My mother was this force of nature when it came to both

Host: The rain had just ended, and the streets outside glistened with a thousand reflections of neon and moonlight. A faint hum of the city — cars, footsteps, the whisper of late trains — formed an invisible rhythm beneath the night. Inside a small recording studio, the air smelled of coffee, wood, and electric warmth.

A single lamp glowed over a cluttered table, strewn with sheet music, headphones, and scribbled notes. The faint crackle of an old vinyl filled the room — a jazz ballad, soft, intimate, alive.

Jack sat by the mixing board, sleeves rolled up, cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. He stared at the controls as if trying to decode the machinery of emotion itself. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by records, her dark hair falling like ink against the golden light.

Host: On the wall behind them, written in chalk above the piano, was the quote that started it all tonight:
“My mother was this force of nature when it came to both communication with people and the whole of learning music. She’s a champion.”
— Jacob Collier

Host: The words hung in the room, alive — not just about a mother, but about creation, about inheritance, about the strange bloodline of music and soul.

Jeeny: (softly, almost to herself) “A force of nature. That’s what every artist hopes to be — or to be raised by.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Or to survive.”

Jeeny: “You say that like love’s a battle.”

Jack: “Sometimes it is. The people who shape us the most usually do it with storms, not lullabies.”

Host: The lamp flickered faintly, the shadows moving across their faces like shifting notes on a page. The sound of the record needle crackled softly — a reminder of imperfection, of warmth.

Jeeny: “You think Collier meant that? That his mother was a storm?”

Jack: “Of course. You don’t call someone a force of nature if they’re gentle. You call them that because they move through life unstoppable — and because they leave marks.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what art does too? It marks. It changes everything it touches.”

Jack: “Yeah. And it rarely asks permission.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened slightly as he said it. The faintest echo of memory passed through his voice, like a chord unresolved. Jeeny noticed but didn’t press — she only looked at him, her tone a little more tender.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re talking about your father.”

Jack: “I’m talking about everyone’s parents, really. The ones who taught us how to speak — not with words, but with longing. Music, anger, silence — they’re all languages we inherit.”

Jeeny: “And we spend the rest of our lives trying to translate them.”

Host: The rain outside began again — light, rhythmic, like a metronome tapping against glass. The sound filled the silence between them, like an invisible conductor guiding the next movement.

Jack: “You know what strikes me about that quote? He called her a champion. Not just a teacher or a musician — a champion. That’s not about technique. That’s about belief.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A champion doesn’t just win; they make you believe you can, too.”

Jack: “Yeah. Or they force you to believe it. Sometimes both.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You always have to twist it into pain, don’t you?”

Jack: “Because truth hurts. Look at Collier — all that harmony, all that joy in his music. It’s not naïve. It’s defiance. That kind of light only comes from someone raised in the shadow of impossible standards.”

Jeeny: “Or in the warmth of unconditional love.”

Jack: “You really believe unconditional love exists?”

Jeeny: “I have to.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand brushed the piano keys, pressing a soft, imperfect chord — a simple C major, faint and trembling. The note lingered in the air, shimmering, before fading into the hum of the room.

Jeeny: “That’s what I hear when I listen to Collier’s music. Not perfection — connection. It’s what his mother taught him: that music is just conversation made eternal.”

Jack: “Conversation requires two people. Most artists I’ve met just argue with themselves and call it creation.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the best ones are those who learned how to listen.”

Host: The record reached its end with a slow scratch, then silence. The needle lifted automatically, leaving the room holding its breath. Jack leaned back, rubbing his temples.

Jack: “You ever notice how people like him — prodigies, geniuses — always have someone behind them who believed first? Someone who saw the symphony before the sound?”

Jeeny: “Because faith is a kind of art too. His mother’s belief didn’t make him a genius. It made him brave enough to be one.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s poetic. You should write that down.”

Jeeny: “I just did. In your silence.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, the sound small but real. Outside, a car splashed through puddles. The smell of the rain drifted in through the open window — metallic, pure, and ancient.

Jeeny: “You know, my mother wasn’t musical at all. But she listened to everything I said, even when I didn’t make sense. That was her harmony. She made me believe my voice mattered.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Mine did the opposite. She believed in silence — in not bothering the world with your noise. Maybe that’s why I became obsessed with making sound.”

Jeeny: “And did you ever forgive her for that?”

Jack: “Not yet. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop creating. I’m still trying to explain myself to someone who stopped listening years ago.”

Host: The air thickened, heavy with something more than sound — the kind of truth that hangs just long enough to ache. The lamp light flickered again, softer now, warmer.

Jeeny: “Then you understand him more than you think. Collier’s not just writing songs — he’s writing letters. To the woman who taught him how to speak through melody instead of apology.”

Jack: (quietly) “And you think music can forgive?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only thing that can.”

Host: The rain softened once more, its rhythm gentler — like fingers drumming on a table, like heartbeat and hope. Jack stood, stretching, walking to the piano. He pressed a single note — the same one Jeeny had played earlier. Then another. Together, the tones merged, uncertain but alive.

Jeeny: “See? Even silence can become music when someone answers.”

Jack: “Or when someone believes you can.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, the kind of smile that doesn’t show teeth but reaches the soul. She leaned back, listening as Jack began to play — awkwardly at first, then with quiet confidence, the notes flowing like water over stones.

The melody wasn’t complex. It didn’t need to be. It carried something older — gratitude disguised as sound.

Jeeny: “What’s that called?”

Jack: “Something my mother never heard.”

Jeeny: “Then play it louder.”

Host: He did. The notes filled the room, spilling into the night, into the rain, into the unlistening city. And somewhere in that quiet act of creation — messy, imperfect, sincere — something like forgiveness began to bloom.

Host: On the wall, the chalked words glowed faintly in the lamplight:
“She’s a champion.”

And in that soft, wordless music — born from memory, rebellion, and love — they understood what Jacob Collier meant. That some champions don’t win trophies.

They raise voices.
They create harmony out of chaos.
And sometimes — they teach the broken ones how to sing again.