With so many ways to communicate at our disposal, we must not

Host: The city night pulsed like a heartbeat — neon veins running down narrow streets, horns crying out like distant memories, and a faint rain mist softening every surface into a blurred watercolor of motion. Inside a small jazz bar tucked between two old brick buildings, the air shimmered with saxophone notes that hung like ghosts above the tables.

Jack sat at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass before him, his hands rough, his eyes distant, watching the band as though trying to remember how to feel something.

Jeeny sat beside him, her dark hair glowing under the dim blue lights. She wasn’t drinking — just listening, her fingers tracing circles on the countertop in rhythm with the slow upright bass.

The singer — a woman with a voice like old vinyl — crooned a slow, aching rendition of “What a Wonderful World.”

And then, between verses, Jeeny spoke softly:

Jeeny: “Jon Batiste once said, ‘With so many ways to communicate at our disposal, we must not forget the transformative power of a live music experience and genuine human exchange.’”

Jack: “Sounds poetic.” He sipped his drink, eyes fixed on the stage. “But the world doesn’t have time for poetry anymore. We’ve traded music for Wi-Fi and connection for convenience.”

Host: A chord shifted in the background — a minor note, full of tension, cutting through the warmth of the room like a blade through velvet.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who stopped listening.”

Jack: “No. I listen all the time. To messages. To meetings. To everyone talking and nobody saying anything. Batiste’s ‘genuine exchange’ — that’s nostalgia. People don’t want to feel anymore; they want to scroll.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the tools. Maybe it’s the silence inside the noise.”

Jack: “You think a saxophone can fix that?”

Jeeny: “I think it can remind us.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Remind us of what?”

Jeeny: “Of being human.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, and the band shifted tempo, sliding into a fast, unpredictable rhythm — a conversation in notes. The drummer grinned, the pianist laughed, and suddenly it felt less like performance, more like communion.

Jack watched, quiet now.

Jeeny leaned closer. “See that? That’s what Batiste meant. Real exchange. They’re not talking, but they’re understanding each other in real time. The rhythm connects them — and us. You can’t text that.”

Jack: “You can record it, though. Share it. Go viral. The world doesn’t need presence anymore, Jeeny. It just needs Wi-Fi.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why we’re lonely, Jack. Because connection without presence is like music without sound — it only looks alive.”

Jack: “But maybe that’s evolution. Maybe we don’t need the live moment anymore. Maybe we’ve outgrown it.”

Jeeny: “Outgrown humanity?”

Jack: pauses “Adapted.”

Host: The room buzzed with laughter, glasses clinking, music swelling. But around Jack and Jeeny, there was a small stillness — the kind that happens when truth hovers, fragile and electric, between two people.

Jeeny: “You remember that blackout two summers ago? No internet, no phone signal for two days. What did people do?”

Jack: “They panicked.”

Jeeny: “At first. But then? They went outside. They talked to neighbors. They played guitars on porches. The stars looked brighter that night, didn’t they?”

Jack: “Yeah…” his voice softened “I hadn’t seen that many in years.”

Jeeny: “That’s what live music does — it pulls you out of the noise, back into the moment. You remember you’re alive.”

Jack: “And then the power comes back, and everyone disappears again.”

Jeeny: “But for those two days, it was real. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Host: The song ended, and applause filled the air, raw and imperfect, full of small whoops and laughter. The singer bowed, smiling wide. The bartender wiped the counter, humming the last few notes under his breath.

Jack sat quietly, watching a couple near the stage slow-dancing — no phones, no audience, just motion and melody.

Jack: “You know, when I was twenty, I played guitar. Bar gigs mostly. My fingers bled half the time, but I didn’t care. I’d see faces light up, people move together — it felt… honest.”

Jeeny: “And you stopped.”

Jack: “Life happened. Bills. Business. Deadlines. I traded chords for spreadsheets. You can’t pay rent with applause.”

Jeeny: “But you can lose your soul without it.”

Jack looked at her then, really looked, and the years in his face seemed to ease just slightly.

Host: The band began another tune — slow and intimate, the kind that fills the air with something too thick to name. A single spotlight glowed on the saxophonist’s hands as he played, fingers trembling like prayer.

Jeeny: “Music is the last honest language, Jack. It doesn’t care what you look like, who you vote for, how rich you are. It just asks — do you feel me?”

Jack: “And if you don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then it waits for you.”

Jack: smiles faintly “That’s faith.”

Jeeny: “That’s humanity.”

Jack: “You think live music can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not save — remind. That’s what Batiste meant. With all our devices, we’ve learned to talk without speaking, to connect without touching. But music — real, live music — forces us to show up.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what scares people most. Showing up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Presence is the hardest art form.”

Host: The rain returned, soft now, brushing against the windows like a distant snare drum. The city’s lights blurred, the rhythm of traffic syncing with the rhythm of the music inside.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? For the first time in months, I haven’t checked my phone once.”

Jeeny smiled. “That’s the transformation.”

Jack: “Feels… lighter.”

Jeeny: “That’s because this—” she gestured toward the band, the crowd, the laughter “—is real. It’s imperfect, unpredictable, alive. That’s the kind of connection no app can download.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why it hurts sometimes — because it’s alive.”

Jeeny: “And beautiful things usually do.”

Host: The final note lingered, vibrating in the air like something sacred refusing to die. The audience clapped, not in sync but together — a rough, human rhythm.

Jack and Jeeny stood. Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and for a moment, looked at it as if it were something fragile and foreign. Then, he slid it away.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe the next message I send doesn’t need words.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it just needs music.”

Jack: nods slowly “And presence.”

Jeeny: “Always presence.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under amber lights. A saxophone player, standing beneath an awning, began to play again — soft, spontaneous, unfiltered.

Jack and Jeeny paused before walking away, listening, the night stretching open around them like a stage waiting for its next song.

The music drifted through the empty street — alive, imperfect, real — a reminder that amidst all the world’s noise, the most powerful connection still begins when two souls simply listen.

And in that moment, the city — tired, digital, relentless — breathed again,
just as Jon Batiste promised it could.