There are so many soulful singers, even the ones coming from

Host: The skyline of Los Angeles shimmered under a silver dusk, the kind that sits between sunset and neon, when dreams look like they might actually happen. From the open window of a small recording studio in East Hollywood, the city’s hum mingled with the soft echo of a piano riff still hanging in the air — unfinished, unresolved, beautiful in its imperfection.

Inside, Jack stood over the soundboard, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, eyes fixed on the glowing meters that pulsed like mechanical heartbeats. Jeeny sat nearby, cross-legged on the worn sofa, a pair of old headphones resting around her neck. The faint aroma of coffee, vinyl, and warm circuits gave the room that particular scent — half art, half exhaustion.

Host: It was that hour when creators talk too much and music feels like philosophy.

Jack: (adjusting a knob) “You know what Britney Spears said once? ‘There are so many soulful singers, even the ones coming from London, like Adele and Jessie J, who are just amazing. It feels like a really cool time to be making music now.’”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Yeah. I remember that quote. It’s funny — people never think of Britney as the one to talk about soul, but she’s right. There’s a shift happening. Music’s finally feeling human again.”

Jack: “Human? You mean marketable again. Every ten years, the industry rediscovers the idea of authenticity and sells it back to us in prettier packaging.”

Jeeny: (tilts her head, amused) “You’re impossible. Not everything is a product, Jack. Some of it’s real. Adele crying through a note — that’s not branding. That’s vulnerability.”

Jack: (lights his cigarette) “Vulnerability’s a great selling point. Ask any label exec. Crying sells when it’s in key.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, catching the thin beam of studio light and turning it into a slow-moving halo. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on knees, her voice quiet but fierce.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten why people make music at all.”

Jack: “People make music for the same reason they always have — to survive. Only difference now is survival’s measured in streams and sponsorships.”

Jeeny: “No. Survival’s still emotional first. The rest follows. Why do you think soul music keeps coming back? Because it’s honest. Even in a world full of auto-tune and algorithms, a single voice that aches can still cut through the noise.”

Jack: (smirks) “Sure. Until the next voice comes along that aches louder. You call it emotion; I call it rotation.”

Host: Outside, a sirens’ wail passed faintly through the walls — the city’s unscripted harmony. Inside, the room felt smaller, charged with the electricity of two truths colliding.

Jeeny: “You can’t measure art by repetition. Every time someone sings about heartbreak, it’s the same story, yes — but it’s new because they lived it. Adele’s heartbreak isn’t Aretha’s, and Jessie J’s resilience isn’t Amy Winehouse’s. Same chord, different blood.”

Jack: “And yet, all of them are being streamed by people scrolling past faster than they listen. It’s not the music that’s soulless — it’s the audience.”

Jeeny: (sits back, crossing her arms) “I don’t buy that. I think people are hungrier than ever for something real. Look at the rise of stripped-down acoustic sets, live sessions, storytelling lyrics. People are tired of the gloss. They’re reaching back toward something pure.”

Jack: (takes a slow drag, exhales) “Pure’s a myth, Jeeny. Every ‘raw’ track’s been mixed, tuned, curated. Even imperfection’s edited now. We package authenticity because the world doesn’t know what unfiltered looks like anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean the feeling isn’t real. Even if you edit the echo, you can’t edit the emotion.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like a chord that lingers longer than you expect — not loud, but right. Jack looked at her for a moment, the cynicism in his face softening around the edges.

Jack: “You really believe it’s a cool time to be making music?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because for the first time, anyone can make it. The tools are open. You don’t need a label or a studio. Just a voice and something to say. That’s freedom.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Freedom’s noisy though. Everyone’s saying something now — and it’s hard to hear the ones who mean it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the listener’s job — to discern. To feel. And when they do, the noise fades.”

Host: The light from the mixing board blinked rhythmically, like a quiet metronome guiding the tempo of their thoughts.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this era? Collaboration. Soul isn’t tied to geography anymore. You’ve got British singers with gospel runs, Americans borrowing from Afrobeat, Koreans sampling Motown. Music’s finally crossing lines the world built.”

Jack: “Or erasing identity in the process.”

Jeeny: (frowns slightly) “No — evolving it. Soul doesn’t belong to one country or one sound. It’s not about where the voice comes from — it’s about what it carries. That’s what Britney meant. It feels like a cool time because everyone’s borrowing emotion, not borders.”

Jack: “So globalization is soul?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No. Empathy is.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — slow, steady — marking the heartbeat of the argument. Jack looked around the studio, his eyes landing on the old microphone in the corner, dented, taped, yet still functional — a relic of years when sound was soul before it was strategy.

Jack: (softly) “You know… when I first started making beats, it wasn’t about success. It was about escape. I’d spend all night layering samples, trying to build something that made me feel bigger than I was. Somewhere along the way, that turned into deadlines, metrics, branding. Maybe I just miss the noise of purity.”

Jeeny: “Then find it again. Make music like no one’s listening. Like you’re not trying to fill charts, but a void.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “That’s easy to say when rent’s paid.”

Jeeny: “That’s fair. But even hunger can make a song more honest. Some of the most soulful voices came from struggle — Sam Cooke, Etta James, Amy, Adele. They weren’t rich in comfort. They were rich in feeling. That’s the currency of soul.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “You think that’s still possible — to make something untainted?”

Jeeny: “Not untainted. Just true enough. That’s all we can aim for now.”

Host: A long pause filled the space, heavy but not uncomfortable. The city outside murmured on — cars passing, laughter spilling from bars, a plane humming far above. Inside, Jack put out his cigarette and reached for the playback button.

The room filled with the unfinished track again — a slow, moody melody. It wasn’t perfect; the rhythm wobbled, the mix was rough — but there was something alive in it. Something unpolished, beating.

Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jeeny: (whispers) “That’s it, Jack. That’s what I mean. Imperfect. Present. Soulful.”

Jack: (after a moment) “Yeah… maybe Britney’s right. It is a cool time. Not because the industry’s better, but because music keeps surviving it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every generation thinks the soul of music is dying. And every time, someone new breathes it back.”

Host: The camera would slowly pull back — through the open studio window, out into the sprawling city, where a thousand other rooms glowed with the same stubborn light of creation.

The sound of Jack’s track lingered — soft, imperfect, human — rising into the night air like smoke, like prayer.

Host: And as the city’s rhythm joined it, somewhere between beats and silence, you could almost hear it — the soul of a time still learning how to sing, still finding its voice, still believing in the beauty of being unfinished.