Joe Jukic: (leaning in, voice low but intense)
Nelly, you ever feel like the game’s rigged? They dangle fame like a golden ticket, but the price? Your soul. The mockingbird media sings whatever tune keeps ‘em fed. And the suits? They whisper, “Just sell, play nice, and you’ll be okay.” But the second you slip—boom—everyone shits on your name.
Nelly Furtado: (nodding, weary but sharp)
Oh, I’ve been played. You give ‘em a hit, and suddenly you’re their puppet. They want you to repeat the magic, but the second you change? “Who’s she now? Too weird, too risky.” They build you up just to tear you down.
Joe Jukic:
Exactly. And the fans? They love you ‘til they don’t. The same people who scream your lyrics will turn around and mock you for breathing wrong. The industry’s a meat grinder—spits out what’s left when the hype dies.
Nelly Furtado: (smirks darkly)
So what’s the move, then? Keep dancing for the suits, or burn it down and own the fallout?
Joe Jukic: (grinning)
You already know. The ones who last? They stop chasing approval. Fuck the suits, fuck the noise. You wanna be a rock superstar? Then be one—on your terms. Even if they call you crazy.
(silence hangs—then they both laugh, knowing the truth hurts but sets you free.)