SCENE. Manhattan. Street with jazz club and apartment building on a muggy late summer evening.
The tired leaves on the trees are damp with rain. Yellow cabs whoosh by, nearly drowned out by a thrum of cicadas. A door swings open from the jazz club, releasing a bubble of music into the street and ALAN, CLAUDE, and JOHNNY, three young men engaged in animated conversation.
ALAN: [To CLAUDE.] Brilliant. Thanks for bringing us. We couldn’t have heard this in London.
CLAUDE: You’re welcome. Should we walk over to my place for a drink? It’s only a block away. [To JOHNNY.] OK, Johnny?
JOHNNY: Sure!
They saunter down the street and enter CLAUDE’s apartment building. It is a mess, with papers, books, magazines, empty beer bottles, sheet music, and electronic gear strewn everywhere. CLAUDE sweeps the papers off two chairs and onto the floor and gestures to ALAN and JOHNNY to sit.
CLAUDE: Don’t mind the mess. I’ll get to it one of these days.
JOHNNY: So, what did you mean when you said in the jazz club that ‘It’s all the same thing’? What’s all the same thing?
CLAUDE: Well, let’s see. Did you like the jazz performance?
[JOHNNY nods.] OK, so what you heard was a series of notes, right?
JOHNNY: Yes.
CLAUDE: So if I had a way to write every note down, then the concert could be replayed just as you heard it?
JOHNNY: Yes, of course. That’s like cutting an LP record.