When Donald Trump won back the White House in November, his team credited a series of people as they revelled in victory speeches. Taking the stage alongside Trump, UFC chief executive Dana White shouted to a cheering crowd: “I want to thank the Nelk Boys, Adin Ross, Theo Von, Bussin’ with the Boys and, last but not least, the mighty and powerful Joe Rogan!”.
Some Americans — probably a lot of them — had never heard these names before. For others, they were celebrities and household fixtures.
In campaigning to be president again, Trump skipped CBS’s 60 Minutes, breaking several decades of precedent. Instead he spent, by my count, about 17 hours — or about 1,000 minutes — chatting with a cluster of podcasters who have become new media stars. This group, a constellation of online influencers and comedians who orbit around superstar Rogan, have been dubbed a “manosphere” for their grip on young American men.
Rogan, Von and at least one member of the Nelk Boys descended on Washington this week for Trump’s inauguration festivities.
Inside the US Capitol rotunda, Rogan sat alongside tech billionaires and former US presidents Barack Obama and George W Bush to watch Trump take the oath of office. As Trump spoke, influencers Jake and Logan Paul “pranked” Von, causing him to tumble out of his chair. That evening, at the “Starlight Ball”, the podcast brigade mingled among crypto entrepreneurs, donors and celebrities including X chief executive Linda Yaccarino, Megyn Kelly and Caitlyn Jenner. Jake Paul held a swaying Mike Tyson on his shoulders.
Their attendance seemed to solidify the entrance of the “manosphere’’ to the upper echelon of American political power — and a seismic revolution in the media.
Media upheavals usually sprout from a new format or technology. But podcasts and YouTube have been around since the early 2000s. Instead, we’re experiencing radical changes via the underbelly of an internet that serves increasingly niche interests, allowing people to fine-tune their media diets and sources of information.
The result is “a radical reordering of trust and credibility in media”, says Gabriel Kahn, a media professor at the University of Southern California. “It’s like shards of glass from what was once — the academic term would be — a public, shattered into a million publics. Organised by interest group or allegiance”.
There is a huge, and growing, media world that is hidden from sight for mainstream audiences. Today’s podcast stars are both very famous — filling up Madison Square Garden, for example — yet also unknown to large portions of Americans. My parents, who are in their seventies and still keep “the news” humming on their TV set all day, have never heard of them. For younger generations, YouTube has supplanted cable television.
Media observers have been talking about this fragmentation for many years. But during the recent US election, the trend seemed to explode in plain sight, as exemplified by the influx of podcast bros inside the marbled halls of Washington this week.
The reordering raises an existential question for the giant conglomerates that have dominated the US media for the past century: where will the dust settle? And what will be the role of traditional media in 10 years’ time?
Unlike Hollywood actors or journalists, who exist studiously out of reach, these new stars are defined by how available they are.
They’re in your ear while you’re doing the dishes or driving to work; they’re on the TV in the background while you work or eat dinner. Every week there’s another hour — or two or three — of content. They respond to your comments. They’ll even read them on air. They speak informally, crudely. Some of them have been banned from various platforms for use of hate slurs or other controversies.
“They feel like that guy whose house you walked by on your way to high school, who was fixing his car in the driveway and on the way to school he might throw a beer can at you, and on the way home he’ll invite you into his house for your first bong load”, says Scott Galloway, who hosts Pivot, a business and technology podcast, with Kara Swisher. “These guys feel relatable. And they’ve just tapped into an enormous [underserved] group.”
Stylistically, the “manosphere” is in many ways the opposite of what traditional media are taught to do. As journalists, we’re asked to be brief and punchy. Television news is a slick and expansive production: anchors are dusted in make-up, seated in elaborate sets, speaking formally and deliberately. Legendary news veteran Brian Williams recently slammed the tone of network newscasts as “cliched old phrases from another time in American life”.
These new shows, in contrast, consist largely of meandering chat. A livestream on Twitch can run for eight hours or more. The hosts are not journalists, nor do they want to be.
Lauren Jarvis, the former Spotify executive who brought Rogan to the streaming app in 2020, says of the phenomenon: “People are tired of headlines, soundbites and overly produced, pre-packaged shows.” Instead, shows such as Rogan’s allow for “longer, more thoughtful discussions”.
These podcasters don’t tend to fit neatly into a typical left or right ideological profile — although there’s a through-line of contempt for “the establishment” and resistance to political correctness. While they’re all unique, these men share some common interests: sports, fitness supplements and, strangely enough, the possible existence of extraterrestrial life pop up frequently. They’ll often appear on each other’s podcasts or streams, cultivating a Marvel-esque multiverse of characters.
Adverts and product placement are plentiful, often strewn on a coffee table or a bookshelf in the set. In the middle of an interview, the camera will abruptly cut to the host reading out an advert for erectile dysfunction tablets or online therapy.
“The person who is in the show is not an interviewer. This is what a lot of people get wrong. They’re having a conversation . . . They express a little bit of their own opinions as well. And that becomes very relatable and very intimate”, says Jarvis. “We used to have people pitch us new shows all the time at Spotify, and they would pitch all the wonderful people they were going to interview. What I would always say to them is: you actually matter more. You’re the person who is the show, not who you interview”.
The conversations usually don’t involve much pushback. Podcasters aren’t held to the same standards of accuracy as the traditional press, so there’s little emphasis on fact-checking. “It turns out a huge proportion of younger demographics just don’t care about any of that”, says Douglas McCabe, CEO at Enders Analysis. “The feeling is: ‘I’m getting the authentic voice, and I’m not subject to whatever the agenda of the editorial newsroom is’,” he says.
The sheer length of the conversations allows for moments of vulnerability. The casual nature keeps costs low. Even the biggest shows require only a handful of staff. The industry is largely unregulated. There are no standard metrics for even basic measures, such as how many people listened to a given podcast. Instead, you can trace views on YouTube or browse Spotify rankings.
Nick Hilton, co-founder of podcast production company Podot, says the lack of regulation “is why [podcasting] attracts the more lunatic fringe”.
“These people own their company, it’s in private hands, none of them have boards or shareholders,” Hilton says. “We’ve got an evolution of the media into these incredibly oligarchic silos. Predominantly young men with broadly libertarian, right-leaning views, are now in control of some of the most mainstream media platforms, with basically no internal or external oversight.”
Podcasts primarily make money through advertisements. If the host reads out an endorsement of a product himself, there’s a considerable premium. For podcasters with a big following, there is significant money to be made. Galloway estimates that the people ranked in the top 10 most popular podcasts make $10mn to $50mn a year. “At a million downloads, you’re making $50,000 to $100,000 a month,” he estimates.
Without the costs of infrastructure — headquarters, lawyers, accountants, security — profits are “huge”, says Galloway. “Just to turn on the lights for a [television] show probably costs $2mn or $3mn a year, at least. You can start a podcast for tens of thousands of dollars”. The Pivot podcast is set to make $7mn to $10mn in revenue this year.
A podcast also serves as marketing for the influencer’s personal brand, opening up other opportunities, such as speaking gigs or merchandise sales that can bring in more millions of dollars.
Traditional media has taken notice of how popular podcasters have become, particularly in rightwing politics. Fox News this month rejigged its programming line-up, giving Will Cain his own daily show that will, according to a press release, have “a signature podcast style”.
It’s unclear where the balance between old and new media will resettle. “I can’t see [traditional media] having the same scale of influence and commercial heft in the marketplace in the next five years that they had five or 10 years ago”, says McCabe. “I don’t think that’s controversial. It’s inevitable”.
But there’s a case to be made that old and new will co-exist. The podcasters scored coveted invites to Trump’s inauguration — but so did Rupert Murdoch. Trump has hired no fewer than 19 former Fox News staffers for his White House, indicating that cable television still very much matters to the world’s most powerful person.
Five key podcasters
Theo Von
With a shaggy brown-haired mullet and a southern drawl, Von comes across as charming and boyish, even though he’s well into his forties.
Von grew up in Louisiana and got his start in entertainment at 19, when he was cast in an MTV reality show. After working his way up the comedy scene in Los Angeles, he started a podcast, This Past Weekend w/ Theo Von, in 2016.
Von’s guests come from all walks of life. In the past year Ed Sheeran, Bernie Sanders, a mall cop and a school lunch lady have all graced his set.
In interviews, Von zigs and zags, his thoughts unravelling in real time as he speaks. When Trump appeared on Von’s podcast last August, it was a rare conversation in which the president was not in command. While talking about his struggles with addiction, Von told Trump: “Cocaine will turn you into a damn owl, homie!” Trump, nodding, replied: “Is that a good feeling?” When Trump bragged about having “the greatest economy in history” during his first term, Von simply responded: “Yeah, my cousin got a boat during that.”
In a podcast years ago, a transgender man asked Von for advice on how to “be a dude”. Von gives a supportive pep talk: “Maybe [get] some nice slacks. Maybe spit on the ground sometimes. I think a hat. If you like to do a hat, some guys do a hat. No matter what, we’re happy to have you.” It’s funny and sweet.
But he also causes genuine offence. On a 2015 podcast with the comedian Bert Kreischer, Von repeatedly uses the N-word, defending it because he “wouldn’t use it towards someone to be mean” and as a comedian because “we’re wordsmiths”.
Joe Rogan
With 19mn subscribers on YouTube and almost 15mn on Spotify, Rogan is easily the most popular podcaster in the western world. His influence has continued to swell, prompting political strategists and voters to agonise over whether Kamala Harris should have appeared on Rogan’s podcast — and whether that would have swayed the election.
Rogan has had a long career in media, including major television gigs such as an NBC sitcom and a commentating role for UFC. In 2009 he started his podcast, The Joe Rogan Experience. Rogan struck a $200mn deal with Spotify in 2020, fetching far more money than the Obamas or Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. In 2024, he renewed his Spotify deal for $250mn.
According to Edison Research, about 80 per cent of Rogan’s listeners are men, and about half of them are between 18 and 34 years old. Rogan’s three-hour interview with Trump on October 26 drew more than 50mn YouTube views, dwarfing the audiences on traditional TV.
Rogan endorsed Bernie Sanders for president in 2020. In 2022 he called Trump an “existential threat to democracy”. But a few years later he not only hosted Trump on his podcast, but blessed him with a last-minute endorsement just hours before the polls opened.
Lex Fridman
Fridman has in recent years catapulted from unknown scientist to popular podcaster, often appearing on podcasts with Rogan and Elon Musk. He typically wears a black suit and tie on his podcast, which is shot against a dark backdrop.
The 41-year-old grew up in Moscow in the 1980s. After the collapse of the USSR, his family moved to Chicago, and he went on to study computer science and earn a PhD from Drexel University in Pennsylvania, where his brother and father were professors.
After an interview with Elon Musk at Tesla’s headquarters in 2019, the Lex Fridman Podcast soared in popularity. He has become a fixture in tech circles, interviewing the likes of Jeff Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg and Sam Altman. This month he interviewed Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelenskyy, which was viewed as Zelenskyy’s bid to appeal to Trump’s supporters.
Critics in the science community say Fridman has become a soundboard for spreading misinformation. Fridman defends it all in the name of hearing everyone out, even if you don’t agree with them. He once said in an interview: “If you talk to Hitler in 1941, do you empathise with him, or do you push back? Because most journalists would push . . . But if you want to actually understand the person, you should empathise.”
Andrew Schulz
Schulz, age 41 with slicked-back hair and a moustache, is a comedian by trade. He grew up in Manhattan’s East Village and got his big break by hosting various shows on MTV in the 2010s. In 2020, he released a Netflix comedy special called Schulz Saves America, which drew backlash for some of the jokes, such as one that referred to coronavirus as an “Asian parasite” .
Last year Schulz managed to sell out two consecutive nights at Madison Square Garden for his comedy shows — an achievement he described as a life-long dream.
Schulz co-hosts two podcasts: The Brilliant Idiots and Flagrant, on which he interviewed Trump last October. In that interview, Schulz nodded along and laughed as Trump repeated his unbacked claim that he beat Joe Biden in the 2020 election. At one point, more than an hour into the conversation, Trump declares he is “basically a truthful person”, and Schulz cracks up.
Logan Paul
Paul has been among the most popular social media influencers of the past decade, having initially gained a following on the now defunct Vine app. He launched his Impaulsive podcast in 2018. He is also a professional wrestler signed to the WWE. His younger brother Jake is also a prominent influencer and boxer who recently took on Mike Tyson for a widely watched boxing match on Netflix.
Trump appeared on Paul’s podcast last June, one of the earlier stops on the US president’s press tour of the male influencer landscape. Trump opened the podcast by gifting Paul a T-shirt with his mugshot captioned: “Never surrender”.
Anna Nicolaou is the FT’s US media editor
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