There's a lot of anger in 'Queen of Denmark,' and that's me

Host: The record store was almost empty, save for the hum of a fluorescent light overhead and the faint crackle of a vinyl spinning somewhere in the back. The walls were lined with album covers — ghosts of revolutions in wax form: Bowie in glitter, Nina Simone mid-protest, Lennon with his eyes half-closed like he’d seen too much.

The air smelled faintly of dust, plastic sleeves, and memory. It was late enough for honesty.

Jack leaned against the counter, flipping through a bin of old records, the corner of a cigarette pack sticking out from his coat. Jeeny sat on the floor, cross-legged in the jazz section, her fingers tracing the edge of a John Coltrane sleeve as if it held some quiet secret.

Outside, rain pressed against the window — rhythmic, relentless — a percussion line the city never stopped playing.

Host: On the record player, John Grant’s “Queen of Denmark” began to play — slow, bitter, beautiful.

Jeeny: without looking up “He once said, ‘There’s a lot of anger in Queen of Denmark, and that’s me getting political.’”

Jack: snorts softly “Anger’s the easiest kind of politics there is.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the most honest.”

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t fix anything, Jeeny. It just makes the wound louder.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes that’s the point. You have to hear the wound before you can heal it.”

Host: The record hissed — that beautiful imperfection of analog, like an open nerve disguised as music. The rain outside matched the tempo.

Jack: “You ever notice how the angriest albums are also the most human? Rage makes melody out of pain.”

Jeeny: “That’s because anger’s not the opposite of love. It’s what happens when love feels betrayed.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing fury again.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m recognizing it. Anger’s a kind of faith — the belief that something could still be better.”

Host: She spoke quietly, but her eyes burned. Jack looked at her through the reflection of the record sleeve, his own face warped by the plastic sheen — as though the conversation itself were bending him.

Jack: “You really think that’s what Grant meant? That anger was political because it was personal?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it always? The politics of being alive — gender, faith, sexuality, heartbreak — they all come from what the world does to your skin.”

Jack: leans back, thoughtful “Yeah. But everyone’s angry these days. Every song, every post, every protest. You stop hearing the individual heartbeat behind it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we’ve mistaken volume for power. Grant’s anger wasn’t noise — it was precision. It wasn’t a scream. It was a mirror.”

Host: The music swelled — the line “I wanted to change the world / but I couldn’t even change my clothes” floated through the room, half accusation, half confession.

Jack: quietly “He wrote that like he was both the soldier and the deserter.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes it political. It’s not about power — it’s about accountability. To yourself first.”

Host: The rain turned to a drizzle, raindrops trailing like veins down the windowpane. Jeeny stood, brushing dust from her jeans, and walked over to the counter where Jack stood.

Jeeny: “You know what I hear in this song? Not just anger — exhaustion. Like someone who’s shouted for years and finally realized no one was listening.”

Jack: “Yeah. But he still wrote it.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what artists do. They write the echo, not the applause.”

Host: The record reached the halfway mark — the chords darkened, a slow shift into resignation.

Jack: “You think he ever found peace?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think he found purpose. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Jack: “You think anger can be art?”

Jeeny: “It already is. It’s the only kind of art that remembers why it started.”

Host: The store went quiet for a moment as the needle lifted, the sound replaced by the faint hum of silence. Jack reached for the sleeve, turning it over in his hands.

Jack: “You know, I envy that — turning rage into something beautiful. I just turn it inward.”

Jeeny: “So does he. That’s what you’re hearing. Anger that didn’t know where else to go. Art just gave it somewhere to live.”

Jack: half-smiles “So what do you do when you can’t make art?”

Jeeny: “You find another way to make meaning. Rage doesn’t need a canvas. It just needs direction.”

Host: The rain outside began again, softer this time, like applause for their honesty.

Jack: “You think we’re allowed to be angry anymore? Or is that too dangerous?”

Jeeny: “It’s only dangerous if it stays quiet. Silent anger festers; spoken anger transforms.”

Jack: “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who’s tired of pretending calm is the same as peace.”

Host: The record flipped, the music began again — slower, sadder. The room filled with that fragile melancholy that comes from truth spoken too late.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought politics was power — speeches, money, movements. Now I think it’s just emotion organized.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the emotions that scare people most are the ones worth organizing.”

Jack: “Like love?”

Jeeny: “Like anger.”

Host: Jack looked at her — the glow from the streetlight casting her face in gold, her eyes steady, her posture unshaken.

Jack: “You think people like John Grant change the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But they make the world admit it’s broken. That’s the first step to changing anything.”

Host: The rain softened again, a rhythm like punctuation to their words.

Jack: “You always defend anger like it’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Anger is love’s shadow. You can’t have one without the other.”

Host: A long silence. Then, slowly, Jack nodded, the edges of his cynicism softening like paper in rain.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what politics really is — not about systems or power, but about emotion. People trying to make their pain legible.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And musicians — poets — they just happen to write the dictionary first.”

Jack: smiles faintly “You think Grant would’ve liked that line.”

Jeeny: “Only if it came with a chord progression.”

Host: Jack laughed, and the sound felt almost like release — the first break in a long-held tension.

Jeeny: “You see? Even laughter’s political. It’s resistance against despair.”

Jack: “Then pour me another drink. I’m ready for revolution.”

Jeeny: “It starts with listening.”

Host: She lifted the needle, the record spinning in silence. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath — no music, no rain, just two voices and the faint hum of electricity keeping them alive.

Host: The camera pulled back, through the window, past the shelves of forgotten albums, out into the wet street glowing with neon reflections. The song resumed faintly in the distance —

“Maybe I’m the King of Nothing after all…”

The rain fell steady now, washing the world clean enough to start again.

Because in the end, John Grant’s truth lingered in every note:

that anger, when honest, isn’t destruction —
it’s the first language of rebuilding.

Host: And on that quiet night, amid old vinyl and young rage, Jack and Jeeny realized — some revolutions don’t start in the streets.

They start with a song.