What influenced me was Tori Amos, who was unapologetic about

Host: The recording studio was dim, a halo of yellow light spilling from the hanging bulbs above the mixing board. The air carried a faint hum of electricity**, the low static of cables and machines dreaming between takes. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, soft but relentless — like a quiet heartbeat keeping time with memory.

Jack sat slouched in the worn leather chair, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the reel spinning lazily on the tape machine. Jeeny stood near the piano, one hand resting on the keys, her face lit by the dim, amber glow of a desk lamp.

Host: The room smelled of coffee, old vinyl, and hope that had seen better days. The kind of place where anger could turn to art if it found the right chords.

Jeeny: “You ever listen to Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill?”

Jack: “Yeah. Back in the day. Every girl I knew played it like it was scripture.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it was. For a lot of us, anyway. She said she was influenced by Tori Amos and Sinéad O’Connor — both of them unapologetic about expressing anger. That mattered. They made it okay for women to sound furious and still be artful.”

Jack: “Furious, huh?” He flicked ash into a tray. “I remember those songs — raw, honest, sometimes ugly. But I also remember people mocking them. Like anger was fine in rock… unless it came from a woman.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the point. They turned anger into melody — made emotion something to hold, not hide. Before that, every female artist had to sound soft, safe, digestible. Then Tori sat at a piano and howled her truth. And Sinéad — she ripped her heart open on live television. That wasn’t just music. That was rebellion.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, drumming louder against the windowpanes. The neon sign across the street blinked, its red reflection pulsing across the studio floor.

Jack: “You make it sound heroic. But isn’t anger just another currency now? Everyone’s selling their trauma for likes. Anger’s been branded, packaged, turned into playlists. There’s nothing raw about it anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But back then, it wasn’t currency — it was consequence. Tori and Sinéad took hits for speaking honestly. Sinéad was blacklisted for tearing up that picture of the Pope on SNL. The world called her crazy instead of brave.”

Jack: “She was ahead of her time, I’ll give you that. But anger burns bridges too, Jeeny. You start screaming long enough, and no one listens. Sometimes silence lasts longer than rage.”

Jeeny: “That’s because silence is comfortable. Anger forces you to see what’s broken. The world doesn’t change because we whisper about pain; it changes when someone dares to scream it into a microphone.”

Host: A long pause filled the room, heavy with static. The tape reel stopped spinning. Jack leaned forward, clicking it off, the sound dying into a hum of silence. The smoke curled above his head, blue and slow.

Jack: “You think screaming fixes things?”

Jeeny: “No. But it frees things. That’s what Alanis learned from them — that anger can be sacred when it’s honest. It’s not destruction; it’s transformation. When she wrote Jagged Little Pill, she didn’t just vent — she purified. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Purified? That album was messy. Raw vocals, uneven takes. It sounded like therapy, not art.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it was art. Art that bleeds is still breathing. You think Van Gogh painted clean lines when he was breaking inside? No. He poured chaos into color. Alanis did that with words. That’s the beauty of unapologetic expression — it’s imperfect, but it’s real.”

Jack: “So emotion’s the point? Not composition?”

Jeeny: “Emotion is composition. You can’t separate them. Music without emotion is just organized sound. Anger without art is noise. But when you fuse them — when you let the wound dictate the rhythm — you get truth.”

Host: The lamp flickered, the bulb buzzing faintly as if in agreement. Jeeny pressed one piano key, letting a single note ring through the air — a note trembling on the edge between melancholy and defiance.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve got your own demons to exorcise.”

Jeeny: “We all do. The difference is whether we give them a voice or a leash.”

Jack: “And you think music’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Not a cure. A confession. Every angry song is a prayer for understanding. When Alanis sang ‘You Oughta Know,’ it wasn’t vengeance — it was release. Tori’s ‘Silent All These Years’ — that was survival. And Sinéad’s ‘Troy’… that was grief turned to fire. You tell me that’s not holy.”

Jack: “Holy? I’d call it human. And dangerous. Anger like that can swallow you whole.”

Jeeny: “Or save you. The trick is not to drown in it — but to teach it how to sing.”

Host: The rain slowed, easing into a soft drizzle. The studio’s silence grew deeper, intimate — like the hush between notes. Jack turned in his chair to face Jeeny, his expression caught between fatigue and admiration.

Jack: “You know, I get what you mean. When I used to play guitar, there was a moment — right when I hit a chord hard enough to hurt — where everything else disappeared. Like pain turned pure. Maybe that’s what you’re talking about.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pain becomes something larger than you. Something shared. That’s why those women were revolutionary — they didn’t just feel anger; they translated it. They gave it form. That’s how art changes people.”

Jack: “And yet the world still punishes women for being angry.”

Jeeny: “Because female anger scares people. It’s unpredictable. It doesn’t fit the narrative of grace. But anger’s not the opposite of grace, Jack — it’s the proof of conscience. The refusal to accept injustice quietly.”

Jack: “So you think anger is moral?”

Jeeny: “When it’s born from truth, yes. It’s the soul’s immune response to dishonesty.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The room felt lighter, as if the storm outside had retreated into memory. The air between them shimmered with the faint hum of electricity and something softer — understanding.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his cigarette forgotten.

Jack: “You know… I always thought music was supposed to soothe people. But maybe it’s supposed to wake them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every lullaby starts as a cry. Every revolution starts as a song no one wanted to hear.”

Jack: “So Alanis, Tori, Sinéad — they weren’t just singers. They were translators of emotion.”

Jeeny: “They were mirrors. And that’s the hardest kind of art — to show the world what it refuses to see in itself.”

Jack: “And the bravest.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The bravest thing is to stand on a stage, voice shaking, and still say, ‘I’m angry, and that doesn’t make me less human — it makes me more.’”

Host: A long moment passed. Jeeny finally sat at the piano, pressing her fingers to the keys. The first few notes were hesitant, then steadier — like a pulse returning. Jack watched silently, the faintest smile pulling at his lips.

Jack: “What are you playing?”

Jeeny: “Something new. Something honest.”

Host: The melody rose — not beautiful in the classical sense, but real, shaped by the roughness of emotion. The room seemed to breathe with it, the walls vibrating with old echoes of artists who had once dared to be unfiltered.

Jack closed his eyes. The cigarette smoke curled upward, dissolving into the dim light, as if ascending toward forgiveness.

Host: Outside, the city exhaled — wet streets glimmering under the neon glow, reflecting every storm and every song that had ever dared to be born from it.

In that quiet, Jeeny’s music became something larger — not just sound, but testimony. And Jack, for the first time in years, didn’t argue with it. He simply listened.

Host: Because sometimes, the truest faith isn’t in harmony, but in the courage to strike the note that doesn’t fit — and let it ring, unashamed, until it becomes part of the song.