There's been a streak of vengeance and carnage in all of Dylan's

Host: The studio was dim — all warm amber light and old vinyl dust suspended in the air like ghosts of melodies. Cables coiled across the floor, guitars leaned like weary prophets against the wall, and from a single turntable, a familiar gravelled voice drifted through: “Ain’t talkin’, just walkin’…”

The smell of coffee and electricity hung in the room — the scent of creative obsession.

Jack sat on a low couch, his sharp grey eyes fixed on the spinning record, cigarette smoke curling up in languid, abstract shapes. Across from him, Jeeny perched on an amplifier, her knees drawn close, the faint rhythm of Dylan’s Modern Times pulsing beneath her words.

The Host’s voice entered softly — like a DJ on a late-night station between static and memory.

Host: The music of vengeance has no chorus — only echoes. And in the echoes of Dylan’s later years, one hears not rage alone, but the cracked laughter of a man who learned that truth and cruelty often share a stage.

Jeeny: softly, quoting “Greil Marcus said, ‘There’s been a streak of vengeance and carnage in all of Dylan’s records except for the Christmas record, since 2001, since “Love and Theft.” Particularly on “Modern Times.”’”

Jack: leaning back, smirking faintly “Vengeance and carnage. Sounds about right. Dylan stopped singing about freedom and started singing like a man who’d been betrayed by it.”

Jeeny: tilting her head thoughtfully “Or maybe he just got honest. You can’t sing about heaven forever without noticing the smoke below.”

Jack: chuckles dryly “He noticed it, all right. He built a house in it. Modern Times isn’t an album — it’s a reckoning.”

Jeeny: gently “A reckoning with what?”

Jack: exhaling smoke “Time. Regret. The American myth he helped create. That’s the thing about artists — they become gods and then spend the rest of their lives trying to kill themselves off the altar.”

Jeeny: quietly “You think vengeance can be art?”

Jack: nods slowly “If it’s honest. Every great artist’s got blood on their hands — metaphorically or otherwise. Dylan just had the guts to sing about it.”

Host: The record hissed faintly, that beautiful imperfection between songs. Outside, rain began to tap the windowpane, steady and rhythmic — a second percussion to the vinyl’s heartbeat.

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice soft but sharp “You call it guts. I call it grief. ‘Ain’t Talkin’’ isn’t vengeance, Jack — it’s mourning. The man’s walking through ruins, not victories.”

Jack: with a grim smile “Grief and vengeance are cousins. They drink from the same bottle.”

Jeeny: raising an eyebrow “But one destroys; the other redeems.”

Jack: shrugging “Depends who’s holding the mic.”

Jeeny: firmly “No, it depends on what’s left standing after the song ends. Vengeance burns the world; grief tries to rebuild it.”

Jack: smirking “You think Dylan’s rebuilding anything? The man’s been setting fire to hope since ‘Blood on the Tracks.’”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Fire purifies too, Jack.”

Host: The flame of the lighter flashed again as Jack relit his cigarette. For a moment, his face glowed like a sinner caught in confession. The sound of Dylan’s voice filled the space between them — rough, prophetic, half drunk on divine irony.

Jack: musing “Marcus was right. There’s violence under every note. You can hear it — like a sermon with a knife behind its back.”

Jeeny: softly “But isn’t that what truth feels like? It wounds before it heals.”

Jack: gruffly “That’s a comforting philosophy until you’re the one bleeding.”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze steadily “And yet, you listen to him. Over and over.”

Jack: pausing, then quietly “Because I recognize the wound.”

Host: The music shifted. Now “Workingman’s Blues #2” — weary, elegiac, the rhythm of a man talking to ghosts. The rain outside grew heavier, as though the city itself leaned in to listen.

Jeeny: softly “You hear vengeance. I hear fatigue. I hear a man who gave everything to a country that forgot how to listen.”

Jack: bitterly “That’s America, isn’t it? It loves its poets hungry, not fed.”

Jeeny: nodding sadly “And maybe vengeance isn’t against people, but against indifference. Maybe Dylan’s rage is what keeps him human.”

Jack: quietly “You make it sound noble. But vengeance corrodes, Jeeny. You keep singing from that place, eventually the echo eats you alive.”

Jeeny: gently “Or maybe it eats what needs to die.”

Jack: looking at her, eyes softened by the flicker of truth “You really think destruction can be cleansing?”

Jeeny: with quiet conviction “I think art always destroys something — comfort, illusion, the idea that we’re innocent. But what’s left afterward is what’s real.”

Host: The record crackled again. The needle reached the end and clicked softly — that beautiful final sound, like a sigh. The silence that followed felt almost holy.

Jack: murmurs, more to himself than her “Maybe that’s why Dylan never stopped. Every song’s an argument with God — and every silence is a truce.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “A truce, yes. Not peace. There’s a difference.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You really believe peace is overrated, don’t you?”

Jeeny: looking at him, voice tender but fierce “No. I just think the road to it is paved with dissonance.”

Jack: softly, after a pause “Then maybe Dylan’s not vengeful. Maybe he’s just the sound of someone trying to make peace — and failing beautifully.”

Host: The rain eased to a drizzle. The room felt warmer now, though nothing had changed but understanding. The needle lifted. Silence hummed like a sustained note of recognition.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think that’s why I love him. His music isn’t revenge or nostalgia. It’s survival. The man doesn’t sing to win — he sings to keep breathing.”

Jack: quietly, with a rare tenderness “Maybe that’s what we’re all doing, Jeeny. Trying to make our pain sound like a song.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Then maybe we’re not so different from him.”

Jack: half-laughing “Speak for yourself. I can’t rhyme worth a damn.”

Jeeny: grinning “But you brood like a poet.”

Host: The camera would pull back — the record spinning, the faint halo of cigarette smoke, the amber light of late night hanging like the last note of a forgotten verse.

Host: Greil Marcus once said that since Love and Theft, Dylan’s songs carried vengeance and carnage.
But perhaps vengeance in art is not destruction — it is witness.

The artist bleeds so others might see their reflection.
He burns not out of hate, but to light the dark.

Dylan, old and unbowed, walks through a world of ghosts,
not to curse it —
but to remind it that it’s still alive.

Host: The turntable stopped.
The rain ceased.
And somewhere, in the quiet between their breaths,
Jack and Jeeny understood what Dylan had always known:

Vengeance fades.
But the song —
the song endures.