The Art of a Great Podcast

We all have ways to unwind. For some (insane) folks, that may be a plunge in the North Sea; for others, it is eight episodes of The Office, a cathartic tennis session, a trip to Tesco for tiramisu, or a silent cry listening to the Marías. Now, allow me to introduce my own little ritual. Before we start, I’ll list a few prerequisites that I believe enhance the enjoyment of said ritual: You are unmotivated, angry, seeking understanding, desiring distraction and a laugh, or just generally paralysed by the grim sort of stagnacy that comes in the middle of the semester. Just last night, after nearly tearing my hair out over the intricacies of male mate choice in Drosophila melanogaster, I knew it was time: I opened my computer and turned on my most beloved podcast — Madeline Argy’s Pretty Lonesome. 

Argy has, in my eyes (or ears, rather), mastered the art of the podcast. Argy’s has doubtless been the most authentic, raw, and rare host I have come across. But before I present Pretty Lonesome as a testament to the powers of the podcast, it would be worthwhile to discuss what a podcast truly is. Coined in 2004 by British journalist Ben Hammersley, ‘podcast’ unites ‘iPod’ and ‘broadcast.’ Hammersley created the term in response to the ‘Audible Revolution’ of the 2000s, when amateur radio was rapidly popularised and made available for download on the then widespread device, Apple’s iPod. I find the term quite genius in its blend of the technological and the traditional; the word broadcast comes from the Old English brād (wide) and the Middle English and Norse kasta (cast). In essence, it means to sow by scattering, which I think is a very poetic way to describe the reach of radio. 

Since its inception in the early 2000s, the podcast’s popularity has risen exponentially. The COVID-19 pandemic contributed significantly to this growth, as people were isolated, indoors, and on screens. Accessibility on platforms like Spotify and YouTube made the podcast easy to tune in to; I’ll often have one running in the background as I cook breakfast, sketch, or unwind at the end of a particularly gruelling day at uni. It’s also easy to find what you like, as podcast episodes are often titled under a unifying theme or topic. The structure of a podcast, too, is pivotal to the viewer’s enjoyment. Personally, I’m not a fan of the sterile-room, huge-microphone, hard-armchair kind of setup; it feels inauthentic, clinical, and scripted. I think a good podcast should be comfortable and casual, conducted in ordinary spaces like a car, sitting room, or kitchen. Because these areas are so lived-in, the podcaster’s words are uninhibited by formality or the pressures of performance, and instead flow naturally, which I think gives room for the kind of spontaneous journey a podcast should embark upon. 

The podcast is rooted in human conversation. This kind of media is unique in its nearly infinite scope; human conversation takes the form of anything and everything. A good podcast, as I see it, should resemble an hours-long talk with friends — the kind where you’re lounging on a dorm floor until three in the morning, covering everything between the biology of body propaganda to how capitalism is killing our artists. Because podcasts are conversations, we, the viewers, may decide who we wish to listen to. Of course, there is no oral dialogue we may give in return, but the igniting of an internal dialogue is doubtless. 

What drew me to Argy’s Pretty Lonesome was the way that she saw me, so vividly and honestly, through her words. I felt the furthest thing from lonesome. Not only did her way of speaking appeal — a fantastic blend of humour, philosophy, and storytelling — but in hearing her language, I never failed to learn. It is an innately human experience to discover oneself through the stories of others. This is why we seek out tragic films after heartbreak, why we are affected by books that capture so divinely an experience we thought ours alone, and why we are healed by the gentle empathy of a friend. A podcast, with its vast and intimately human voice, has the ability to achieve this same miracle.

Illustration by Eleanor Vielhaber