The original Heart logo was made back in the real early '70s by

Host: The recording studio was lit by the faint amber glow of tube amplifiers, the kind of light that hums quietly rather than shines. The air carried that blend of dust, vinyl, and electricity — the scent of time that lingers in rooms where sound has been captured and kept alive.

On the wall behind the mixing console hung a single framed sketch — faded, delicate, drawn in the looping confidence of youth. It was the original Heart logo, still pulsing with the simplicity of a dream before fame had complicated it.

Jack leaned against the console, a cup of black coffee in hand, staring at the sketch like someone trying to remember something they’d never lived but somehow felt. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a stool, an acoustic guitar in her lap, plucking quiet, uncertain chords. Between them lay a piece of printed paper — Ann Wilson’s words scrawled at the top.

“The original Heart logo was made back in the real early '70s by Mike Fisher, who I used to be in a relationship with. He was first our manager and then our soundman. When I met him, he was in design school for architecture, so he was always drawing.” — Ann Wilson

Jeeny: (looking at the sketch) “There’s something poetic about that, isn’t there? A band logo drawn by a lover — half art, half affection.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, carried by the rhythm of memory and the hum of old strings vibrating faintly under her fingertips.

Jack: “Yeah. It’s beautiful and a little tragic. The logo became immortal, but the relationship didn’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s the nature of art — permanence born out of impermanence.”

Jack: “And of love — fleeting, but it leaves something that lasts.”

Host: The soundboard crackled softly, a low electric sigh as if the machines themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “You know, I love that he was an architect. It makes sense — someone who builds things to endure. Even love, in his way.”

Jack: “And she — she was the voice. He drew the symbol, and she gave it sound.”

Jeeny: “The blueprint and the heartbeat.”

Jack: “Exactly. They built something together without even realizing it would outlast them both.”

Host: A single beam of light from the ceiling spotlight fell across the sketch, illuminating the curves of the logo — elegant, organic, perfectly imperfect, like the outline of affection frozen in design.

Jeeny: “You think she ever looks at it now and feels him there?”

Jack: “Of course. Art’s haunted that way. Every creation holds fingerprints — not just of the maker, but of the moment.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it sacred. You can change the music, the members, the years… but the symbol stays. It remembers for you.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s like emotional archaeology.”

Host: The faint hum of the guitar grew louder for a moment — Jeeny strumming absentmindedly, letting the sound fill the quiet.

Jeeny: “I love that she didn’t romanticize it, though. She just said it as it was — he drew it, they loved, they lived. It’s real. No nostalgia.”

Jack: “That’s maturity — when you can speak about the past without rewriting it.”

Jeeny: “And gratitude — when you can honor what’s gone without needing it back.”

Jack: “That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “So is art born from love that doesn’t demand to be remembered.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly, the studio humming with life — an echo of the hundreds of songs once birthed within its walls.

Jack: “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? That a logo — just ink on paper — can hold an entire history: their meeting, their music, their mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Because the heart wasn’t just the name of a band. It was the truth of what made it all possible — connection.”

Jack: “And connection’s always messy.”

Jeeny: “Messy, but meaningful.”

Jack: “Like any great song.”

Host: He set his coffee down, walked over to the frame, and brushed a bit of dust off the glass — that reverent gesture people make when they touch relics, half tenderness, half apology.

Jack: “You know what I think’s the most beautiful part?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “He was in architecture. He thought in structures, not emotions. But when he drew that logo, he accidentally built a symbol for something he couldn’t calculate.”

Jeeny: “Love?”

Jack: “Yeah. The architecture of emotion. That’s what that drawing is.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And maybe she sang the blueprint back into being.”

Jack: “They completed each other’s art — even if they couldn’t complete each other’s lives.”

Host: The room felt smaller now, wrapped in that quiet reverence reserved for lost things that still live on.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what makes old music so powerful. It’s not just melodies or lyrics. It’s history — captured emotion that refuses to fade.”

Jack: “Because music doesn’t age — people do.”

Jeeny: “And the best songs outlive their creators, just like that logo.”

Jack: “It’s the same principle as love — when it’s real, it doesn’t die. It just changes shape.”

Host: The faint sound of a train rumbled somewhere in the distance — or maybe it was just the low drone of a bass amp still plugged in. Either way, it felt rhythmic, alive.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s almost tragic — how the things we create together last longer than the love that inspired them.”

Jack: “Tragic, but fair. Love was never meant to be permanent. Its purpose is to create something that is.”

Jeeny: “So every love leaves a legacy.”

Jack: “And every legacy is a love that learned to survive without its owners.”

Host: The guitar in her lap went still. The studio, the logo, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “You think he knew what he was building when he drew it?”

Jack: “No. But she did when she sang under it.”

Jeeny: “So maybe art always knows more than we do.”

Jack: “Always.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — that slow rhythm of time that measures everything except meaning.

Jeeny: (quietly) “It’s funny. The logo says ‘Heart.’ But really, it’s about memory.”

Jack: “Memory is the heart’s architecture.”

Host: They sat in silence then, surrounded by echoes — the faint throb of old amps, the hum of lights, the pulse of history still beating softly in a room once filled with sound.

And in that sacred hush, Ann Wilson’s words took on the warmth of living truth:

that art is not born from perfection,
but from connection;
that the things we build in love
outlast the love itself;
and that the truest legacy of creation
is not fame,
but feeling —
captured, remembered,
drawn in the lines of a logo
and the echo of a song.

The lights dimmed.
The last note from Jeeny’s guitar faded into silence.
And in that silence,
the old Heart still beat —
steady, imperfect, eternal.