack?”

Jack: “Not silence — meaning. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Todd Rundgren’s words again?”

Jack: “Yeah. He said, ‘Music is the way I understand how to communicate now… but it will eventually have to go beyond that. Music isn’t what keeps people involved — it’s the attitude behind the music.’”

Host: The lamp light caught the tension in Jack’s jaw, a shadow that spoke before he did. He pressed a few keys on the keyboard, a soft melody filling the room — gentle, aching, like something half remembered.

Jack: “You see, I’ve been chasing the perfect sound for years. But maybe Rundgren’s right — it was never about the music. Maybe it was about who I was when I made it.”

Jeeny: “You think attitude can speak louder than melody?”

Jack: “It has to. Music fades. Attitude lingers. Look at punk — half the bands couldn’t play a clean chord, but they changed culture. They made people feel. That’s communication.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that still music doing the work? Even the rawness, the chaos — that’s sound becoming soul.”

Jack: “No. That’s intention becoming soul. The music’s just the vessel.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the window like a restless heartbeat. Jeeny walked closer, her hair catching the light, her tone soft, yet defiant.

Jeeny: “You talk like music is just a tool. But to some of us, it’s language itself. When I play, I don’t think. I feel. I’m not sending a message — I’m becoming one. That’s communication.”

Jack: “Sure. But does anyone really understand you through it? Or do they just project themselves into it? Music isn’t a bridge — it’s a mirror.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. Maybe communication isn’t about being understood — it’s about allowing others to see themselves in your sound.”

Host: The room filled with the tension of two truths colliding — one analytical, one poetic. The soundboard hummed with low static, like it could feel their argument.

Jack: “You know what kills me, Jeeny? I’ve poured my life into this. Every track, every note. And people still say they can’t ‘feel’ it. Maybe I’ve been communicating all wrong.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ve been too afraid to be felt.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means you hide behind precision. Behind perfection. Your music is flawless — but cold. You want to move people without letting yourself be moved.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a chord that refused to resolve. Jack’s hand froze above the keyboard, the light flickering over his face. A crack appeared — small, but visible.

Jack: “You think vulnerability sells records?”

Jeeny: “No. But it saves souls — yours included.”

Jack: “I used to believe that. Back when I played for love, not charts. Back before every melody was a brand strategy.”

Jeeny: “Then play like that again. Without an audience. Without purpose. Just attitude — the kind that bleeds honesty.”

Host: The lamp buzzed, casting a faint halo around the mixing desk. The rain softened, the rhythm of the city slowing to match the beat of their conversation. Jack looked at her, his eyes tired, but alive.

Jack: “You think that’s enough? Just… attitude?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. Because attitude is truth made visible. You can fake melody — you can’t fake conviction.”

Jack: “Conviction doesn’t sell stadium tickets.”

Jeeny: “No. But it fills the room with something money can’t buy — presence.”

Host: The tension broke, not with anger, but clarity. Jack reached for the guitar leaning against the amp. It was scarred, worn, the paint chipped where years of songs had bled through.

He strummed — once, twice — a simple progression, raw, uneven, but alive. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening, the corners of her mouth lifting.

Jeeny: “That’s it. Right there. You’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re feeling. That’s attitude.”

Jack: “It’s imperfection.”

Jeeny: “Same thing.”

Host: The music rose, filling the room — no longer a performance, but a conversation between two souls. The lamp light warmed, the rain whispered, the walls breathed with the weight of memory.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? All these years I thought music was my language. But maybe it was just my crutch. Maybe I’ve been afraid to speak without it.”

Jeeny: “Then speak now.”

Host: The guitar stopped. The silence that followed was pure, alive — the kind that means something. Jack looked at her, his voice bare, unfiltered.

Jack: “I’m tired, Jeeny. Of hiding behind the noise.”

Jeeny: “Then stop hiding. Let the attitude behind the music be your truth. That’s the only song worth playing.”

Host: The light dimmed, casting them in shadows, their faces half illuminated, half lost. The recording board flickered, its meters glowing — silent witnesses to an unrecorded confession.

Jack: “So music isn’t the message. It’s the doorway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And what matters is who walks through.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. A new sound entered — the hum of streetlights, the distant laughter of strangers, the pulse of the city awakening again. Inside, the room was still, holy, honest.

Jack set the guitar down, his hands steady, his eyes calm.

Jack: “You’re right. Music is just the echo. Attitude is the voice.”

Jeeny: “And when the echo fades, the voice remains.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — out through the window, past the studio, rising over the rain-wet city that now gleamed under streetlight halos.

Below, in that small room of sound and silence, two artists had found what every song searches for: not perfection, not melody, but meaning born from presence.

Because in the end, as Todd Rundgren had seen, it was never about the music — it was about the attitude behind it,
the soul that dares to speak even when the sound is gone.