There are a lot of female artists my age around at the moment

Host: The city burned with neon, its streets pulsing like arteries beneath the dark sky. A storm had just passed — the pavement was slick, reflecting streaks of red and blue from passing cars. Somewhere above, a sign flickered with stubborn light: The Velvet Room — Live Music Tonight.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and bass. A singer on the small stage crooned into a dying microphone, her voice cracked but honest. Jeeny sat at the back, a cup of black coffee before her, her hair falling loose over one shoulder. Jack stood by the bar, his posture tired but deliberate — like someone who had stopped believing in movements but still attended them out of habit.

Host: It was late. The crowd had thinned to silhouettes. The room hummed with the slow ache of ambition and lost time.

Jeeny: glancing up as Jack approaches “You ever feel like people want you to fit their picture before you even start speaking?”

Jack: sits down, smirking “Depends on the picture. If it sells, most people are happy to pose.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone wants to sell, Jack. Some of us just want to exist — and still be heard.”

Jack: “Existence doesn’t guarantee audience, Jeeny. You either play the role they like, or they change the channel.”

Jeeny: leans forward, her tone rising “That’s the problem. Samantha Mumba once said — ‘There are a lot of female artists my age around at the moment, but they're all American and blonde and blue-eyed and smiley. I'm totally the opposite of that. I want to show a bit more attitude and I have an opinion.’ That’s what I mean. Why should she — or anyone — have to bleach her truth just to be seen?”

Host: The bartender turned up the radio, a low pop beat cutting through the haze. Jack took a sip of his drink, his eyes reflecting the dim light, thoughtful but skeptical.

Jack: “Because the world runs on archetypes. People want patterns — predictable ones. They’re easier to sell, easier to like. Every generation has its faces, Jeeny. The rest fade into rebellion.”

Jeeny: frowning “But rebellion is what moves us forward. The whole idea of art — of voice — is to disrupt the pattern. You think Billie Holiday ever smiled just to fit in? Or Nina Simone sang because she wanted to sound ‘palatable’? No. They carried defiance in their throats.”

Host: Her words struck the air like notes that refused to die. Jack looked at her, almost amused, but not unkind.

Jack: “Sure, but they also knew the game. Even rebellion needs marketing now. You think attitude alone builds a legacy? The audience may cheer for fire, but they still buy warmth.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy. That we’d rather be comforted than awakened.”

Host: The lights flickered — an old bulb above them buzzed and dimmed. Outside, thunder rumbled again, far away, like a slow warning.

Jack: “You talk like the world’s a villain. It’s not. It’s just practical. Look at the pop industry — image first, truth later. You can fight it, but it’s older than any of us.”

Jeeny: shakes her head “Practical? No. It’s cowardly. We’ve built a culture where sameness is mistaken for success. Where the loudest face, not the deepest voice, wins.”

Jack: “Because sameness sells. Identity, Jeeny, is a product now. Everyone wants a brand.”

Jeeny: quietly “Then maybe the bravest thing left is to refuse one.”

Host: The silence between them stretched. A drop of rain traced the window like a tear. Jack’s hand drummed against the table — restless, uncertain.

Jack: “You think attitude is enough? You can stand on every stage, scream every truth, but if the crowd doesn’t listen — what then?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep screaming. Because silence is the language of surrender.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from something rawer — conviction forged through years of quiet dismissal.

Jack: leans closer “You’re talking about integrity like it pays rent. It doesn’t. Every rebel either bends or breaks.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe breaking is the price of being real.”

Host: A pause. Jack’s eyes softened — a glint of memory.

Jack: “I knew a musician once — real talent. Played jazz in Chicago. Wouldn’t change her sound, wouldn’t dye her hair, wouldn’t fake a smile. Said she’d rather die poor than be a cliché. She did. Died with her guitar and a bottle of gin in an empty room.”

Jeeny: whispers “Then maybe she lived truer than all the ones who didn’t.”

Host: The room held its breath. The distant sound of sirens seeped through the city’s veins. Jack looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass.

Jack: “You really think truth is worth that kind of loneliness?”

Jeeny: “It’s not loneliness. It’s freedom. You can’t call yourself an artist if you’re afraid to offend.”

Jack: half-smiles “So now offense is virtue?”

Jeeny: “Not offense — honesty. The kind that doesn’t wear mascara for approval. The kind that stands against the current and still sings.”

Host: Her words shimmered in the air like heat over asphalt — painful, luminous, undeniable. Jack turned his gaze toward the stage, where the young singer’s last note hung trembling in the smoke.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said softly. “Maybe attitude’s the last real instrument left.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about attitude, Jack. It’s about agency. About saying, ‘I don’t exist to decorate your comfort.’”

Host: The rain began again, a soft hiss against the windows, as if the world itself exhaled.

Jack: “You think the world will listen to that?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “It doesn’t have to. It just has to notice.”

Host: A slow grin crept onto Jack’s face — not mockery this time, but respect.

Jack: “You sound like the start of a movement.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe just a woman who’s tired of being told to smile.”

Host: The music ended. The singer stepped offstage, her eyes wet but proud. The crowd offered a small, sincere applause. Jack raised his glass, toasting the air.

Jack: “To attitude, then.”

Jeeny: clinks her cup against his “To opinion — the only thing worth keeping when everything else asks you to change.”

Host: The camera of the world pulled back — two figures bathed in dim light, their shadows stretching long across the floor. The storm outside softened into drizzle, the city glowed anew.

And as the night faded into quiet, the truth of Samantha Mumba’s words echoed like a heartbeat — that art begins not in imitation, but in defiance; not in pleasing the mirror, but in daring to break it.