To get nostalgic about other people's music, or even about your

Host:
The record store was nearly empty, the air heavy with the scent of dust, vinyl, and time. Shelves of albums stretched like archives of forgotten emotion, and the fluorescent lights hummed with the low fatigue of nostalgia. The rain outside blurred the city lights into watercolor smears, soft and wistful — the kind of night that invited reflection, or regret.

Jack stood by the “Classic Rock” section, flipping through records with the absent-minded rhythm of a man looking for something he wasn’t sure existed. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a display of reissued vinyls, her hands in her coat pockets, watching him quietly.

From an old speaker in the corner, Rush’s “Subdivisions” played — a faint echo of Neil Peart’s drumming, intricate and alive, still refusing to age.

Jeeny: softly “Neil Peart once said, ‘To get nostalgic about other people’s music, or even about your own, makes a terrible statement about the condition of your life and your prospects for the future. I have no patience with that kind of attitude, whether it’s on radio or among friends.’”

Jack: half-smiling, still flipping through records “Figures. The man wrote like a philosopher and played like an architect. He didn’t believe in looking back.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Because nostalgia is a kind of surrender, isn’t it? A quiet way of saying your best rhythm’s already been played.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. It’s embalming your own heartbeat and calling it art.”

Jeeny: gently “And yet people love it. Nostalgia feels safe. It’s the illusion that the past was kinder than it really was.”

Jack: quietly “Because the future scares them. It doesn’t have a soundtrack yet.”

Host: The record in the corner crackled, the needle wobbling across grooves made decades ago. Peart’s drums sounded both ancient and immediate — a reminder that forward motion could live forever in sound.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, I think Peart hated nostalgia because it contradicts creation. It turns energy into sentiment.”

Jack: softly “Exactly. And for someone who lived rhythm, sentiment was stagnation.”

Jeeny: quietly “But don’t you think there’s a kind of warmth in looking back sometimes? Like listening to an old song just to remember who you were?”

Jack: sighing “Sure. But the danger’s when you start mistaking memory for meaning. When you play the same track just because it spares you from writing a new one.”

Jeeny: softly “So nostalgia’s a way of hiding?”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. Hiding from the work of becoming.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, beating against the window like syncopated percussion. It was a rhythm that didn’t repeat — improvised, restless, alive.

Jeeny: gently “You think that’s why he was so relentless? Peart didn’t just play drums — he built worlds. Constant evolution. Never the same pattern twice.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. That was his rebellion — motion. Nostalgia freezes you in a single moment, but music, real music, is time in motion.”

Jeeny: softly “Then nostalgia’s a betrayal of music itself.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Exactly. It’s like putting headphones on a ghost and calling it a concert.”

Jeeny: laughing quietly “You’re cruel.”

Jack: smiling “Just honest.”

Host: The light flickered, casting long shadows across the racks. The reflection of the spinning record shimmered on the window like a memory trying to stay relevant.

Jeeny: softly “You ever feel nostalgic, Jack? About… anything?”

Jack: after a pause “Sometimes. But not for moments — for versions of myself I outgrew.”

Jeeny: quietly “And what happens when you look back?”

Jack: smiling faintly “I keep walking. The past is a rearview mirror — small for a reason.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s very Peart of you.”

Jack: grinning “Or just survival. Nostalgia’s a slow death if you feed it enough.”

Host: The song changed — another Rush track, “Tom Sawyer,” with its unmistakable pulse. The drums were alive with purpose, defiant against time, unafraid of aging.

Jeeny: after a long silence “You know, I think he wasn’t just talking about music. He meant everything — friendships, fame, even self-image. If you’re still clinging to your old rhythm, you’re refusing to grow.”

Jack: nodding “Exactly. Nostalgia’s easy because it flatters you. The future challenges you.”

Jeeny: softly “And challenge is uncomfortable.”

Jack: smiling faintly “But comfort never built anything worth remembering.”

Jeeny: quietly “Then nostalgia is comfort — art’s most seductive enemy.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah. Because it feels like creation but it’s really repetition. And repetition without growth is decay.”

Host: The store clock ticked, echoing through the silence. The owner, half-asleep behind the counter, barely noticed them. Outside, the city kept moving — traffic, neon, rain, life — a living metronome refusing to stop.

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s why Peart could never stay still — he wasn’t running from the past, he was chasing the next possibility.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. He understood that art isn’t about preservation — it’s about propulsion.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So nostalgia’s just the brakes we put on our own progress.”

Jack: quietly “Exactly. It’s safer to mourn the past than to risk failing the future.”

Jeeny: after a pause “But the risk — that’s where the art lives.”

Jack: smiling “Always.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, its tempo softening like applause fading into silence. Jack set the record he’d been holding back into its sleeve — a first pressing, perfect and untouched. He didn’t buy it. He just looked at it one last time before walking away.

Jeeny: softly “Leaving the past on the shelf?”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. It’s already said what it had to say.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Then what’s next?”

Jack: with a quiet conviction “Whatever hasn’t been played yet.”

Host: The door opened, and they stepped out into the damp night. The air smelled of rain and new beginnings. Behind them, the shop lights flickered off, leaving only the faint glow of the streetlamps — like beats waiting for someone brave enough to find their rhythm.

And as the night swallowed their silhouettes, Neil Peart’s words lingered like a disciplined drumbeat, steady and unrelenting:

That nostalgia is not affection,
but abdication —
a refusal to face the unwritten melody ahead.

That true art does not cling,
it creates —
forever composing the next measure,
even as the last one fades.

That the past can teach,
but it must never trap,
and that to dwell on what has been
is to abandon what could still become.

For life, like music,
is sacred only in its motion —
and the only rhythm worth worshipping
is the one
that hasn’t been played yet.

Fade out.