TIME 100 and Podcast Graveyard Rage Bait

The bad list addressed a good need

I’m a little surprised that Time Magazine’s 100 Best Podcasts of All Time list inspired so much online discussion. It’s been a combination of podcasters politely expressing thanks for the distinction and almost everyone else crushing the selections.

Perhaps it’s absurd that the list excludes Joe Rogan and really any podcast that could be construed as right of center, but since when do people care what Time thinks? What even is Time, at this moment, other than a Marc Benioff vanity project? Yes, the rundown looks like a central casting urban millennial liberal woman’s stab at podcast history, but why does this offense provoke a response? Yes, I know that Big Cat of PMT is kidding when he does MJ’s “I took that personally” meme, but I’m surprised a product like this even crossed the lens of big timers like that.

As a mid tier podcaster, I assumed that an elite podcaster would be wholly apathetic towards validation from decaying legacy media. You’ve already won. You’re more essential and influential than the list maker.

But, to quote one of the Top 100 podcasters, here’s the thing. It hit me as I perused the Time catalogue and felt these sad pangs of nostalgia. The virality of the list speaks to a rage bait effect, but also to a modern void. Not much feels “lindy” anymore. Nothing is saved, much less saved for posterity.

We, as content creators and consumers, are currently drowning in ephemera. Podcasts are deeply intimate relative to other mediums, but like the modern dating market, intimacy has been tethered to a culture of disposability. There are so many podcasts out there that we add and drop them without much thought. Pods that were essential aspects of our routines are immediately forgotten about. Occasionally, we are reminded, like when we randomly see the Facebook post of an ex. “Oh yes, WTF with Marc Maron is still continuing on somewhere, out there, meaning something to somebody else.”

Other pods just end and are never heard from again. Even massive hits that dominated the zeitgeist leave as though they were never there. Classic songs find their way back into our ears. Big-time movies and shows, too, have a way of showing up again before our eyes. They are remade, and their most memorable scenes stick in the Youtube algorithm.

Speaking of which, the James Whale Bake Sale Youtube channel reminds me of this modern ephemera problem. James Whale takes snippets of luminaries discussing film. It’s fascinating to hear Quentin Tarantino give his perspective on Taxi Driver. To quote a Twitter characterization of Hunter Biden’s crack addiction analysis, this is like LeBron breaking down basketball.

James Whale is a great channel, but it frequently depresses me. I understand I’m consuming a derivative product, from an industry that’s ceased production. I’m always game to revisit Boogie Nights, whether it’s James Whale or Bill Simmons, but engagement with the topic reminds me of an artistic excitement lost. Unlike the 1990’s, there aren’t a bunch of young auteurs, galvanized by the vision of taking Hollywood by storm and leaving a legacy.

There’s barely a Hollywood. The archive is orders of magnitude superior to the coming attractions. I enjoy gaining insights into the movies we love, but doing so reminds me of how I’ll probably never love a new movie. Worse yet, we might never love another movie, at least like we collectively used to. When there’s a surprise “Barbenheimer” spark of resonance with audiences, it almost stands more as a commentary of what we’ve lost versus what we’ve gained as a culture.

What does this have to do with podcasts? Well, podcasts are still highly generative and stir people’s emotions in the way film used to do more often. But, as noted, they are ephemeral. Podcasts arrive in an era of constant noise, where the pan is too overfit with stimuli for all that much to leave a lasting impact. I look over the Time list, and it’s like seeing my mind’s graveyard. “Oh ya, there’s Serial.” “Hey, remember Planet Money?” There’s just so much in there, from over the last couple decades, that captured an era I lived through, but which my sons will never explore.

The list might be a troll, but it’s also an attempt to honor what was in a time of Tiktok vapor. At some level, I believe we want our cultural artifacts to matter beyond the very moment they happen. A lot of these podcasts touched people and there’s a need out there for commemoration.

We crave connection, not just to what we consume, but also to the past and future. We don’t want to all be floating in space, while living on earth. Our ancestors derived gratification from reading books their ancestors and posterity read. We’ve more or less ended that arrangement, but the old urges persist.

There’s a widespread rejection of one stupid Time list and its tiresome prioritization of politics over merit. It’s a tempest in a teapot, soon blowing away to make room for the next forgettable Internet controversy. It doesn’t matter, but it broke through in part because there’s a pervasive sense that nothing matters, at least not anymore.