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.
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