It’s a strange thing, the way we form connections with voices. Proper, deep-rooted, personal connections. The kind that feel like friendship, even though the other person has no idea we exist. The kind that, when news breaks of their passing, leaves us unexpectedly bereft—as though a part of our own personal history has just been snatched away.
That’s exactly how I felt when I heard that former F1 team boss Eddie Jordan had died this morning. I never met the man, never stood in a paddock and shook his hand, but for the past year or so, I’ve had him in my ears week in, week out.
His podcast with David Coulthard, Formula For Success, was part of my routine. That distinctive Irish lilt, the playful jabs, the slightly rogue opinions—he was as much a fixture in my week as my Yorkshire Tea in the morning. And now he’s gone.
But it doesn’t just feel like a public figure has died; it feels personal. And that got me thinking—why is it that voices, specifically those on radio and podcasts, feel so much more intimate, more emotive, than anything we watch on screen?
Growing up, the biggest influence on my musical taste wasn’t an older sibling as I didn’t have one, a cool cousin, they just tried to subvert my choice of football team, or a particularly progressive music teacher, sorry Mr Powell. It was Robert Elms. His show on GLR (or BBC London, or whatever incarnation the station was in at any given time) soundtracked my GCSE ‘revision days’ and has been a companion ever since. Robert is the reason I’m a jazz obsessive, the reason I’m a member of Ronnie Scott’s, the reason I first heard Amy Winehouse—long before Frank was even a glint in a record exec’s eye. He had met her father in a sauna, as you do, and invited her on the show. One listen and I was hooked.
And before that? Before I had the excuse of ‘revising’ with the radio on? There I was, an 11-year-old, sneaking a radio under the covers at my grandparents’ house, listening to Steve Allen on LBC. Back then, it was less political and more just… soothing. A familiar voice in the dark, shaping thoughts, sparking curiosity, and making me feel part of something bigger than myself.
Compare that to television. I watch a lot of it. Too much, probably. But if one of my favourite TV personalities or actors were to suddenly pass away, and there are far too many to name check, I wouldn’t feel that same pang. I might be sad, I might reflect on their best performances and dive down a Youtube rabbit hole on their work for an evening, but I wouldn’t feel like I knew them. There’s a certain detachment with TV. Even with the most brilliantly written characters, the most charismatic presenters, there’s always a screen between us.
But audio? Audio is different. It’s direct. It bypasses all the visual noise and speaks straight to the brain. It’s there in your ear, shaping the way you think, the way you feel. And because it lacks the distraction of visuals, it forces you to truly listen.
And it’s not just me. Think about the power of radio in times of crisis. Think about Churchill’s wartime broadcasts, the way people clung to every word as though it was a personal reassurance, not a national address. Think about the shipping forecast—still listened to religiously by thousands who have never set foot on a boat, or know where either Dogger or German Bight are. There’s a romance to radio, a directness to podcasts, a kind of intimacy that screen-based media just can’t replicate.
Maybe it’s because a voice in your ear feels like a one-to-one conversation, whereas TV and film are always a performance. Maybe it’s because we consume audio in moments of solitude—walking, commuting, lying in bed—whereas TV is more often a shared, passive experience. Or maybe it’s because when you listen to someone long enough, week after week, year after year, their voice becomes a fixture in your life, as familiar and comforting as a friend’s.
That’s why Eddie Jordan’s passing hit harder than I expected. It’s why losing a radio presenter or a podcaster often feels like losing a mate. It’s why I’ll keep tuning into Robert Elms for as long as he’s on air, and why I’ll always treasure the nights spent under the covers with a crackly old radio, absorbing the world through sound alone.
Because audio isn’t just background noise. It’s connection. It’s companionship. And in a world where screens dominate, it’s a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful stories aren’t seen at all—they’re simply heard.