On my fourth or fifth birthday, a guitar was given to me, and I

Host: The studio smelled of wood, electricity, and memory — the sacred perfume of creation. Amplifiers hummed in standby, glowing faintly like patient beasts waiting to roar. The floor was littered with coiled cables, sheet music, and half-empty coffee cups, the kind of beautiful chaos that always surrounds people who make noise to find peace.

In the center of it all, Jack sat on a stool, an old guitar resting across his lap. His fingers moved along the strings, not playing anything yet — just touching, remembering. Each metallic vibration whispered a secret. Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, watching with quiet affection, a soft half-smile playing on her lips.

Jeeny: “Eliot Sumner once said, ‘On my fourth or fifth birthday, a guitar was given to me, and I made a new friend. A very loud friend.’”

Host: The words landed gently in the air, carried by the hum of amps and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Outside, the rain tapped the studio window like soft applause.

Jack: (smirking) “A loud friend, huh? I guess that’s what all good friendships are — noisy, inconvenient, and impossible to outgrow.”

Jeeny: “And honest. A guitar doesn’t lie to you. It tells you exactly what you put into it.”

Jack: “Yeah, especially when you’re out of tune.”

Jeeny: “Or out of truth.”

Host: He plucked a chord — low, resonant, imperfect. It lingered in the air, vibrating like something alive.

Jack: “You know, I remember my first guitar. I was twelve. The strings felt like wire, the sound like pain. But it was mine. And that mattered more than comfort.”

Jeeny: “Because it was the first thing that listened back.”

Jack: “Exactly. I didn’t play it — I argued with it.”

Host: She walked closer, her shoes making soft sounds against the concrete.

Jeeny: “Eliot Sumner called it a friend. But I think it’s more than that. It’s a mirror that only speaks when you’re brave enough to touch it.”

Jack: “And loud enough to risk being heard.”

Jeeny: “Right. You can’t hide behind an instrument. The moment you strum, it betrays how you feel.”

Host: He smiled, that rare kind of smile that belongs only to those who remember the exact moment sound became salvation.

Jack: “You think that’s why so many musicians seem lonely? Because their loudest friend keeps telling them the truth?”

Jeeny: “No. Because no one else listens as completely as that friend does.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, turning the window into a living pulse of sound. Jack began to play again — a slow, unsteady melody, fragile but warm.

Jeeny: “What’s that one?”

Jack: “Something I started years ago. Never finished it.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because I didn’t know how it ended.”

Jeeny: “Then play it until it tells you.”

Host: The notes filled the room — low, then higher, then broken again. The music wasn’t perfect, but it had soul. And that’s all sound ever asks for — sincerity.

Jeeny: “You know, kids get toys on their birthdays. Eliot got destiny.”

Jack: “And feedback.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Feedback is destiny if you love sound enough.”

Jack: “Yeah, but think about that — a four-year-old given a guitar. It’s like being handed a voice before you even know what you want to say.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the best time to get one. Before the world tells you what you’re supposed to sound like.”

Host: Her eyes softened as she spoke, her words reverent in a way that made the air itself seem to lean in.

Jeeny: “Music is that — it’s the language before language. The truth before translation.”

Jack: “And the friend that never stops listening.”

Jeeny: “Even when you walk away.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, casting their shadows across the instruments — two figures in conversation with silence and memory.

Jack: “You ever think sound has memory? Like, the room still holds on to every note that’s ever been played here?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Every wall, every floorboard — they’re all saturated with ghosts of music. You can hear it if you’re quiet long enough.”

Jack: “Then this place must be full of them.”

Jeeny: “Lucky us.”

Host: He strummed again — a different chord now, fuller, confident. The sound bounced off the walls, growing until the air seemed to hum with something living.

Jeeny: “There. That’s it. That’s what Sumner meant. Loud doesn’t mean volume. It means presence.”

Jack: “Presence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The guitar isn’t loud because it’s noisy — it’s loud because it announces you to yourself.”

Host: He set the instrument down gently, the strings still trembling faintly.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. Every time I play, I feel like I’m talking to someone who knows me better than I do.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve made the right kind of friend.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving a hush so deep it almost echoed. The last chord still shimmered faintly in the air, refusing to disappear.

Jeeny: “You think it ever gets easier? Carrying something that powerful — a sound that knows how to break and heal you at the same time?”

Jack: “No. But I think it gets more necessary.”

Jeeny: “And louder?”

Jack: (smiling) “Always louder.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it pulsed with meaning, like the pause before the next note in a song that refuses to end.

And in that sacred stillness, Eliot Sumner’s words — simple, childlike, immortal — became something larger than memory:

That music is not just noise,
but a companion — unruly, loyal, alive.

That the first sound we truly make for ourselves
is the one that teaches us who we are.

And that every note we play after that
is a conversation between soul and instrument —
a lifelong friendship
born on a birthday,
and carried in every echo that dares to speak our name.

Host: The lamp dimmed. The guitar strings vibrated one last time — soft, imperfect, eternal.
And somewhere in the air between them,
that loud friend smiled.