What better to get all the anger and stuff out for what I do in

Title: The Rhythm of Rage

Host: The warehouse was swallowed in darkness, save for the faint blue light that seeped through a shattered window. The air was thick with dust, the faint smell of metal, and the echo of something fierce that had long since faded.

At the center of the room sat an old drum kit — dented, scarred, and gleaming faintly under the single flickering bulb above. Its skins were worn, its cymbals cracked at the edges, but it still looked alive — like a creature waiting for the next storm to bring it back to life.

Jack sat behind it, shoulders hunched, his hands resting on the sticks like weapons he no longer trusted. Across the room, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, watching him — her eyes caught in the half-light, soft but searching. The hum of silence stretched like a string about to snap.

Jeeny: “Joey Jordison once said — ‘What better to get all the anger and stuff out for what I do in Slipknot than to play the drums? You’re punching everything, really fast, concentrated.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Yeah. I get that. Controlled destruction — turning chaos into rhythm.”

Host: His voice was rough, low, threaded with something half-broken, half-alive.

Jeeny: “It’s a strange kind of therapy, isn’t it? To find peace by hitting things.”

Jack: “It’s not strange. It’s honest. The world punches you every day — art just gives you permission to hit back.”

Jeeny: “But with music.”

Jack: “Exactly. With timing. With intention. It’s violence translated into discipline.”

Host: The light bulb above them buzzed louder, then steadied — pulsing like a heartbeat that refused to quit.

Jeeny: “So that’s what it is for you too, isn’t it? Creation as catharsis.”

Jack: “No. Creation is the catharsis. Without it, all this —” (gestures around) “— would just stay inside, rotting.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like art’s an exorcism.”

Jack: “It is. Every beat, every note — it’s something being expelled. Anger, grief, fear. You don’t play music; you purge it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Slipknot turned that purge into poetry.”

Jack: “That’s the genius of Joey. He didn’t just hit drums — he made rage sound beautiful.”

Host: His fingers brushed the cymbal gently, as though greeting an old friend. It shimmered faintly, even in stillness — a ghost of motion waiting to be born again.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How something so violent can be healing?”

Jack: “It’s not funny. It’s human. We spend our whole lives pretending we’re calm while the storm inside us screams. Art gives that storm rhythm — it gives it shape.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not destruction — it’s translation.”

Jack: “Exactly. The drum kit becomes the dictionary for feelings you can’t speak.”

Jeeny: “And the tempo?”

Jack: “That’s the pulse of what you’re running from.”

Host: The air in the warehouse grew heavier, filled with the ghosts of songs that had once lived here — the kind that burned bright and left scars behind.

Jeeny: “You ever think that maybe the art isn’t just release, but revenge? You turn pain into something that refuses to die.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what it is. You take what hurt you and make it eternal. Every beat says, ‘You didn’t kill me — you inspired me.’”

Jeeny: “So, music becomes immortality.”

Jack: “And immortality becomes justice.”

Jeeny: “That’s powerful. But isn’t it exhausting to live in that state — always hitting, always purging?”

Jack: “Yeah. But it’s better than going numb. Silence kills more artists than pain ever will.”

Host: The wind pushed through the broken window, carrying in a low hum — the city’s distant noise merging with their conversation like a forgotten melody.

Jeeny: “You know, Joey’s quote always struck me because of that one word — concentrated. It’s not random. It’s focus. Anger with aim.”

Jack: “Exactly. Most people drown in their emotions. But when you play, you channel them — every hit becomes a sentence, every rhythm a confession.”

Jeeny: “So the drum kit’s not just an instrument. It’s confession booth, battleground, therapist, all in one.”

Jack: “Yeah. Every time I play, I get a little closer to quiet.”

Jeeny: “But it never lasts.”

Jack: “No. But neither does pain. You just have to outplay it.”

Host: The sticks in his hands began to move — tapping lightly, softly at first, then faster. The rhythm grew, a heartbeat morphing into thunder.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what made Joey’s art divine. It wasn’t about fury. It was about focus — rage turned into craft.”

Jack: “That’s the difference between chaos and creation.”

Jeeny: “Between collapse and catharsis.”

Jack: “He taught us that anger isn’t poison — it’s potential. The trick is direction.”

Jeeny: “And discipline.”

Jack: “Exactly. Anyone can scream. But to make anger sing — that’s mastery.”

Host: His drumming quickened — precise, explosive, but controlled. The air trembled, the walls seemed to breathe. The old warehouse came alive again, like an ancient beast remembering its heartbeat.

Jeeny: (raising her voice over the rhythm) “See? That’s what I mean — even in violence, there’s grace. You’re not destroying — you’re creating structure out of chaos.”

Jack: (between beats) “That’s what all art is. The human attempt to make sense of the noise.”

Jeeny: “But some people fear that noise — they suppress it, deny it.”

Jack: “And it eats them alive. Better to hit the drum than hit the wall.”

Jeeny: “Better to bleed rhythm than silence.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The final crash of cymbals filled the air — sharp, golden, pure. Then silence. Heavy. Sacred.

Jeeny: (softly) “You ever think Joey’s drumming was more than sound — that it was survival?”

Jack: “It was both. His drums were a shield. Every stroke said, ‘I’m still here.’”

Jeeny: “So every performance was a resurrection.”

Jack: “Yeah. Every night, he buried pain and brought himself back to life through rhythm.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s what every artist does?”

Jack: “If they’re honest — yes. Creation isn’t escape; it’s resurrection through motion.”

Host: The warehouse fell silent again, save for the echo of his last beat — echoing like a heartbeat still refusing to quit.

Host: And as the dust settled, Joey Jordison’s words seemed to linger — not as commentary, but as gospel:

That anger, when held too long, poisons.
But when played — when focused, when disciplined —
it becomes art,
a translation of fury into freedom.

That creation isn’t calm —
it’s controlled chaos,
each strike a declaration that pain can be beautiful.

That the drumbeat —
like the heartbeat —
exists to remind us that motion itself
is the cure for despair.

Jack dropped his sticks, breathing hard, sweat glistening in the dim light.

Jeeny stepped closer, smiling softly.

“You see?” she whispered. “You didn’t destroy anything. You built something.”

He looked up at her, chest heaving, the faintest smile forming.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe that’s what Joey meant —
you don’t fight the storm.
You play it.”

The silence that followed was full —
alive,
holy,
and perfectly in time.