Pop music has greater power to change people and to affect people

Host: The recording studio was bathed in midnight blue, its air thick with the hum of quiet electricity and the faint scent of warm dust and soundproof foam. Cables coiled across the floor like sleeping serpents, and through the fogged glass of the mixing booth, the red light of “Recording” pulsed steadily — a heartbeat for creation itself.

A single lamp threw golden light over Jack, who sat at the piano, fingers resting but not pressing, as if the instrument might start speaking before he did. Jeeny lounged on a stool beside the soundboard, her headphones tilted around her neck, eyes half-closed, lost in the ghost of a melody that still floated in the air.

Somewhere between the walls and the silence, a quote lingered like an echo — “Pop music has greater power to change people and to affect people because it’s a universal language. You don’t have to understand music to understand the power of a pop song.”

Paul Epworth’s words. A simple truth, vibrating like a low note that never fades.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, Epworth was right. Pop music is universal. It’s the one language that doesn’t need translation.”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s because it doesn’t say anything complicated. It just repeats what everyone already feels — love, loss, longing, lust — three chords and a heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it works. It’s emotion stripped bare. You don’t need theory for that.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s manipulation. A trick of dopamine and repetition — producers pushing buttons that make people think they’re feeling something profound.”

Jeeny: “Oh, Jack… you always think simplicity means deception. Sometimes a song isn’t shallow — it’s clear.”

Host: The rain outside started tapping against the studio window, the rhythm matching the slow pulse of the room. In the background, the faint hum of a synth still glowed through the monitors — a ghost of melody waiting to be born into something more.

Jack: “You think a pop song can change people? Really change them?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It already has. Think about it — every generation had an anthem that shaped how they saw themselves. Lennon had ‘Imagine.’ Whitney had ‘I Will Always Love You.’ Beyoncé has ‘Freedom.’ You can measure history in refrains.”

Jack: “But those aren’t just pop songs. Those are exceptions — rare storms in a sky full of plastic clouds.”

Jeeny: “But even plastic reflects light, Jack.”

Jack: (leaning back) “So you’re saying even the simplest song — the kind people hum without thinking — has power?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it bypasses thought entirely. It goes straight to feeling. Pop music doesn’t argue. It moves. That’s what makes it dangerous — and divine.”

Host: The studio light flickered once, then steadied. The hum deepened — that invisible current of sound that lives just below silence.

Jack: “You sound like you worship it.”

Jeeny: “Not worship. Respect. Pop is democracy in art — anyone can feel it, anywhere. It belongs to everyone.”

Jack: “Or maybe it belongs to no one. It’s made to sell — not to save.”

Jeeny: “And yet it does both. You can’t dismiss what connects millions of strangers in the same breath, the same beat. That’s power, Jack — even if it’s packaged.”

Host: Jack pressed a single key, letting the note hang. The sound filled the space — full, warm, unpretentious. It lingered.

Jack: “You know what bothers me? People call it universal, but it’s also uniform. The same structure, same chords, same four-on-the-floor. It’s like fast food for the soul.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And yet everyone still eats.”

Jack: “Because it’s addictive.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s comforting. Pop music doesn’t pretend to be gourmet. It promises familiarity — the kind that reminds people they’re not alone. There’s beauty in that.”

Host: The recording light glowed again as the computer began looping the beat from earlier — a simple rhythm, two bars repeating, like a heartbeat growing louder. The speakers pulsed softly, turning air into emotion.

Jack: (listening) “It’s funny — we spend thousands of dollars chasing a sound that makes people feel something they can’t explain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t measure resonance with logic. That’s what Epworth meant — you don’t have to understand music to feel its power. You just have to let it hit you.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s everything.”

Host: The bass dropped in softly — not loud, but deep enough to be felt in the ribs. The room became a chamber of vibration. Jeeny closed her eyes. Jack watched her, his skepticism thinning into curiosity.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why it scares me. Because it does something I can’t dissect. It moves people without permission.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fear, Jack. That’s awe. The same thing you feel when you stand in a cathedral or under a thunderstorm. Pop music is just the cathedral of the ordinary.”

Jack: “A cathedral with auto-tune.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Even angels need pitch correction sometimes.”

Host: Their laughter echoed briefly before being swallowed by the rhythm. Outside, the storm intensified — lightning flashing briefly through the studio window, revealing the dust motes floating in the air like sparks caught mid-breath.

Jack: “You really believe this — that a three-minute pop song can change someone?”

Jeeny: “It already changed you. Look at you — arguing with it like it’s alive.”

Jack: (pausing) “Maybe it is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Music is the most human ghost we’ve ever created — it moves through time, through culture, through pain. Pop just gives that ghost a chorus.”

Host: The song looped again, now layered with soft harmonies — fragile, imperfect, real. It filled the studio with something that felt like memory, something wordless but familiar.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what universality is — not perfection, but recognition. The moment you hear yourself in someone else’s sound.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why a pop song matters. Because for three minutes, the entire world breathes the same rhythm.”

Jack: “So it’s not just music. It’s communion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the prayer that doesn’t need translation.”

Host: The beat faded, leaving only silence and the faint hum of the mixing board. The rain had stopped outside, replaced by a deep, still quiet — the kind of quiet that follows understanding.

And in that calm, Paul Epworth’s words seemed to glow between them — not as a claim, but as a revelation:

That pop music is not the art of complexity,
but the art of connection.
That its power lies not in its depth,
but in its reach —
in how it moves through every language,
every heart,
every stranger humming the same tune under different skies.

Host: The recording light clicked off. The studio fell into darkness, save for the soft glow of the city beyond the window.

Jeeny: (whispering) “You hear that silence?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “That’s the space a song leaves behind. The proof that it mattered.”

Host: Jack smiled, pressing one more key — one last note that hung like a heartbeat before fading completely.

And outside, the storm had cleared —
but its rhythm still lingered in the air,
universal, invisible,
a quiet reminder that even the simplest melody
can change the world
— if only for the length of a song.