Our attitude is that we want to cross over. You can't go on

Host: The city was alive with noise — the thrum of traffic, the distant bass of a nightclub, the low hum of ambition that pulsed through every streetlight and alleyway. In a cramped recording studio on the fifth floor of a brick building, the air smelled of coffee, vinyl, and late nights. A single lamp threw a cone of gold light across the cluttered table, catching dust like floating stars.
Jack sat behind the mixing board, his fingers tapping against the console, his eyes tired but sharp. Jeeny stood near the window, the city lights reflected in her brown eyes, her voice quiet but brimming with conviction. Outside, the rain began to fall, tapping against the glass — a rhythm that seemed to echo their conversation.

Jeeny: “Cheryl James once said, ‘Our attitude is that we want to cross over. You can’t go on making records just for your own hometown.’ I’ve been thinking about that all week, Jack. About how long we’ve been making art for the same small crowd — playing it safe.”

Jack: “Safe keeps you fed, Jeeny. You start chasing the world, and the world starts chasing you back — harder, faster, without mercy. There’s something honest about staying small.”

Host: The lamp light caught the side of Jack’s face, outlining the lines of thought that had carved themselves there. His voice carried a kind of weariness that only comes from years of trying, failing, and still getting up to try again.

Jeeny: “Honest, maybe. But smallness can become a prison, Jack. You can love your roots so much that you forget to grow. Every artist starts local — but if they stay there forever, their art becomes a mirror, not a window.”

Jack: “Or maybe it becomes a home. You talk about crossing over like it’s enlightenment. But not everyone needs to leave home to matter.”

Jeeny: “But if you never leave, you never find out how far your voice can carry.”

Jack: “Or how far it can break.”

Host: A beat from the street below bled through the thin walls, faint but steady — a pulse that tied them to the world outside. The rain was heavier now, turning the neon lights into streaks of red and blue.

Jack: “You know what happens when artists try to ‘cross over’? They lose their truth. They start bending their sound, polishing their edges. You want to make music for the world? The world will sand you down until you fit.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Crossing over doesn’t mean changing who you are — it means amplifying it. Look at Salt-N-Pepa — they didn’t dilute themselves. They brought the streets, the rhythm, the female voice into places that had never heard it before. That’s not compromise — that’s conquest.”

Jack: “Conquest always costs something. You trade authenticity for audience.”

Jeeny: “No. You trade fear for reach. You trade comfort for impact.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking, the sound blending with the rain outside. His eyes were distant now, as if seeing memories flicker on invisible screens — gigs in small bars, local radio interviews, the applause of fifty people that once felt like a lifetime.

Jack: “I remember when we first started. We were broke, sure, but everything felt real. The crowd knew us — we knew them. We didn’t need to explain a single lyric. You could see it in their faces; they felt it. You start playing for strangers, Jeeny, and that connection disappears.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It transforms. The connection doesn’t die; it grows — it stretches across borders. The song becomes a bridge, not a handshake.”

Jack: “You sound like a dreamer.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s afraid his dream outgrew him.”

Host: The silence that followed was electric, charged with all the words they didn’t say. The rain drummed harder, syncing with the slow rhythm of the studio’s heartbeat — the hum of equipment, the faint buzz of a live wire.

Jack: “You think success is about expansion. I think it’s about depth. You can go wide and lose meaning — or stay deep and lose reach. You can’t have both.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe real art is learning to balance both. To go wide and stay deep. To speak to the world without losing your soul.”

Jack: “Easy to say. Harder to live.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But isn’t that the point? To live the hard thing, the true thing? The world doesn’t need more echo chambers — it needs voices that travel.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, her shadow falling over the mixing board, the flickering lights reflecting off her eyes. There was something fierce and tender in her tone — like conviction wearing the clothes of compassion.

Jeeny: “Jack, do you remember the first time we played outside the city? That small club in Chicago — how nervous we were? You told me, ‘If they don’t get us, we’ll play louder until they do.’ That night, you weren’t afraid to cross over. You were hungry.”

Jack: “And now I’m tired.”

Jeeny: “Then rest, but don’t retreat.”

Jack: “Maybe retreat is rest.”

Jeeny: “No — retreat is surrender disguised as wisdom.”

Host: The studio clock ticked quietly. Somewhere below, a car horn echoed through the alley, then faded into the rain. Jack rubbed his temples, the weight of years pressing down. His voice, when it came again, was softer.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’ve already said what we needed to say? Maybe every artist has a season — and ours was local.”

Jeeny: “Every season plants seeds for the next. The local isn’t the end, Jack — it’s the beginning. You think hometowns are cages; I think they’re launchpads. You can love where you came from and still want more.”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t want us?”

Jeeny: “Then we’ll make it listen.”

Jack: “That sounds arrogant.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s faithful.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and the rain shifted direction, beating against the glass with sudden force. The sound seemed to punctuate the tension, pushing it toward something raw and human.

Jack: “Faith doesn’t sell records.”

Jeeny: “No, but it writes them.”

Jack: “You think passion’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because the moment you stop believing, the music dies — even if the charts say you’re alive.”

Jack: “And what if belief isn’t enough to survive?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we die singing.”

Host: The rain softened, melting into a quiet drizzle. The lamp flickered once, twice, then held steady. Jeeny walked to the mixing console, placing her hand over the volume knob.

Jeeny: “Cheryl James didn’t say ‘cross over’ to abandon her people, Jack. She said it because art that stays still stops breathing. You can’t make records for one corner of the world forever — not if your message was meant to move.”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t understand the language we speak?”

Jeeny: “Then we teach it — one song at a time.”

Jack: “You really think we can reach them?”

Jeeny: “I think if what we make is true, it will find its way — like light through cracks, like music through walls.”

Host: Jack looked at her, and for the first time that night, a faint smile broke through the tension. It wasn’t agreement, but it was a kind of surrender — the surrender of cynicism to courage.

Jack: “You always make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “No. Just necessary.”

Jack: “Alright then... let’s cross over.”

Jeeny: “Together?”

Jack: “Always.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, leaving behind the clean, open smell of asphalt and air. The city lights shimmered in puddles like liquid constellations, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, lonely but alive. Inside the studio, the tape rolled, the beat rose, and two voices — one steady, one soaring — began to fill the space again.

And as their sound reached beyond the walls, beyond the city, it seemed to stretch toward something larger — a world waiting to listen.

Host: Because the truth of art, like the truth of the soul, is that it cannot stay home forever. It was made to travel — to cross over, to connect, to become.