The WORLD of SONGA

St Louis was once a light on a western front, a gateway to The West, an arch that bridged across the Mississippi river of rage that once divided our land, and seeks to divide it again.

Be not the gateway, St Louis. Be The Arch. Be the bridge…

…between a future ruled by technology, and a past ruled by people.

Leaders build bridges. Bridges are strong enough to be walked on.

He opened a book on his shelf, mentioned it was a book from a high school friend of ours from John Burroughs, flipped to the last chapter—Talk SHIFT #22, and began to read the closing lines of the book muttering something about how “writers save the best word for the very, very End…”

It’s not just broken relationships that need bridges. Cities, counties, and countries need them too, St Louis, in a world of Walls, we need Windows, and Bridges. Be The Bridge, St Louis. Again.”

— BelongBeStrongReachFar.com

As Riverfront Tim finished his monologue I’d already opened the Southwest app to find the nearest nonstop flight from LAX.

He was calling with an opportunity to turn my thoughts into action, questions into answers. I decided to embark on a hero’s journey, albeit wearily at first, and investigate an artistic and financial revolution underway in the pages of a manuscript floating around my hometown. Riverfront Tim called it, ‘The Plot to Save the Soul of Business—(with music).’

My time as a screenwriter was helpful in assisting the families of St. Louis in rewriting the stories theyʼd been telling themselves, and their families, for years: The stories that no longer served them. Because life is a social play. And we play many parts for many people. Itʼs important to understand our roles. Donʼt you think?

I soon found my role as lead of the writer’s room for of a film studio in St. Louis that was working alongside the world’s first social TV and radio super-studio. We were all after more genuine moments, less fictional ones. I wanted real connection and not just want to live with the characters in my head.

It turns out, I wasn’t alone.

Talk To Me, Not About Me

Jack Ebstein — Wed, 25 Jun 2025 21:16:42 GMT

You can feel it before it breaks.

That tension—quiet and civilized—like people rearranging cutlery at a dinner table that’s seconds away from an emotional food fight. At the Songa Mansion, conflict rarely arrives at the front door. It leaks in through the windows, masked as miscommunication, scheduling friction, just a vibe.

And then one night, it names itself.

We were in the control room, a repurposed AV booth from the mansion’s old bed-and-breakfast past. Velvet walls, outdated switches, one-way glass. The kind of room designed to watch things—not to be watched.

It was a fitting place for a conversation about control.

Erin Spelling sat upright on a stool, knees crossed tightly, voice steady but restrained. Forbes Nash—the former Silicon Valley manipulator turned Songa’s resident "People Pusher"—stood against the wall, arms folded, jaw tight. Wyoming leaned into the console, silent, but tracking everything with the stillness of someone who’s coached too many leaders through too many explosions.

Wyoming wasn’t here to facilitate. He was here to make sure the real conversation actually happened.

Have you ever been the go-between?
Or the person no one told?
Hit reply. We read every story.

For weeks, people had been talking. Not to each other—but about each other. Forbes was giving unsolicited notes. Erin was collecting the fallout. Everyone was complaining to someone—just not the person who needed to hear it.

Erin had vented to three different Songa moms about Forbes steamrolling a family segment of the experience without consulting her. She said Forbes kept improvising new formats, overriding her without warning, and treating her like an afterthought in front of patrons. Forbes told the tech team he was tired of Erin "repping the mom voice" but never offering usable feedback, calling her critiques "vibes without structure."

It got worse when Erin told a few people that Forbes reminded her of Emerson—her husband—always pushing, always confident, never listening. She said it half in jest, but it made its way back to Forbes. And once it did, he couldn’t un-hear it.

Forbes didn’t know how Erin felt until the comparison reached him secondhand. And as a blunt, analytical tech guy, that lack of directness rattled him. He started questioning everything—Did she not trust him? Did she see him as toxic? Was this just like Christer all over again?

It made him feel like he was the villain in a play he didn’t audition for.

Wyoming broke the silence.

"There’s a fine line between facilitating and enabling," he said. "And if you’re the one people keep coming to, it’s probably because you’re saying what they want to hear."

Forbes gave a bitter laugh. "Stewarding trust—that’s what they used to pay me for. To mediate, to build bridges. But the point isn’t to stay in the middle of everyone’s mess forever. It’s to mirror what trust looks like so people can learn it themselves."

Erin didn’t flinch. But she didn’t answer either.

Wyoming turned to her. "It’s not your job to be the emotional switchboard. Not anymore."

"This is why we don’t talk about people behind their backs," Forbes added. "Because if you don’t say the full truth to the person—and hold some of it back—you’re not really venting. You’re pressurizing. Later on, it comes out sideways. You say, ‘I’ve told you four or five times,’ when what you mean is, ‘Can’t you see how angry I am?’"

Erin looked down. "Sometimes it’s not about fear. It’s about not having the words."

"That’s fair," Wyoming said. "But that’s also how people get into abusive relationships. They talk to everyone except the person. They don’t set limits. They confuse boundaries with unsaid expectations."

"Exactly," Forbes said. "'Boundaries' have become this catchall excuse. People say 'you violated my boundary'—but there was no shared agreement. Just a private line in their head that got crossed."

"What we need are limits," he continued. "Not walls. Limits say: you can do that again—but there will be a consequence. Boundaries say: I’m cutting you off and you’ll never know why."

Erin opened her mouth, closed it.

Forbes softened. "I’ve helped frame more of your conversations than you probably know. Not to triangulate. Because people trust me to speak in tribe. It’s not about being right—it’s about being reachable."

"But I didn’t know how you felt. Not until I heard it secondhand. And once I did—it made everything worse. I started thinking you didn’t respect me. That you wanted me out. That you saw me as a liability, not a partner. I would’ve rather heard it direct—even if it stung."

Wyoming looked up. "And people learn better with real-time feedback. Not weeks later."

"That’s why we’re here," Forbes nodded. "To build real-time feedback loops. For everyone. Not just the people who’ve read all the books."

"Even a hand signal would’ve worked," Erin muttered. "I just didn’t want to make a scene."

"Silence is a scene," Forbes said. "It makes everything awkward."

Erin looked at him. "I did try. I went to Forbes. I went to Wyoming."

"But not me," Forbes said. "And that’s the thing. Everyone ends up doing more work—for me—because no one told me the first time."

Wyoming cleared his throat. "I’ve seen what happens when companies build their cultures around conflict-avoidance." He glanced at the control board. "At one point, I was brought into a company where nobody gave the founder honest feedback—not for ten years. He wasn’t a monster. But the silence made him one."

"If someone had spoken up—ten, twenty, thirty years ago—we might not be dealing with a Musk or a Trump. Real narcissists don’t start that way. They become unreachable because people stop trying."

"One guy I worked with inherited his father’s firm—$100M valuation. But every exec quit within a year. Not because he was unfixable. Because they all complained about him to each other, and not to him. By the time they did, he didn’t trust anyone. He built a moat instead of a bridge."

He paused, and then added quietly:

"And Erin—I know things aren’t easy at home. But that’s the point. If you’re walking around telling everyone what’s wrong in your marriage except the person you’re married to—how do you think this place is going to be any different?"

"It’s not just about systems. It’s about the stories we replay from home." Wyoming glanced at Forbes. "You two are living out the same tension I’ve seen in a hundred marriages: one person pushes, the other pleases. One dominates with good intentions, the other disappears while managing everyone’s emotions."

"You say Emerson takes up all the oxygen, but you don’t speak up. You manage around him. And now you’re doing the same thing with Forbes."

Erin blinked. Something cracked. Not a breakdown—just a shift. A quiet permission.

"You want to reclaim power?" Wyoming asked gently.

"Then don’t whisper about someone.
Speak to them. Set limits.
Hold your seat. Leave the door open.
Nobody learns from being cut off."

The room held still. Even the console lights seemed to wait.

Erin finally spoke. "I’m frustrated. I’m at a nine. And I want to talk about it. But not right now. Tomorrow?"

Forbes nodded. "That’s all I ever needed. Thank you."

Wyoming sat back. "Now that is what trust looks like."

And that, I thought, watching from my spot in the corner, is what it means to live the Songa Way. Not to perform connection. But to risk it. In real time.

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Wyoming — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 18:45:12 GMT

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Meet the Cast

Wyoming — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 18:28:21 GMT

The WORLD of SONGA is just one Substack in the Songa Universe. Scroll below to meet the characters and explore their stories.

The Primary Cast

Emerson Spelling

The visionary, volatility, and venture heart behind The WORLD of SONGA. Learn more about Emerson right here at The WORLD of SONGA.

“Isn’t the ultimate job of a parent to show the world how to love, and understand, their story—and their children…

Emerson Spelling

Erin Spelling

The quiet force, emotional mirror, and soul of the Spelling family. Learn more about Erin Spelling right here at The WORLD of SONGA.

“The lightest of life’s laughter follows the heaviest of tears…

Erin Spelling

“What if the life you’ve spent years authoring… isn’t the one you were born to live…

Dr. Jack Spelling

The editor of emotional arcs. Co-author of messy truths. Rewriting relationships on and off the page. Learn more about Jack right here at The WORLD of SONGA.

The WORLD of SONGA

Dr. Jack Spelling

Dr Wyoming

The architect, director and man behind the curtain at The WORLD of SONGA. Learn more about Dr Wyoming over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

Dr. Wyoming Schmetterling

‘I went about casting the cast of characters who had the time, talent and treasure to make this massively shared dream a reality…

The “Happy” Studio @ the Home of SONGA.FM

Sage Storries

The artist, alchemist, and emotional pulse behind the music of The WORLD of SONGA. Learn more about Sage Storries over at The '“Happy” Studio.

Sage Storries

“If your art was your life, how would you live…

The “Happy” Studio @ the Home of SONGA.FM

Lewis Blues

The mentor, mythmaker, and backbone of the band. Learn more about Lewis Blues over at The “Happy” Studio.

Lewis Blews

“We don’t take our art to the world, we create art so spellbinding that the world comes to us…

The Supporting Cast

May Dove Munnie

The heiress, harmonizer, and first true believer in the Songa vision. Learn more about May Dove over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

“Whatʼs the point of passing wealth to future generations, when we havenʼt healed the wounds we passed down too…

May Dove Munnie

Mohammad Munnie

The manager, husband, and steady hand reshaping what legacy means. Learn more about Mo over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

“Learning to leave more than money behind…

Mohammad Munnie

Confessions of an ex-Billionaire (and CMO)

Forbes Nash

The former master manipulator turned misfit meaning-maker. Learn more about Forbes over at Confessions of an ex-Billionaire (and CMO).

Forbes Nash

“Books are like our Selves. It’s hard for our loved ones to unsee the ugly first drafts.”—ForbesNash.com, recovering #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author…

a year ago · Forbes Nash, ex-Billionaire

Cheyenne (“Shy Anne”)

The challenger, catalyst, and unshakable conscience in the room. Learn more about Cheyenne over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

“Art goes where words cannot…

Cheyenne (”Shy Anne”)

The “Happy” Studio @ the Home of SONGA.FM

Brand Storries

The bridge, the buffer, the brother. Learn more about Brand over at The “Happy” Studio.

Brand Storries

“Therapeutic entertainment for families brave enough to change: We build culture, not content…

And then read Songa’s Rules, but know its (F)laws.

The RULES of SONGA outline the creative behaviors we practice, protect, and pass on once you cross the portal into The WORLD of SONGA…

THE RULES OF SONGA

a year ago · Wyoming

The LAWS of SONGA outline the culture of behaviors we expect, encourage and discourage after you cross the portal into The WORLD of SONGA…

The f(LAWS) of SONGA

a year ago · Wyoming

THE RULES OF SONGA

Wyoming — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 17:59:23 GMT

The RULES of SONGA outline the creative behaviors we practice, protect, and pass on once you cross the portal into The WORLD of SONGA.

(give) Happier, guaranteed. (#1)

The greatest predictor of happiness isn’t what we have, but who. We grow joy by giving it—and leaving space for others inside a shared dream. If that doesn’t make you happier, we’ll give your money back. Guaranteed.

No covers. Choose to create, not replicate. (#2)

We don’t do greatest hits. We don’t do what already worked. Creation starts with you: your voice, your rhythm, your truth. The goal isn’t to sound like someone else. It’s to find the song only you can sing. Be original. Be you.

Go good, not big. (#3)

Big fades fast. Good lasts long. We grow slow and true: built to matter, not just to scale. The goal isn’t to go viral. It’s to go vital. We don’t blow up. We root down. And grow together.

Embrace not knowing. NEVER spoil The Ending. (#4)

Certainty is boring. The unknown is sacred. Wonder is our method. Curiosity is our craft. You’re not here to solve the story. You’re here to be changed by it, and then, to change it.

Acknowledge with words, and action, daily. (#5)

Don’t just feel it, say it. Show it. Again and again. We give thanks in real time. We don’t save our affirmations for funerals. Gratitude is oxygen. Speak it, sing it, prove it.

What we seek is what we see—look for the light. (#6)

Your attention is a flashlight. Use it wisely. We look for the light in each other and we find it. Not because it’s always obvious, but because it’s always there. Start with wonder. End with awe.

Give each artist the gift of an audience. (#7)

No one creates in a vacuum. To witness is to honor. We don’t just wait our turn— we show up for theirs. Every voice matters. Every listener counts. The show doesn’t start when you take the stage, but when someone else does.

Be tough on problems, kind to people. (#8)

Drama is for the stage, not for our relationships. We separate the issue from the individual. We can critique the work without crushing the spirit. Be fierce on the craft, but soft on the soul.

Thank you for interrupting. (#9)

Interruption isn’t an offense. It’s an offering. Sometimes a shift, a laugh, or a raw truth breaks through the performance. When that happens, we say thank you. You didn’t ruin it. You revealed it.

Locked doors only lock good people out. (#10)

Protection is good. Isolation isn’t. We believe in open access, not elite exclusion. If a door is locked, it better be for safety, not ego. The greatest security is shared trust. The best password is your presence.

Choose a door, not a wall. (#11)

Cutting people off might feel like protection—but it also cuts off the chance to grow. Boundaries are necessary. But the best ones have doorways, not bricks.
No one learns in isolation. Connection is how we change.

The f(LAWS) of SONGA

Wyoming — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 17:56:04 GMT

The LAWS of SONGA outline the culture of behaviors we expect, encourage and discourage after you cross the portal into The WORLD of SONGA.

Talk with each other, not about each other. (#1)

Gossip breaks what music builds. At Songa, the moment you’re tempted to vent sideways, speak directly and go straight to the source. Talk to connect, not to divide. That’s how we keep the harmony alive.

Play along. Find the surprising star in you. (#2)

The spotlight isn’t earned by standing out. It’s shared by showing up. At Songa, you shine brightest when you make space, say yes, and stay open. Play along. You may find your star was never missing but waiting to be discovered.

There are no mistakes in Songa. Improvise. (#3)

At Songa, the only mistake is holding back. The best ideas often grow from mistakes. When you show up as your truest self, everything belongs. Even the mess. What feels off key might be the most honest note you’ve ever played.

Quick is slow. Even is fast. (#4)

A great band doesn’t rush—it locks into the groove. In art, in business, in life: consistency is the drumbeat others can play along to. Speed without rhythm breaks things. And people. At Songa, we move with trust and timing. Set the beat first. Then let the tempo rise. That’s how you build something that lasts.

Don’t just be vulnerable, be real. (#5)

Vulnerability means discomfort. Sharing your art—or your heart—before it’s ready is brave. True vulnerability is being honest and open, and letting others be honest with you. It’s not about who hurts the loudest, but who listens long enough to change.

Leave your name and fame behind. (#6)

We play together as peers. If you’re famous, this is your chance to become a beginner again—to experiment with a new art form, identity, or genre.

Love equally in your relationships, from beginning to end. (#7)

It’s easy to love at the beginning of a relationship, and harder at the end. If we part ways, it’s our duty to one another to share openly and honestly why so that each party can learn and grow.

Label behavior, not people. (#8)

We name the behavior, not the person—because behavior can change. Labels shrink what’s possible. The most limiting ones are often the ones we give ourselves. Many of the categories we live inside were created for systems, not souls. They aren’t life sentences. They’re starting points.

Make requests, not complaints. (#9)

Complaints punish. Requests invite. Instead of pointing out what’s wrong, ask for what would help. Would you be open to starting something new—or letting something go? Leave space for a no. Or for a better idea. That’s how honesty becomes healing.

No drugs. No alcohol. No divas. (#10)

This isn’t a party. It’s a portal. We stay clear, grounded, and available. The only high we chase is connection. If you’re here to escape reality, this isn’t your stage. But if you’re here to create a new one, you just might be a star.

We don’t cancel. We postpone. (#11)

Making art is messy. People are, too. We don’t cancel each other—we cool off, we recalibrate, we leave the door open. At some point, everyone forgets their lines or storms offstage. But the show isn’t over until the curtain drops. Leave the drama on stage. Offstage, we make room for repair.

🎧 Quick listen: why we cool off instead of cutting off.

And the most important f(law):

HAVE. SERIOUS. FUN.

Songa is not a workplace, it’s a funplace, where deep work happens. We are an entertainment company, and if we are not entertaining ourselves, then how can we expect others to be entertained.

laws

Erin Spelling

Jack Ebstein — Thu, 29 May 2025 17:26:02 GMT

“The lightest of life’s laughter follows the heaviest of tears.”

I graduated from Saint Louis University with a BA in Communications and married Emerson (someone who it turns out could have used a Comm class, or two). I took up a career in real estate because it gave me the opportunity to have a flexible schedule, raise the kids and pursue my lifelong love of painting. But somewhere along the way, my life got smaller and so did I. When I stopped painting and started painting by numbers, my Open Eyes, closed. And I hid behind those cherry red sunglasses, the same pair my mother had worn.

Still, real estate was like art, at least to me. I’ve always loved people, probably a little too much: I’ve been called a people pleaser, one too many times for it to have been a compliment. But real estate allowed me to get families into happy homes and out of unhappy ones. I just didn’t know my suburban home would be one of those. I’d bent over backwards trying to make it work with my husband, but I was beginning to think that people pleasing tendency of mine might be the issue.

I needed to take a stand and reclaim my story, but I should have known that others would tell it before I had my chance to. Because when I walked into a weekly Scout and Cellar wine club and Bachelorette watch party, I knew my friends had heard about me and Emerson. They went quiet and watched me with pity, as if I was one of the contestants who had received a rose. I felt like a Victim, and any chance of reclaiming my story vanished.

But then, May Dove pulled me to the side and told me about this secret manuscript that was floating around St. Louis that was getting ‘families singing together again.’ I was skeptical. I had no idea what that even meant.

Emerson and I tried every kind of marriage counseling. Nothing worked. I’d just discovered my family had a trust fund and I knew this divorce was going to get messy.

“A musical?” I asked May. That was her big solution. And how did this ‘family system’ that this secret manifesto was promising to fix, tie into the capitalist system that broke my husband, and our marriage?

But I didn’t care about what the other women there might think in that moment. I was done people pleasing. I figured I’d give it a try and go to the Halloween party at Songa Studios St Louis in Tower Grove. I decided to wear my happy wife costume.

When I got home from the Bachelorette watch party, with my first piece of the secret manuscript in hand, Emerson and the kids were watching TV on their own separate screens in our living room.

We were living under one roof, but we were hardly living.

How was I supposed to know it would be those screens, the very screens that divided us, that would bring us back together again?

Emerson Spelling

Jack Ebstein — Thu, 29 May 2025 17:14:55 GMT

“Isn’t the ultimate job of a parent to show the world how to love, and understand, their story—and their children?”

In some ways, the story of my life was written the moment I was voted Most Likely to Succeed by our graduating class of ’91. I lived in the shadows of Dad’s expectations—and his buildings. Achieving Dad’s skyscraping standards and protecting that high school moniker were a heavy weight to bear.

Erin and I met in school as overachievers—our pairing only made sense. But our love was more than just common sense and good appearances—for a while, at least. We both stayed close to home and went to Saint Louis University, even though our parents had long since fled our hometown during summers and winters—hers to West Palm Beach, mine to Steamboat Springs. Erin got pregnant soon after graduation, and the pressure to succeed intensified.

I started a real estate marketing agency. When it grew to ten employees, I felt like I had to provide for eleven families now. I poured everything I made into the business—including my Self. At home, I was checked out with Erin and the kids, feeling like my life’s work was at the office. All those late nights. The stress. The loans. I was doing it all for them, wasn’t I?

If I could just land that next big client, it would all be alright.

Entrepreneurship and keeping the dream alive became an addiction.

And then, I found out Erin had a trust fund. I hate to admit it—and would never do so to her—but I was emasculated. She grew her reputation as Huntleigh’s premiere realtor, and the gap between us widened. I ate poorly and never exercised, but compensated for both with nights alone in our den or at the local bar, escaping the pain with each shot of whiskey I took. The kids were set for college, weren’t they? They had their mother’s inheritance. So if I drank my paycheck away, then so be it.

As the business struggled, I did everything to make it—and myself—look like a success: a vacation home, a new car. I went into more debt buying both, but wasn’t any happier on the other side of it. In fact, I was less.

The honor the Class of ’91 gave me wasn’t an honor at all.

It was a curse.

And then, on the same day that I signed an offer from a successful—unlike me—entrepreneur to buy my company, Erin asked for a divorce. I’d gone from a CEO and husband to… nothing. I didn’t know what I was without those two things.

But appearances dictated that my wife and I maintain our perfect facade while the divorce was finalized. Erin had received an invitation to a mysterious musical experience taking place in the Tower Grove neighborhood.

I’d never been a fan of musicals. But I heard there’d be comedy there too. And I’d always been a fan of deflecting pain through laughter and jokes—now more than ever.

I saw her at the table before we left for the evening. Erin looked stunning, even if she was locked into reading our separation arrangement. I didn’t know until later, it wasn’t her lawyer’s work at all—but that of a collection of authors who’d written the secret manuscript that was circulating around St. Louis.

We took our kids to the event that night—for what I thought was our family’s ending.

But it turned out to be just the beginning.

I threw away my old pair of black shades. After that night—after the music, the laughter, the strange sense of possibility—they didn’t feel like me anymore. I bought a new pair: champagne-colored, lighter in every sense. My daughter said they made me look “less like a boss and more like a bandmate.”

First came my passion for the pen. Then the microphone. Then the mini bass.

My family and I learned how to play again.

And we needed to. Because underneath the surface, things were breaking.

My wife was still considering divorce.

My daughter’s anger hadn’t gone away.

And my son was still suicidal.

I’d become the only one left funding the project. Songa’s lone patron.

I’d chosen to keep it alive for three more months—after failing to convince a single other family to stay. Even my own family hadn’t fully bought in at first. And that was the part that hurt the most.

I wasn’t the plugged-in, twenty-something tech whiz I once was. I was in my fifties now—a father out of the game, unsure if anyone would follow me. Unsure if I was still the kind of man who could lead anything.

But still—I kept showing up.

Because it had started to work.

And if it could work for us—maybe it could work for others too.

My passionate love for my Self became so contagious that my wife fell in love with me again too.

It was only then that I learned what success and wealth really were.

ACT 9: The Village Fire

Jack Ebstein — Tue, 20 May 2025 12:57:12 GMT

Beginning at the end? Try ending
At the beginning: ACT 1

Because ‘The World of Songa’
Season 1. Finale.
Starts. Now.

It started with a whisper—literally.

A rogue tech planted a line of code into an abandoned control room, reactivating a long-silent radio signal from a once-beloved community station. It had been quiet for over a decade, its silence a symbol of something deeper: a city where people had stopped listening. Inside the station. Inside their homes. Inside themselves.

Today, the frequency is live again—but not from the tower. It’s radiating from Tower Grove Park, across the street from Songa Studios.

The Spellings are going for it.

A makeshift stage stands at the park’s center, strung with borrowed cables and found lights. Families are already arriving—some with picnics, some just with questions. The sound check bleeds into the evening air: laughter, guitar chords, the clink of folding chairs.

I’m standing offstage, notebook in hand, trying to keep up with the miracle unfolding in real time. Emerson’s pacing behind the speakers, fiddling with a tablet streaming the illegal signal.

Sage walks up, tuning her guitar. Behind her, Lewis Blues and the rest of A Band Called US gather with quiet confidence. They’ve just returned from a break, having performed the Songa catalog to a world that—by the sound of it—needed to hear it.

With each passing song—“17 Gigs a Month,” “Our Town,” “Beat of Your Drum”—the frequency of the city begins to shift. A Songa soundscape blankets the metro.

Because with each passing song - 17 Gigs A Month, Our Town, Beat of Your Drum – the frequency of the city’s radio grow louder, merging into one collective Songa soundscape that blankets the metro area.

Sage speaks into the mic.

“We didn’t plan this. But maybe it planned us.”

She breathes, but this time, her voice turns direct—almost like she’s hosting a broadcast.

“St. Louis,” she says, “if you’re listening to this through a car speaker, from a back porch, or hanging out a window with a boombox—this one’s for you.”

She pauses.

“There was a time when radio connected us. A time when art brought us together—not algorithms. But the station that used to bind us stopped listening to itself long before it stopped broadcasting. Just like we stopped listening to each other. In our homes. In this city.”

She looks out at the crowd and into the cameras now catching this live.

“What Are You Waiting For is the next song. It’s also a question we’re asking every St. Louisan who’s forgotten what it feels like to gather. To create something new. To stop rehearsing old arguments and start writing new music. Because this isn’t just a song—it’s a turning point. For us. For our city.”

“And just like Lewis and Clark stood on this soil and looked west into what was possible—we’re standing here tonight with that same choice: to look forward, or to fall apart.”

She strums. And the park hushes. "

She swallows hard. "Here goes nothing," Sage says, her voice cracking along with the mic.

She closes her eyes. Takes a breath. And with eyes still closed, begins to sing:

What are you waiting for,
Is there something you can't do
You just tell yourself a story,
About something so untrue.

If you hold onto your vision,
It will come to you
Voices of your inner spirit,
Begging to break through.

She’s finding her footing, but the crowd’s losing theirs.

They’re rocking out.

Strangers are dancing with strangers, though I can already tell—they won’t stay that way for long.

Children twirl barefoot in the grass, their laughter rising like its own kind of melody.

And at the center of it all, the eighty-eight-year-olds are more raucous than the eight-year-olds— jumping, laughing, alive in a way that feels like remembering.
Like their bodies never forgot how to be children.

Then the chorus returns— this time, they know it word for word.

The entire park sings in unison, screaming at the top of their lungs, but from the bottom of their hearts:

Why do we wait, why do we wait?
Why do we wait for permission?
Why do we wait, why do we wait?
Why do we embrace indecision?

Become a paid subscriber below to
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Along with the entire TWOS S1 soundtrack.

Across the city, radios tuned to the pirate signal carry it to kitchens and porches. People sing with them, from miles away.

As the final chorus echoes into the night, three more figures approach from the far end of the park—May Dove, Mohammad, and Wyoming. They came.

Not alone. With their children.

It’s as if the song pulled them back into the orbit of something real. Something they could no longer deny.

Wyoming had spoken to them. Not in persuasion, but in parable. He’d taken them not to a boardroom, but to an abandoned rooftop. Played them a cassette of a street musician from Kathmandu. Told them, "Some things you can only understand with your ears closed and your heart open."

They had argued. Cried. Listened. And then decided: not only would they return—they would fund a local license. They would give Songa the signal, legally, to grow. The moment of reversal happened quietly. But the consequences rang loud.

Now, they sat in the second row. Not as patrons. As believers. Their kids stared wide-eyed at the stage, then whispered to each other with that kind of awed excitement that only comes when your parents finally do something surprising. One of Mo’s boys leaned against her side and mouthed the words to the final chorus.

“I miss being on the same team,” he says.

She nods. “So let’s make something together. Not just a company. A life. No more image management. No more quiet resentments. Let’s try honesty, even when it’s ugly.”

He looks at her. For once, not performing. Just present.

They both turn, watching Aaron laugh as he helps a younger kid find their dad. Sylvie is already sketching the scene in her notebook.

Emerson reaches for Erin’s hand. She lets him.

Aaron and Sylvie appear at their sides. Sylvie’s taken a photo of the crowd mid-song. She shows it to them—hundreds of people gathered on the grass: toddlers with face paint, grandmothers with folding fans, teens with earbuds half-removed, thirty-somethings in band tees, couples swaying, babies sleeping on picnic blankets.

There are families who haven’t attended anything together in years. Groups of old friends reuniting over wine in plastic cups. A man in his seventies clapping off-beat, smiling like he used to be in a band. A few Gen Z kids livestreaming the whole thing on cracked phones. A little boy on his father’s shoulders mouthing the lyrics.

This isn’t a demographic—it’s a village. A mosaic of memory and possibility.

“Is this what it’s supposed to look like?” Aaron asks.

Emerson and Erin look at each other.

“It’s better,” Erin says.

Out front, May Dove is crying. Mo reaches for her hand. One of their daughters tugs at her sleeve and asks, “Can we stay after this?”

Mo smiles at Wyoming, then at the child. “Yeah. We can stay.”

She leans toward Wyoming and murmurs, “You confuse me. But somehow, you always know where we need to be.”

Wyoming, never one for encore bows, takes a final sip from his thermos and quietly walks away from the lights. By the time I look again, he’s gone.

The music swells. And from the edges of the park, more people arrive. Some barefoot. Some suited. Some unsure why they came—only that something was calling.

The signal rides the airwaves across the city, slipping through cracked windows and open hearts. It reaches kitchen radios and dashboard dials, reminding the people of this divided city that unity isn’t just possible—it’s playing live.

And just when it feels like the night has resolved into hope—two figures emerge at the park’s edge.

A silver sedan pulls up near the vendor tents. From it step Emerson’s parents—his mother in a navy shawl, his father still in a blazer despite the humidity. Emerson freezes, mid-step.

They don’t wave. They don’t make a scene. They just walk forward, slow but steady, like they’ve rehearsed this.

“Emerson,” his father says, nodding.

His mother steps closer. “You built this?” she asks, her voice carrying something between admiration and regret. “I didn’t even recognize Sylvie. She looks like the poems you used to write.”

Emerson looks from them to Erin, to Aaron and Sylvie who are just starting to notice. “We built it,” he says quietly.

“We want to be part of it,” his mother says. “To support it. And… maybe get to know our grandchildren.” Emerson’s father adds, “We always thought success would bring you back to us. We didn’t expect it to take you this far away.”

Erin’s arms cross before she can stop them.

“Now you want to be part of it?” she says.

“We didn’t know how to help before,” his father offers. “But maybe we can now.”

Erin glances at Emerson. Part of her wanted to scream. Part of her wanted to believe them. All of her was tired of being polite.

She turned back to them. “You didn’t come when Sylvie was born. You didn’t call when Emerson almost lost the house. And now you want in—because the lights are finally bright enough for you to see us?”

Emerson says nothing. The reunion he always wanted now feels like a test. And not just for him.

I watch from the side of the stage, scribbling a note:

The city was singing. The family was shifting. The fire would burn through the night—but morning would bring decisions no song could delay.

The fire glows brighter. But so do the shadows.

And somewhere between the light and the dark, I feel it—something shift in me too. I came to St. Louis to report on a story. I didn’t realize I’d stepped inside one. This city, this movement, these people... they’re not just what I’m writing about. They might be what I’ve been writing toward all along.

This is social radio. This is the village fire.

And it’s burning brighter than ever.

Art goes where words cannot. And questions? More powerful than answers. So…
“What Are You Waiting For?” Listen below—along with the full Season 1 album.

🎶 The World of Songa – Season 1 (Original Soundtrack) 🎶

ACT 1 – Welcome to the Fire
Everyone has a spark inside —
Just waiting to be lit. Ignite yours.

ACT 2 – Belong, Be Strong, Reach Far
We all deserve to belong. This is what
it sounds like to go farther—together.

ACT 3 – Let’s Just Let It Rain
When life gets stormy, this is for the ones
who don’t run from the rain.

ACT 4 – Beat of Your Drum
Relationships lose rhythm. Find your
own beat—while staying in tune.

ACT 5 – Embrace Every Part
Connection starts with acceptance.
A song for presence, not performance.

ACT 6 – Our Town
Home isn’t found. It’s built. This song isn’t
just the blueprint. It’s an invitation.

ACT 8 – 17 Gigs A Month
This one’s for the dreamers—startup and stage.
Hustle hard. Have heart.

ACT 9 – What Are You Waiting For?
Art goes where words cannot. And questions?
More powerful than answers.

👇Check it out below👇
Season 2 drops soon—subscribe for new stories, songs, and a new way to belong.

ACT 8: City of Dreams

Jack Ebstein — Tue, 20 May 2025 12:42:20 GMT

Start at ACT 1 to begin the journey.

St. Louis, Missouri — City Museum

The building is a creature. Its bones are spiral staircases, cavernous tunnels, and suspended school buses that dangle over the street. A whale skeleton watches from above as if judging the experiment unfolding below.

After ACT 7’s meeting—which might’ve just changed the music industry (and maybe more, though forgive the dramatics)—Emerson spent the car ride over filling me in. . Said Wyoming was once the golden child of a middle-class empire, turned orphan of wealth, turned myth.

Lost his wife, Cheyenne, and their children in a tragedy he never talks about. Vanished from the grid after selling off their family business, and when he re-emerged, it was with a guitar case in one hand and a tea thermos in the other, talking about village fires and emotional wealth.

Emerson said Wyoming was the kind of man who could be laughing in Portuguese in the morning and giving a silent sermon in the Ozarks by dusk.

So when I saw him at the museum gates, I felt like I’d stumbled into a story I wasn’t supposed to know yet. He leaned there like a punctuation mark at the edge of a chapter: cowboy boots dusty, linen blazer wrinkled, matte black sunglasses pressed to his face like armor. In one hand, a thermos of green tea. In the other, a tattered notebook.

They called him The Director, but no one quite knew what he directed. Just that people seemed to follow. He'd once vanished from the tech world with a fortune and reappeared in the ashrams of Nepal and the villages of Brazil.

His journey—what they simply referred to as "the travels"—had become legend. I’d heard the stories at dinner parties: a man who’d once run a billion-dollar business, then ran from it. A man who could sell a company on Tuesday and serenade a village fire by Thursday.

Wyoming was a myth, a whisper wrapped in denim, and yet here he was in the flesh. Real, but unreadable. The master chess player of the movement.

He didn’t speak when he arrived. He didn’t need to. Years ago, he’d funded the City Museum’s surrealist sound wing—an entire floor of interactive musical sculptures modeled after the first Songa experiment in his backyard. It was his tribute to "chaos that sings." When he called, they didn’t ask questions. They asked: "Lights on or off?"

Tonight, they’re dimmed to twilight.

Emerson, Erin, Sage, and Wyoming drift through the museum's belly, passing crushed velvet booths, chandeliers made of rusted trumpet bells, and mosaics of broken glass. As they walk, Erin keeps glancing at Wyoming out of the corner of her eye. Finally, when the others step ahead, she edges closer to him, her voice half-whisper, half-awe.

"So you're the man my husband bet our life savings on."

Wyoming doesn’t turn, just sips from his thermos, letting the moment hang. Then, so softly Erin nearly misses it, he replies:

"And you’re the woman who made him brave enough to do it." The space thrums with energy—alive, but fractured. Like the people inside it.

May Dove and Mohammad arrive in matching cream coats, one-buttoned and pressed. They look out of place against the grit and whimsy of the building, like finance execs at a puppet show. Emerson greets them with a rehearsed warmth, but his eyes are already doing math—calculating their body language, gauging their willingness.

They sit around a rusted piano bolted to the floor, just beneath a metal dragon that coils into the ceiling. Sage places her guitar on her lap, then pauses.

"Before I play," she says, looking at Mo and May Dove, "I want you to know why this song matters to me. I used to gig seventeen days a month just to stay afloat. And I was barely doing that. Touring from Denver to Miami, Bali to Ibiza—just so I could play the songs on my heart. But all I really wanted... was a few local gigs and a life. A family. A living room to call my own."

She opens her guitar case and lifts out the instrument like it’s something sacred.

"Songa changed that. Instead of gigging for strangers every night, I get to bring joy into people’s homes. We gather again. We remember what it feels like to create something meaningful together. We remember how to belong."

She strums the first few notes, then looks up.

"This song’s called '17 Gigs a Month.' Emerson helped me write it. Turns out, struggling entrepreneurs and working artists aren’t all that different."

🎧 Listen below to “17 Gigs a Month.”
To unlock the full Songa catalog
of original music, become a paid subscriber.

She begins to play.

The melody is simple. A slow, circular rhythm that grows into something raw. Her voice trembles at first, then steadies as she sings:

“17 gigs a month, I try to get by, don't understand why, I'm struggling to make life's ends…”

Her eyes close on the line, “my music is my struggle, yet my closest friend.”

A hush falls over the room. The museum feels suddenly intimate, like a forgotten chapel reawakened by a hymn.

She lets the chorus breathe: “But I know this is what I gotta do each day… I’ll never give in, or give up on this dream.”

As she nears the final refrain, “So every time I feel the doubt, I know I get to play it out,” her voice catches—and she leans into the song, letting it carry her the rest of the way.

I, yeah I, can never give up on this dream.”

When it ends, Mo is blinking quickly. May Dove dabs beneath her eye. But when the final chord fades, they don’t clap.

Mo speaks first. “It’s... deeply moving. And you’re right about the numbers. About the artists. But this—” she gestures around, “—this isn’t something I can explain to my board. Or to my friends at the Conservancy. It looks... messy. Chaotic. Unpredictable.”

May Dove nods. “We believe in the mission. But the risk to our reputation—”

Wyoming finally speaks. “You mean the risk to your appearance.”

They don’t respond.

Erin, who’s been silent until now, leans forward.

"Mo. May. You know what this is. You’ve seen the impact it’s having on your own kids. You’ve told me yourselves how different they are after just a weekend at Songa."

Mo. looks down.

"Yes," Erin presses. "And you want to walk away because it looks messy? Because your board or your friends might not understand? Isn’t that exactly what we’re trying to change?"

Emerson steps in, his voice low but tight with urgency.

"This isn’t just about art. It’s about connection. About families trying to talk again. About building something that matters—not just to us, but to the next generation."

He glances at Erin beside him—not pleading, but present. Grounded. "I’ve put everything I have into this. Not just capital. But belief. Faith that maybe there’s a different way. A better way."

He turns to Mo and May Dove. "I know how this looks. I do. But sometimes the fire doesn’t burn because it’s polished. Sometimes it burns because it’s real."

"We’re not trying to build an empire. We’re trying to build a village. And the only way to build a village is to gather around the fire. To talk. To create. To risk a little chaos."

Wyoming, still leaned back against the piano bench, swirls his thermos with one hand. Then, as if speaking to the room, or to no one at all, he murmurs:

"You know why I asked to meet here?"

He looks up, sunglasses still on. "Because museums are where we put the past. And this place… it’s always resisted that. This building is alive. Made of imagination. Of reinvention. It doesn’t want to be looked at. It wants to be played with. It wants people to get lost inside and come out changed. That’s why we’re here. Because what we’re building… it shouldn’t hang in a frame. It should move.""

Wyoming, until now silent, sips from his thermos and speaks like a whisper curling through smoke.

"There’s an old saying," he murmurs, "that the fire doesn’t die when the logs burn out. It dies when people stop showing up to sit beside it."

Mo meets his gaze, unsure whether he’s giving advice or issuing a warning. With Wyoming, it’s always both."

They hesitate. Long enough for the silence to swallow everything that came before.

“It’s beautiful,” Mo says finally. “But we can’t.”

May Dove closes her coat. “We’re sorry.”

They rise, thank everyone, and walk out into the shadow of the metal dragon, their heels echoing against the mosaic floor like punctuation marks to a conversation unfinished.

The group sits in the silence they left behind.

I glance across the space, past the rusted piano and the dragon coils above, watching the shadows swallow Mo and May Dove as they exit. Wyoming doesn’t move. Just sips from his thermos like he’s counting moves no one else can see.

Erin speaks, finally. "You know what hurts? They know we’re right. But they’re still leaving."

No one disagrees.

Then Wyoming rises, slow and deliberate, and turns toward the darker end of the museum where the lights are still off.

"Let’s give them something to regret," Emerson mutters, watching Wyoming melt into the shadows.

For a few seconds, no one breathes. Then Erin exhales.

“You know what hurts?” she says quietly. “They know we’re right. But they’re still leaving.”

I look after them, feeling the dark close in again. Not disappointment. Not quite. Something sharper. Something like knowing.

And in that knowing, I realize we’re not building a case anymore.

We’re building the fire.

Before continuing to ACT 9…

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ACT 7: The Meeting That Changed Music. And Business.

Jack Ebstein — Tue, 20 May 2025 12:01:18 GMT

Start at ACT 1 to begin the journey.

I’m in the Bored Room at the Songa Mansion—a Victorian estate where chandeliers hang heavy with history and no idea is too wild if it means bringing families close…

ACT 6: The Investors Who Heard the Music

Jack Ebstein — Tue, 20 May 2025 11:36:15 GMT

Start at ACT 1 to begin the journey.

The first time May Dove and Mohammad Munnie stepped into the Songa Mansion, they looked like a husband and wife who could own the world if they wanted to—but would be bored doing it.

The rich people I’ve met—the ones who can buy anything—tend to be short on imagination, after all.

They looked bored now too. Waiting for a reason to leave.

Our job? Give them a reason to stay.

Because they were rich. Generationally rich. The kind of rich that survives recessions, revolutions—probably extinction too. They must own a rocket.

Or at least have seats on the last flight out.

They were exactly the kind of patrons Songa needed to turn this experiment into a movement.

Just like Wyoming once told Emerson.

There are two kinds of
successful people in this world—
those with something to prove and
those with something to serve.
Be the second kind.

Here was our chance to be that second kind.

Mo adjusted his cufflinks like he was entering a boardroom. But this wasn't a boardroom.

This was something else entirely.

Not a place. Not a pitch.

A pulse.

The same quiet pulse that first stirred in ACT 5: Blocking the Scene—when families sat in a circle, lowered their guards, and listened not as performers, but simply as people.

May was telling The Spellings and the gathered artists, a story. About Wyoming. All we ever got was stories. I was starting to believe that’s all he was.

But the story went that one night, at a Family Office Summit, the man known as ‘Wyoming’ had approached her and asked her:

“What’s the point of passing
wealth down, if we haven’t
healed the wounds we passed down too?”

May remembered asking her family office the next day: “We pay you 1% to grow our financial wealth—but who’s growing our emotional wealth?” The answer: a therapist referral. Her reply:

“We don’t need more wealth. We need more family.”

Inside the parlor—what Emerson jokingly called “the boredroom”—Lewis Blues was already at the piano. Sage tuned her guitar. The Spellings took their places.

“This isn’t a pitch,” Emerson said. “It’s a rehearsal for something real.”

“How are your kids doing?” Emerson asked.

Mo paused, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Honestly? Our daughter used to be this bright, expressive kid. Now I get grunts. Or silence. She doesn’t make eye contact anymore.”

May picked up the thread. “And our son—he’s practically living inside his gaming headset. He texts us from upstairs. We built this life so they’d feel safe, resourced. But they don’t even want to be in the same room with us.”

Mo’s voice tightened. “It’s like… we gave them everything we didn’t have—and lost the one thing we did: a sense of home.”

May nodded. “We built everything so they wouldn’t have to want for anything. But they don’t want us.”

May turned to Erin. “Is this helping your marriage?”

The question landed like a cymbal crash. Emerson’s jaw tightened. He looked at Erin for a beat, then answered, steady: “Yes.”

Erin blinked, her lips parting—then closed again. She looked at the floor, then up at May. “It’s helping us hear each other,” she said quietly. “Some days that’s progress. Some days it just reminds me how long we both went unheard.”

In the corner, Lewis let a hi-hat whisper across the silence.

“What does your ideal town look like?” Sage asked. “Who lives there? What do they believe in? What kind of art do they make? What kind of experiences would make your kids want to stay close—not just geographically, but emotionally?”

Mo looked surprised. May didn’t hesitate.

“A place where music isn't just background—it’s a bridge,” she said. “Where people show up when it matters. Where kids feel safe being themselves, and parents don’t feel like strangers in their own home.”

Sage nodded. “Then that’s the town we’ll build with you. Not someday—now. Not hypothetically—in your home. That’s what a Songa license becomes: the foundation for that future. You provide the spark. We bring the rhythm.”

Erin stepped forward. “We had wealth, but not connection. Our daughter had everything—except our full attention. Emerson and I couldn’t talk to each other. Through Songa, we started listening again—not because we had a plan, but because we had a room like this.”

Emerson added, “We spent thousands on therapists, concierge psychiatry, SSRIs. Nothing worked. Then we started recording these… experiences. It wasn’t just about making music together, but making memories. The kids started asking to hear them. Not because they were good—but because they were us.”

Mo nodded slowly. “We’ve tried everything. The best therapists. Private schools. Family retreats. Still couldn’t get our daughter to not act like a stranger.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. May reached across the space between them, resting a hand on his wrist. It was a small thing, but it steadied the air.

Lewis let his fingers fall into a lazy sway over the keys—a soft groove like a welcome mat. Sage closed her eyes, then opened them slowly.

“This is our town…” she murmured, writing as she spoke. “And you can't keep us down…”

She didn’t sing it. Not yet. Just scribbled it into her notebook, as if trying to catch a firefly before it flew. Lewis layered in a soft progression beneath her thoughts.

“We’ve built vacation homes,” Mo said quietly. “But never a village.”

Sage underlined a phrase. Lewis Blues jotted down potential notes in a fit of inspiration.

May Dove and Mo looked on in awe.

Mo spoke up: “Are you writing a new song in real time based on what we’re saying?”

“That’s what Songa is,” Sage said. “Not just music. Not just therapy. A way to co-author the future. With your family. With your block. With your zip code.”

🎧 Listen below to “Our Town.”
To unlock this track—and the full
catalog of original Songa music—
become a paid subscriber.

Emerson stepped toward the front of the room, Lewis Blues playing the keys, served as his personal backup band as he said:

“You get facilitators who know how to turn conflict into joy. Who can take the offbeat moments and make them part of the rhythm. Who help families write harmony where there’s been discord, and turn unsaid words into a chorus everyone can sing.

You don’t just get a license You get a studio in your home. A band that meets you where you are. A catalog of memories you didn’t know you were making. A film crew to turn your family’s legacy into a legacy film.”

As a screenwriter searching for a story worth telling, that was the dialogue I’d been hoping to hear this entire time.

Emerson continued, “Not just therapy. Not just media. A new kind of music—scored in real time, by the people you love.”

He added, ““We’re not offering services. We’re offering authorship. Your family’s story—composed together, recorded in real time.”

Erin added, “Families report a 2000% increase in meaningful interactions after just three hours without phones. Divorce rates fall. Joy—measurable joy—goes up.”

May leaned forward. “But what’s the actual product?”

Sage: “Not media. Memory. You don’t watch the movie—you are the movie. You don’t stream the song—you write it.”

Mo: “And the cost?”

Forbes: “Less than 10% of most franchises. If it doesn’t strengthen your family, we refund. If it does, you roll it into stock.”

May’s voice was quiet now. “What’s the point of having more… when you already have more than enough?”

She looked at the Spellings, at the instruments still humming with potential.

“If we do this,” she said, “it won’t just be an investment. It’ll be a home our kids actually want to come back to.”

Mo: “We’ve built vacation homes, but never a village. If we join—this becomes our village.”

They looked at each other.

“If this works,” Mo said, “we get our family back.”

May finished for him. “And if it doesn’t—we lose nothing we haven’t already lost.”

Sage returned to the earlier refrain:

“This is our town... and you can't keep us down.”

And Sage began to sing ‘Our Town’, gifting Mo and May a song made just for them, about a home they didn’t even know they’d missed until that moment.

And I started to believe something I never fully allowed myself to hope in...

Maybe there was a movie in this.

Maybe what Hollywood lost in scale, St. Louis can gain in soul.

Maybe the next studio system isn’t in Burbank.

It’s in real family stories turned into films.

But Mo and May Dove left that night without signing. No license. No check. Just a thank you, a long look back at the instruments, and a promise to think it over.

I sat in the control room, heart racing anyway. Because for the first time in my life, I believed I could help build a studio system in St. Louis—not for stars, but for families. Not for content, but connection. And if May and Mo came back?

That dream might just have its first backers.

Before Continuing to ACT 7…
Subscribe below to hear “Our Town”—
and get started building yours.

Meet a few of the characters who can help you do it. Follow their Substacks:
• Lewis Blues — musical mastermind 🎶 | The Happy Studio
• Wyoming — money mover 🏕️ | The Millionaire’s Campfire
• Forbes Nash — ex-tech wizard 🧢 | Confessions of an Ex-Billionaire

ACT 5: Blocking The Scene

Jack Ebstein — Mon, 19 May 2025 21:46:37 GMT

New here? Start at ACT 1

Eighteen hours after the blowout in ACT 4, the Spellings returned.

Emerson wore his guilt like cologne. Erin walked behind him but not with him. Sylvie kept her headphones in until the last possible moment. Aaron brought his keyboard, clutching it like armor.

The Facilitator—an acclaimed clinician who insisted on anonymity—stood like a director watching a cast not yet off-book.

"Today," they said softly, "we won’t talk about your conflict. We’ll perform it."

They cast the scene. Four chairs in the center. “Sit where you sat last night.”

“Say what you couldn’t say,” the Facilitator instructed. “Not what you should. What your 10-year-old self wants to scream.”

Emerson folded his arms. “This is stupid.”

“Thank you,” the Facilitator replied. “Let that part speak.”

“That I tried,” Emerson snapped. “That no one sees how hard I’m trying.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “That’s always your line.”

Aaron tapped his keyboard. Boom.

The Facilitator raised a hand. “Freeze. What are we seeing?”

“They’re not in their rational minds,” I said.

“Exactly. These are parts. Wounded children with microphones.”

“Erin,” the Facilitator said, “let’s see the People Pleaser Polka.”

Erin blinked. “The what?”

“Minimize. Apologize. Tiptoe. Collapse.”

“She’s done it all week,” Sylvie said. “It’s like watching her dance around Dad’s ego.”

“And Emerson,” the Facilitator added, “you do the Narcissist Waltz. Defend. Inflate. Retreat. Repeat.”

“I’m not a narcissist.”

“No. But a part of you performs like one.”

They invited me into the center.

“You’re a screenwriter. Rewrite the scene.”

I turned to Emerson. “What if you said: ‘I’m scared you’ll leave me if I fail again’?”

Then, I turned the grand music room into a writer’s room:

A beat. Erin’s Inner Coach reframes, then rewrites dialogue for her Inner Critic.
ERIN’S INNER COACH: I’m allowed to take up space, even if someone’s uncomfortable.
Emerson’s Inner Critic enters. Ready to do what he does best.
EMERSON’S INNER CRITIC: I have to win to be loved.
EMERSON’S INNER COACH: I’m already worthy of love. Even when I lose.

I stepped out of the scene. It was time for the other actors to step into their parts.

Erin replied: “I’m tired of being the emotional support animal in your redemption arc.’”

Aaron added softly: “I’m not your reason to heal. I’m your son.”

“Perfect,” I said.

The Facilitator turned to Emerson and Erin. “Who comforted you when you failed at ten?”

Erin looked away. Emerson froze.

“IFS teaches us we all carry parts that adapted to survive. Some protect. Some hide. They show up in how we parent—not because we’re broken, but because they’re still waiting to be witnessed.”

Sylvie wiped a tear. Aaron looked at both parents—not with blame, but understanding.

The Facilitator gestured to two volunteers. “Ideal Mother. Ideal Father. Stand behind them.”

No words. Just gentle hands on shoulders.

Erin: “I was never safe to have my own dreams.”

Emerson: “I was never taught how to witness someone else’s.”

The Facilitator stepped forward again.

“This isn’t therapy. It’s rehearsal. Not performance—a different kind of play. The kind that lets our younger parts feel safe enough to come out.”

They looked at me. “You’re not just rewriting scenes. You’re recasting roles.”

Sage nodded, stepped into the center of the room and said, “The work begins here—workshopping the many parts we play for others, and to ourselves. That work unfolds in four stages:

The Self Stage: Where we learn to love ourselves.
The Family Stage: Where we learn to love each other.
The Town Stage: Where we bring that love into community.
The World Stage: Where we dream together.”

“The World Stage? That’s too big of a stage! We’ll get lost on it,” Sylvie blurted, cutting off the demo.

Sage smiled and stepped forward. She picked up the mic.

Before she spoke, she let the silence stretch.

Then:

“There’s one rule before we head to The World Stage and hand you the mic.”

She turned slowly, making eye contact with each of them.

“You have to inspire one person with your dream. That’s the only test. We call it the Message Mic.”

She offered the microphone to no one in particular.

“Because if you can’t reach one heart… why should the world listen?”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, to my surprise, and everyone’s in the room—Emerson grabbed the mic.

Emerson: “I always dreamed of building something that mattered. But I didn’t know how to include anyone in it.”

Erin: “I dreamed of a home that felt safe. But I didn’t know how to get you to slow down and be in it.”

“I thought the dream had to be big,” Emerson said. “Maybe it just had to be shared.”

“Maybe we bring them together,” Erin replied. “You build the stage. I make it home.”

I looked up. “Now that’s a message someone would want to share.”

Sage grins. She has an idea. She excuses herself from the group and returns from the other room holding an acoustic guitar.

Still holding the moment lightly, she says, “You know, if we were scoring this breakthrough... it wouldn’t be a solo.”

Sylvie half-smiled. “More like a group song.”

Aaron nodded, still at his keyboard. He tapped out a few tentative notes. “Something like...” he murmured, “embrace every part...”

Sage picked it up: “All the light and all the dark.”

No one said they were writing a song. They just began humming. Erin added: “Turn away from the places...” Another voice: “And look at all the faces.”

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As the group quieted, Sage stayed at the edge of the circle, still holding the melody in her throat. She stepped gently toward Aaron’s keyboard and picked out the next few notes. Then she sang it—softly, but clear enough for the whole room to hear:

“Embrace every part / all the light and all the dark...”

Aaron laughed, joyous.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before.

The Facilitator couldn’t help but laugh with him, then said: “We’re done for today. Not because the work is over—but because your nervous systems need time. Gottman says it takes 20 minutes for the heart rate to drop. Until then? You’re just trading trauma.”

They smiled. “This is theater. Education. Practice for presence. And presence rewrites the past.”

Sage added, “Artists teach joy without money. That’s why we’re here—not to be muses. To be mirrors.”

I closed my notebook. “Or a family that doesn’t need to be perfect to be worth loving.”

The Facilitator softened.

“I’ve spent twenty years in clinical work. I’ve seen breakthroughs—but rarely on a couch. Real change happens on real couches. Real kitchens. Real family rooms. Because how we show up in a 60-minute session isn’t who we are in life.”

The Facilitator continued:

“That’s why we interrupt patterns in the moment. Why community change works. It’s accountable. And more fun than a couch and a clock.

I’ve seen wealthy kids suffer more than anyone. Because money lets parents outsource the emotional work. But no one else can raise your kids’ nervous systems but you.

So I asked myself—where should we invest? And the answer was clear: in the people raising our kids. Emotional health compounds. Families who grow across class and generational lines? They’re more grounded. More joyful. Because they’re not stuck proving they’re enough.”

And for the first time in a long time, the Spellings sat side by side. Not as a brand. Not as a breakdown.

But as a family starting to understand the shape of something new.

Emerson glanced around the circle, then down at his hands. "Is this... what it’s supposed to feel like?"

Aaron answered first. “I think this is the thing you were trying to build.”

Sylvie added, “And it’s already working. Just not the way you thought.”

Erin looked between them. “Maybe this isn’t a startup. Maybe it’s a stage.”

Emerson looked at her. “And maybe the dream wasn’t mine alone to begin with.”

They didn’t say it out loud—but they all knew:

This wasn’t just healing. This was the Songa model.

They had lived it.

Before continuing to ACT 6…

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ACT 4: This House Is Not A Home

Jack Ebstein — Mon, 19 May 2025 21:22:22 GMT

Start at ACT 1
to begin the journey.
Or catch up in
the last installment—ACT 3.

The rain had stopped, but something heavier was hanging in the air.

The Spelling home looked like something out of a design magazine—walnut cabinetry, marble counters, custom light fixtures flown in from Milan. But the glow was cold. Like an operating room pretending to be a home.

We sat at a reclaimed oak table with spaghetti and bagged Caesar salad. No candles. No wine. No one reaching for seconds. Food in the technical sense—like the house. Like the marriage. Present, but not alive.

I’d thought I was here to debrief.
Post-performance.A quiet dinner.
But something in the air said:
’No one’s performing tonight.’

Aaron sat with headphones on, listening to Sage’s demo of “Let’s Just Let It Rain.” The MIDI keyboard Lewis gave him sat unused. He wasn’t playing—just absorbing. Rewatching the night in his ears.

Sylvie sat on the couch, eyes flicking between her phone and a reality show meltdown—wine glasses about to fly. She didn’t react. Just watched, numb. The remote a shield. Holding the moment before it got worse.

In the kitchen, Emerson and Erin’s voices stayed low. At first.

"You could’ve told me you were bringing him here," Erin said—just loud enough for me to hear.

"I thought it might help," Emerson said. "He just moved here. I thought it might help him feel less alone."

Erin didn't answer right away. She glanced toward the living room—where Aaron sat, headphones still on, unaware of the storm building ten feet away. Sylvie was biting her thumbnail. "They were brave tonight, Emerson," she said. "They showed up in a way most adults wouldn't." She turned back to him. "And you turned it into a showcase."

He blinked. "I... I was trying to show them it mattered."

"No, Emerson." Her voice sharpened. "What I saw was my daughter trying to sing like someone she thought you'd love. Like someone you’d finally notice."

He stepped closer to her. She backed away, not dramatically—just enough to grab a dish towel she didn’t need. Something to hold. Something to do.

"This is what we’ve been working toward," Emerson said. "Songa is about rewriting the story, right? About presence over performance? That’s what tonight was."

"Then why do I still feel like an extra in your movie?" Erin snapped.

Aaron looked up, then slowly removed his headphones. Sylvie muted the TV. Both of them still, but alert.

"That’s not what this is," Emerson said, voice lowering.

"No?" She turned. "Because from where I’m standing, we’re all just props in the comeback tour you never asked if we wanted to join."

He looked at her, stunned. "You said yes to this."

"I said yes to you. Back when I thought the dream was ours."

That one landed hard. He stepped back, blinking like he’d walked into a bright light.

"You think I’m not scared too?" he said. "You think I don’t lie awake every night wondering if I’ve dragged our whole family into something that’s going to fall apart?"

"No, Emerson. I think you lie awake wondering if people still admire you,” she shot back. “You started Songa three months after you got uninvited from that keynote panel. You said it was about healing, but it was about proving you still mattered."

"And what, Erin? You think your people-pleasing is some kind of moral high ground? You’d rather disappear than disappoint anyone."

"Someone had to keep things steady, Emerson, while you spiraled from one legacy project to the next—feeding that little boy inside you who still thinks being special is the only way to be loved."

That landed with Emerson. Erin stepped forward, pressing her point. "Stop dragging your kids through the wreckage of your rebrand."

"You always say this is about the kids," Erin said. "But Aaron’s been depressed for two years and you didn’t notice until Sage put a mic in front of him."

"And you think dragging Sylvie into group therapy circles and telling strangers how she struggles with self-worth makes you mother of the year?" Emerson snapped. "God, no wonder she shuts down—she probably thinks she has to perform grief just to get a hug."

Sylvie stood. I hadn’t said a word in a while. I looked around, Erin in Emerson’s face now. I was already writing the scene in my head:

INT. SPELLING LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
Erin stands frozen in the kitchen, eyes locked on Emerson. The air has gone still.
ERIN: This was supposed to be mine.
On the couch, Aaron taps his fingers softly on his knee—like a kick drum. The rhythm is steady. Focused. A quiet protest.
AARON:(whispering) Boom. Boom. Boom. We all, we all, we all...

Sylvie stood. "You’re doing it again," she said.

Both parents turned.

"Doing what?" Emerson asked, too fast.

"Making it about you," Aaron said quietly. He set the headphones down beside the keyboard. "We finally said something real tonight. We showed you who we are. And now you’re both yelling about who’s more right."

"We’re not yelling," Emerson said.

"You are to us," Sylvie said. "We let ourselves be messy and honest and scared. And all we wanted was for you to do the same."

"We are being honest," Erin said, but her voice broke as she said it.

"No, you’re being dramatic," Emerson snapped. "You’re upset because the spotlight didn’t land where you wanted it to."

Erin went still. "You want honesty?" Her voice dropped. "You want something real, Emerson?"

He didn’t answer.

"Sometimes I wish I’d married someone who failed quietly. Who didn’t drag the whole family down with him on his way out of relevance."

Even Sylvie flinched.

"Wow," Emerson whispered. "That’s... impressive."

"Don’t pretend you don’t use them too," she shot back, nodding toward the kids. "You keep saying Songa is for them. But every pitch, every panel, every time you drop their names in a story, it’s about you being a good father."

"And you think dragging them to therapy, and staging ‘authentic’ moments for Jack to write about, isn’t about you being a good mother?"

Erin slammed the cabinet drawer closed. It echoed through the kitchen like a snare hit.

"This was supposed to be mine," she said.

I should’ve said something. Should’ve defused it. But I didn’t. I just sat there, fork half-raised, watching a family dismantle itself in real time—each of them trying to be seen, none of them knowing how to stop.

"You want to save the soul of business," Erin said. "Fine. But could you start by saving the soul of this house?"

Emerson opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Sylvie walked out of the room. The screen door creaked open. The rain hadn’t returned, but the air felt electric again. Something new was coming.

Aaron turned off the recording. The silence felt final.

And I realized the most powerful music I’d heard all night didn’t come from Sage’s guitar or Lewis Blues’ rhythm.

It came from a daughter who stood up, a son who spoke softly—and a mother who finally stopped trying to stay in key.

And still—what hit hardest wasn’t just their courage. It was the way Sylvie and Aaron, after an evening of learning how to name their emotions, were now rehearsing a different script: their parents’ silence, their volatility, their deflection. They were watching how adults love—and learning how not to.

But Erin wasn’t done. Not yet.

"And Wyoming?" she asked, voice quiet now—too quiet. "I’ve never even met this man, Emerson. You’re putting our savings behind a movement run by someone who won't even show his face."

He looked at her, jaw tightening. "I’ve met him. I trust him."

"Right. And what about Forbes? Another reformed tech bro who thinks redemption comes with a TED Talk? You trust him too?"

"They believe in Songa. They see what this could be—"

"No, Emerson. They believe in you. They always have. Just like the last guys. And the ones before them. Because you know how to sell a dream. But do you even know how to live inside one?"

He stepped forward again, searching her face. "Why are you saying all this now?"

She stared at him, eyes burning. "Because it was supposed to be my turn."

He blinked.

"I stood by you through all of it. But this time? This was supposed to be mine. You were going to take care of the kids. I was going to build something for once—something that was mine. Not yours with my name on it."

"This is yours," he said, too fast. "You’re the heart of this."

She laughed. "You are the keynote. I’m the one staging open houses and dragging the kids to therapy. You get the vision. I get the logistics."

He opened his mouth again, but she cut him off.

"You can’t sit still, Emerson. So you started another company—except this time, it’s our lives. And I’m not sure I ever said yes to that."

Aaron ran to his room. The door slammed. A beat later: desk drumming—soft but steady. Then humming. Off-key. Honest. Something new beginning in the space the fight had carved out.

She grabbed her coat, slung her purse over her shoulder, and followed the kids out the door. Emerson stood there for a long moment. Then he turned to me and sighed.

"If this makes it into the screenplay, give me better lines."

“Relationships lose rhythm. Find your beat
—while staying in tune”
That night, Aaron found the words.
Songa’s band turned them into a song…

Before continuing onto ACT 5 below.

Go paid to hear “Beat of Your Drum.”
And see how your family could be next.

And be sure to check out other blogs in the Songa Universe:

ACT 3: The Night a Family Became a Band

Jack Ebstein — Wed, 14 May 2025 23:54:35 GMT

New here? Start at ACT 1.

It’s 7:13 p.m. inside the Songa Mansion, and outside, it’s raining.

Not a storm—just the kind that soaks the earth without asking. The kind that makes you listen.

Inside, the lights are low. The room smells of incense and old pine. Vintage lamps line the walls. In the corner: a piano, two guitars, a bass amp, and a circle of hand drums.

Several musicians—some local, some Songa regulars—have arrived with beat-up cases and curious eyes. Most have played together before. But not like this. Not with a family in the middle.

The Spellings sit in a wide semi-circle, instruments scattered nearby—a keyboard for Aaron, a ukulele for Sylvie, an open mic between Emerson and Erin.

Tonight, they’re not spectators. They’re part of the band.

Sage Storries and Lewis Blues anchor the session, setting a tone somewhere between a jam, a therapy session, and a live demo.

They’re not here to perform. They’re here to help a family hear itself.

Sage watches the rain trace the glass. Then Aaron—curled in the corner, hoodie up, barely there.

The only reason Sylvie and Aaron agreed to come was that they could each bring a friend.

Sylvie did. Aaron said his friend got sick. But it’s clear—he didn’t have one.

He hasn’t spoken all day.

Earlier, Sylvie teased him about his hoodie, his posture, the way he avoided eye contact.

“Don’t cry in front of my friends like you always do, ya twerp.”

Aaron didn’t respond. Just sunk deeper into the corner.

Lewis catches Sage’s eye. Sage nods toward Sylvie and mouths, “Gentle.”

Across the circle, Sylvie whispers to her friend, giggling, but her eyes keep flicking back to her brother.

Erin sits nearby, quietly tracking everything. “He won’t talk,” she tells Sage. “Not about the depression. Not to us.”

Sage turns to the rain. Then, softly: “Let’s just let it rain.”

Lewis hears it. Starts playing something low.

Sage steps into the circle and sings: “We’re butterflies emerging / trying to take flight…”

Lewis adds: “But what about wings broken / from all the weathered pain…”

The melody finds them.

Aaron doesn’t move, but his foot stops bouncing. Sylvie shifts. Her friend watches her now.

Erin sets down her mug.

“You don’t have to say it,” she tells Aaron. “Just let them play it.”

Sage continues, voice like breath: “Some days I can stay / some days I must run…”

Lewis: “But hearts don’t break the same / and yours is safe with me.”

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Aaron’s arms uncross.

Emerson sits frozen. Then: “He gets it from me. The depression. I’d disappear for weeks. Still take meetings. But I wasn’t there.”

No one fills the silence.

Sylvie blurts: “And you still aren’t, dad.”

Her friend glances at her. No one else moves.

Lewis shifts keys. The band follows.

Emerson takes the mic. Not to fix. Just to feel.

“But I’m trying now,” he says, gentle. “I really am.”

Aaron looks up. Just briefly.

Sylvie nudges him. “Play something,” she whispers. “You mess around on that dumb app. Try it for real.”

Aaron shrugs. Then mutters: “It’s not dumb.”

It’s not a declaration. But it’s something.

The first thing he’s said all night.

No one claps. No one rushes.

The rain keeps time outside. And inside, something opens.

Erin closes her eyes. She just breathes. For once, she’s not holding everyone else’s breath too.

Earlier, she told me: “I sell people dream houses. But I don’t know what a real one feels like.”

Tonight? She’s holding her daughter’s hand. And she’s not letting go.

All four of them were medicated. Each on their own SSRI.

Managed. Muted. But not connected.

Antidepressants suppress depression. But they don’t create joy. They dampen the storm.

But they don’t write the song.

That’s what Songa is trying to do—Turn the feeling back on.

This isn’t therapy. This isn’t a clinic. It’s therapeutic entertainment.

Its elusive cofounder, Wyoming, once wrote: “SSRIs are anti-depressants. Songa is pro-emotion.”

You can roll your eyes. I did.

But tonight? I’m watching a family come back online. One note at a time.

The song ends. But the playing doesn’t stop.

Lewis slides a keyboard toward Aaron. He presses one key. Just one.

And the band builds around it like it matters. Because here—it does.

Afterward, Sylvie asks Sage to teach her the chords. Aaron doesn’t say anything. But when Lewis offers to show him a bassline—he stays.

That’s how it starts here. Not with fixes. With invitations.

The room settles. The evening ends.

Emerson lingers near the piano, watching Sage coil a mic cable.

“I used to think founders and artists were nothing alike,” he says.

Sage doesn’t look up.

“Now I’m not so sure,” Emerson continues. “We both try to conjure something from nothing.

We both chase visions no one else can see. And we both lose people when we get it wrong.”

Now Sage looks at him. “My dad used to say music was a hobby, not a life. When I dropped out of business school, he said I was throwing my future away. When I didn’t come home, he cut me off. It wasn’t grief that ended things. It was control.”

She breathes in.

“A year later, a woman reached out. Her teenage daughter wanted to be a songwriter—but her parents made her choose something ‘stable.’ She asked if I’d mentor her. I said no. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was me. Helping that girl chase her dream brought me back to mine.”

Across the room, Erin flinches—subtly.

She’s not just listening. She’s recognizing something.

This dream they’re chasing—it was Emerson’s. And she said yes. Because saying no didn’t feel like an option.

She’d signed on, thinking it was a shared dream. But now I’m seeing it never was.

Erin’s chatting with Sylvie and her friend, but listening to Emerson as he says to Sage, “Yeah. We’re both addicted to something we can’t ever quite grasp. I built systems to feel in control. Chased visions no one else could see.

And I missed real moments,
for an imagined world.
No more fake. I want to live
in what's real—right now.

Sage shrugs. “We just wired different.”

Erin looks toward them. She’s watching the man who dragged her into a dream she didn’t ask to dream. And realizing how small she’s let herself become inside it.

Earlier, she told me, “I sell people dream houses. But I don’t know what a real one feels like.”

Tonight?

She’s not closing deals. She’s cracking open her own foundation. Trying to imagine what it would mean to feel at home in her own life.

But how do you renovate something while still living inside? And how do you make space for someone else’s dream… without erasing your own?

Outside, the rain hasn’t stopped.

But it no longer sounds like sadness.

I couldn’t have known how brief that reprieve would be—not for me, but for Erin and Emerson.

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ACT 2: Belong, Be Strong, Reach Far.

Jack Ebstein — Wed, 14 May 2025 23:29:48 GMT

New here? Start at
ACT 1: Welcome to the Fire.

When Emerson Spelling first asked me to follow him around and document his startup, I thought I’d be observing strategy sessions and investor pitches. Not standing awkwardly in another man’s kitchen while his marriage strained in real time.

Two years after selling his company for $20 million, Emerson stood at the counter of his St. Louis home, pacing. Erin leaned against the sink, arms folded.

“I don’t want to force them,” he said. “But if they don’t come with me to Songa tonight, I don’t know what’s left to try.”

Erin didn’t answer right away. She seemed used to letting silence fill the space until it softened. T

hat was her role—diffuse, deflect, de-escalate. Emerson made noise; she absorbed it.

Emerson thrived in the spotlight—brilliant at commanding a room, clumsy in a one-on-one. Erin, on the other hand, had told me she’d spent years smoothing conflict, soothing emotions, and swallowing her own needs just to keep the peace—at home.

She made peace for others, too—helping wealthy families navigate their domestic dreams in the upscale town of Huntleigh, where she worked as a realtor—without ever tending to her own."

“I think they’ll come if you just talk to them,” she offered gently.

He scoffed. “I have talked to them.”

“Talking at them isn’t the same thing,” she said.

He turned. “So this is my fault?”

She didn’t seem angry. Just tired.

“No, Emerson. It’s not about blame.”

“You’re saying I’m the problem—like always. I’m the one out there trying to fix this,” he snapped. “I built Songa for them.”

“And yet, you haven’t actually spent real time with them in months,” she said. “You treat vulnerability like a pitch deck. But they don’t need a show, Em. They need you.”

She said, barely above a whisper, “Maybe just listen. Without trying to fix it. Or win.”

He shook his head, “ I’m either too much or not enough. You want me to lead, until I do.”

“I want you to feel.” She said it so quietly, I almost missed it. “And I want to stop feeling like I’m failing you just by asking for what I need.”

That night, they arrived late. The musicians had come from all across St. Louis, and they were ready to play.

Sylvie stayed in the hallway, earbuds in.

His son followed him into the parlor, hoodie pulled low.

Erin sat in the back, arms crossed—but not closed. I could tell she was still replaying the kitchen conversation, her words caught somewhere between guilt and resolve.

The theme of the night was Belonging and the Courage to Speak. Each artist shared a story of emotional disconnection. The goal? To turn their story into a song.

A few notes of a song began to develop as the families shared their stories.

Emerson and his son ended up in a circle of other teens, passing around a mic. It was a lyric-writing game, guided by Sage Storries, the studio’s lead facilitator and musician.

“You don’t have to sing,” Sage told the group. “Just say what you wish someone would say to you.”

Lewis Blues—Songa’s orchestrator of music and people, the night’s freestyling, keyboard-playing impresario—drew stories and emotions out of the crowd and turned them into song.

One father-son duo from East St. Louis riffed about a time the dad missed his son’s science fair for a gig. A pair of sisters opened up about an inheritance fight that had left their entire family estranged.

Every feeling became a note. A lyric.

And then… a shift.

Emerson stepped forward.

He hadn’t planned to perform. But something cracked.

Maybe it was Sage’s invitation.

Maybe it was watching the other families.

Maybe it was Aaron looking at him—for once—not with disdain, but curiosity.

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” Emerson said to his kids, “but I know how to build. So I built this—to try.”

Sage handed him a guitar.

“Say it with a song.”

🎧 Listen free below to “Belong, Be Strong, Reach Far.” To unlock the full catalog of original music, become a paid subscriber.

Sylvie rolled her eyes. Aaron muttered “cringe.” But neither left.

With the help of the band, Emerson began strumming a simple progression. Sage added melody. Then something strange happened.

Aaron walked over.

Without a word, he picked up a tambourine and started playing along.

Then Sylvie, almost in protest, sang the next line.

In ten minutes, they’d written a chorus.

In fifteen, they were harmonizing.

By the end of the night, the whole room was singing it with them.

Sylvie crept forward. Erin leaned in.

I noticed her clutching her knees, gently rocking in rhythm with the music—not the posture of a wife appeasing her husband’s latest plan, but a mother taking in something she wasn’t sure she believed in… yet.

But something in Sylvie, that hardened teenage girl, had softened. She looked up from her phone and, for once, didn’t look away. When the chorus came around again, she quietly sang along.

Emerson wasn’t watching his own family—but the others. A drummer’s daughter curled into her mother’s lap between takes. Families of artists: working-class, chaotic, tightly bonded in a way his hadn’t felt in years.

“They don’t have our money,” Emerson whispered to Erin, “But they have something we lost.”

Now, as Sage and Lewis locked in the lyrics—keys, drums, and strings moving in harmony—it was Erin’s turn to speak. She had something to add.

But she didn’t do it with a whisper.

“My job is helping people move from unhappy homes into happy ones,” she blurted. “I work in real estate. I help people start over.”

She paused.

“But lately I’ve wondered… what happens when your own home is the unhappy one?”

She looked at Emerson, then at her kids.

“Maybe home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a feeling. A feeling of belonging”

No one responded. They didn’t have to. The weight of her honesty filled the space in a way even music couldn’t.

Emerson swallowed hard. He forced a smile.

“Belong, be strong,” Lewis Blues said.

It started as a whisper, then grew louder, voices layering in harmony.

“Belong, be strong.”

The room pulsed with energy, a collective heartbeat.

“Reach far.”

In that moment, the Spellings weren’t just a family in crisis. They were part of something larger. A community. A movement.

Sage stepped forward with a chorus inspired by what the group had created:

We belong when we’re brave
enough to speak,
when we stop pretending, and
dare to be weak.

If you're tired of silence
and hungry for song...
Come into the fire.
Belong, be strong.
reach far.

The room erupted. The kids sang. The adults swayed. The anthem was born.

That moment didn’t fix the family.

But it gave them something to sing.

But healing isn’t linear.

Sylvie ghosted the next two events.

His son texted Sage nonstop about music recommendations… then suddenly stopped.

Erin told him she still wasn’t sure.

But as I stepped out onto the porch that night, watching the lights dim inside the mansion, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something… magical had happened in that room.

But if Emerson and Erin can’t prove it works with their own family…
How will they ever convince any other families to join them?

“We all deserve to belong. This…
Is how it sounds…to go farther—together.”
Listen below to “Belong, Be Strong, Reach Far”
— inspired by stories like this one.

ACT 1: Welcome to the Fire

Jack Ebstein — Wed, 14 May 2025 21:54:14 GMT

I’d been living vicariously through the characters in my head—some darker than I dared put on the page. I was in East L.A., making a living as a screenwriter, but in my struggle to craft a Hollywood ending, I was barely surviving, let alone thriving.

I’d written a few scripts that sold to major production companies, but nothing ever got made. Productions stalled. Financiers bailed. And hope?

That left too.

It felt like creators were at the mercy of a market they didn’t create. Faceless executives—who’d never picked up a pen—were writing our endings for us. They bought our dreams, sold them, and sold us along with them.

Writing is a solitary endeavor to begin with. But in my one-tracked pursuit of success, the life I’d authored had become a vacuum. No community. No family. And the family I dreamed of starting felt increasingly out of reach.

At my lowest point—spinning stories not just on the page, but in my own life—a new character entered the scene: Songa.

A mysterious collective of artists, entrepreneurs, clinicians, and families based in St. Louis who claimed to be building the world’s first social TV and radio super-studio.

They invited me to document their story. To make a film. To cover their quest to solve the very problems I was drowning in—only with something I didn’t have.

Money.

And I mean a lot of money.

But they weren’t chasing more of it. They were after something money couldn’t buy.

They were building something bold: a startup that used immersive musical theater as a social-change game. Its mission? To transform families with generational wealth through the healing power of art—with the help of artists like me.

It had started with Emerson Spelling’s own family. They reported increased happiness, better health, and stronger bonds—outcomes that had the potential to rival the effects of SSRIs.

So they asked me to tell their story.

They were searching for true wealth.

Social wealth. Emotional health.

And they claimed to have found it.

Emerson believed that if the right community could form—if artists and patrons could co-create rather than transact—then maybe, just maybe, something new could take root.

That belief would later become the spark behind The Billionaire’s Campfire, a companion story that traces the cultural, financial, and emotional fault lines beneath the Songa movement—told from the other side of the flame.

Emerson had a radical idea forming. One that could flip the script on wealth and power. But it was still just that—an idea.

That was their answer.

But to be honest, I didn’t care. Not yet.

I was still chasing the old kind of wealth.

I met my agent and manager for a working lunch in Brentwood. They warned me against taking the deal. I had a studio offer on the table.

“L.A. is where the action is,” they said. “Why would you go to St. Louis?”

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure. But something inside me knew things had to change—not just in my life, but in the way art and business relate to one another.

Who was the system working for? And who was it leaving behind?

I told my reps about Songa’s idea for Culture Capitalism: a community-first, conscience-driven capitalism powered by pay-for-performance philanthropy. An economic model that asks the ultra-rich to:

Invest less in companies,
and more in the
company they keep.

What if art had more value than what fit on a balance sheet?

They weren’t impressed. The lunch ended early.

That night, the commissioning agreement from Songa hit my inbox.

By the next morning, I was mid-air, en route to St. Louis, when I got the news:

Songa—the startup pioneering therapeutic entertainment—had collapsed.

I wasn’t amused. But I had to make it work.

Before Songa, I’d met a prolific journalist who went on to ghostwrite ten New York Times bestsellers (a quick Google search will tell you who). I became his ghostwriter. A ghost of a ghost.

Not this time.

This story was mine. I couldn’t turn back—not yet.

I landed and took a cab to Songa Studios—headquartered in a Victorian-era mansion in the heart of Tower Grove.

The startup might have crumbled, but the music never stopped.

From the open windows, I heard her voice before I ever saw her. A young woman—Sage Storries, I’d later learn—was singing from somewhere upstairs. The words hit strange, like prophecy disguised as melody:

“The fire is calling us in / And we are the ones who begin…”

🎧 “Welcome to the Fire” is free to hear below. To unlock the full catalog of original music, become a paid subscriber.

Musicians filled the house, fusing funk and soul into improvisational soundscapes—creating lyrics out of thin air. Lyrics that didn’t just speak to me. They broke something open in me.

There, in the Family Room, I met Songa’s lone patron. He’d chosen to continue funding the project for three more months—after failing to convince other families to join him.

We’ll call him Emerson Spelling. He asked to keep his identity private, and I’ve honored that here.

Other prominent St. Louis families had flirted with licensing Songa’s therapeutic entertainment model, but none had signed on the dotted line.

Emerson couldn’t get them to believe in the idea the way he still did. Not even his own family was fully bought in.

And that was the part that stung.

He wasn’t the plugged-in, twenty-something tech whiz he once was. He was in his fifties now—a father, out of the game for a while. The tools had changed: AI, social media, the speed of attention. He wasn’t chasing unicorns anymore. He just wanted to build something that mattered.

But they weren’t following the vision.

Or maybe they weren’t following him.

“I don’t know if I still have it,” he told me.

He was struggling—not just to save the company, but to believe he was still the kind of man who could lead one.

Still, he kept showing up. His family was on the line.

Emerson had sold his first business for $20 million.

After the exit, he and his wife, Erin—a smart, intuitive woman whose emotional labor had kept their family afloat for years—decided to start something new together.

Their marriage was already fraying at the edges.

A husband-wife team, launching a business to save their own family. What could go wrong?

But it was Wyoming—a man worth untold billions, from one of the richest families in America—who had approached Emerson with the idea for his second act.

They’d first crossed paths at an invite-only 'Future of Capital' summit in Jackson Hole. Those with a more salacious curiosity—like many a tabloid journalist before them—may wonder which family empire I’m referring to. But truthfully? Even I don’t know."

Wyoming told Emerson:

There are two kinds of
successful people in this world—
those with something to prove and
those with something to serve.
Be the second kind.

So Emerson tried.

Wyoming became Songa’s elusive architect, giving Emerson the blueprint for a franchiseable, turnkey community-building startup—"Community-as-a-Service” they called it—and a manuscript for a legal, financial, and technological revolution.

But he didn’t give him the funding.

That would have been too easy.

He knew that in order to get a company of this magnitude into the world, Emerson would have to get the people of the world to believe first.

It was to be a company not built to scale fast or flip for a profit, but to heal something closer to home. If it worked for his family, maybe it could work for others too.

But starting something new in your fifties—something so personal—brings with it a different kind of fear. He wasn’t just risking money. He was putting his purpose, his fatherhood, his identity on the line.

And when it didn’t take off like his first venture, that fear became something else: self-doubt.

But it worked—at least at first. His family began healing in ways expensive therapists hadn’t delivered.

Although not entirely.

His wife was still considering divorce.

His daughter’s anger issues hadn’t gone away.

And his son was still suicidal.

Emerson himself battled depression—and carried the guilt that comes with the inheritances we don’t want to give to our children.

He asked me:

What’s the point of passing
wealth onto future generations,
if we haven’t healed
the wounds we passed on too?

His kids had stopped coming to Songa. And their mental health was slipping again.

Because what teenager wants to hang out with their parents?

Still, he was determined to keep going. To build something that would impact not just his family, but families around the world.

Because if his family—with all its resources—couldn’t find healing… what hope was there for the rest of us?

That question stayed with me like a quiet chorus:

“The fire is calling us in / And we are the ones who begin…”

What follows isn’t just the story of one family’s revival.

It’s the story of a city.

And the rise of a new model of community, capitalism, and creation.

It’s the story of what happens when one of the wealthiest families in St. Louis realizes they can’t buy their way out of a broken home.

The Spellings had been living in the dark. So they lit a match — a startup — hoping its flame would guide them home.

What followed was a fire with the power to spark a movement—if it didn’t consume them first.