It is a strange thing, the way we make contacts with sounds. Sound and attractive. The type that feels a friendship, although the other person has no idea of our existence. Of the kind that, when the news explodes at their death, we leave us unexpectedly – although part of our personal history has just been extracted.
This is exactly what I felt when I heard that Eddie Jordan, the former F1 team, had died this morning. I never met the man, and I never stood in a field and shook his hand, but over the past year or so, I had in my ear week.
Podcast with David Colutard, A formula for success, It was part of a routine. Those distinctive Irish, fun running, and slightly rogue opinions – was a player in a weekly like Yorkshire tea in the morning. And now he went.
But this does not feel that a public figure has died; It is a personal feeling. This made me think – why are the sounds, specifically those on radio and podcasts, feel more intimate, more emotional, than anything we see on the screen?
He grew up, the greatest influence on your music taste was not older as I had no one, or a wonderful cousin, and they only tried to sabotage the football team, or a special progressive music teacher, sorry Mr. Powell. He was Robert Elmz. Viewed on GLR (OBC in London, or any embodiment the station at any specific time) was photographed by “GCSE Review Days” and it has been a companion since then. Robert is the reason that I am obsessed with jazz music, the reason I am a member of Ronnie Scott, and the reason that made me heard for the first time Amy Winehouse – before Frank was a luster in the EXEC eye. He had met her father in a sauna, as she did, and called her in the show. One listening and I was a drug addict.
And before that? Before I get an excuse “review” with the radio? There, I was 11 years old, I sneaked into a radio under the covers in my grandparent's house, listen to Steve Allen on LBC. At that time, it was less political and more only … soothing. A familiar voice in dark ideas, which raises curiosity, and makes me feel part of something greater than me.
Compare this on TV. I see a lot of it. Many, perhaps. But if one of my favorite TV characters or actors suddenly disappears, and there is a lot that cannot naming, I will not feel the same banj. I may be sad, I may think of their best shows and dive into a rabbit hole on YouTube in their work on an evening, but I will not feel that I know them. There is a specific detachment with TV. Even with the most brilliant written characters, the most attractive shows, there is always a screen between us.
But the sound? The sound is different. It is direct. It goes beyond all visual noise and speaks directly to the brain. It is in your ear, and the formation of the way you think, the way you feel. And because it lacks the distraction of the visible images, it is forced you to listen really.
And not just me. Think about the power of radio in times of crisis. Think about broadcasting Churchill in wartime, and the way people cling to every word as if it were personal reassurance, not a national discourse. Think about shipping expectations – still only religious by thousands who have not been raised on a boat, or know where Doogger or GERMAN BIGHT. There is a romantic for radio, which is a podcast, a type of intimate relationship that the media based on the screen can repeat.
Perhaps the reason for this is that a voice in your ear seems to be an individual conversation, while TV and the film are always a performance. Perhaps it is because we consume the sound in moments of isolation – walking, mobility, and lying on the bed – while TV is often a common and negative experience. Or perhaps that is because when you listen to a long enough person, week after week, year after year, their voice becomes installed in your life, familiar and comfortable like a friend.
For this reason, Edi Jordan's death hit more strongly than I expected. This is why the loss of a radio provider or podcaster often feels a companion loss. This is why I will continue to control Robert Els as long as it is on the air, and why I will always be proud of the nights you spend under the covers with an old elderly radio, to absorb the world through the sound alone.
Because the sound is not just noise in the background. It is a connection. It is accompanied. In a world where the screens dominate, it is a reminder that sometimes, the strongest stories are not seen at all – they simply heard.
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