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This Past Weekend with Theo Von: Brocasting Trump, Part II

But first. . .

A Brief Synopsis of an Introduction to Bro-casting TrumpA Year-long SO! Series by Andrew Salvati

In total, Trump appeared on fourteen podcasts or video streams during his 2024 campaign, which together earned a combined 90.9 million views on YouTube and on other video streaming platforms, not even including audio podcast listens, which, because of the decentralized nature of RSS, are notoriously difficult to pin down.  

That’s a lot.

In the following series of posts, I am particularly concerned with Trump’s success with the so-called podcast bros – partially because my own research interests are in the area of mediated masculinities, but also because they may have put him over the edge with a key demographic – with (white) Gen-Z men.

Over this series—which began in January 2026 with Logan Paul—I will examine several of Trump’s appearances on largely apolitical “bro” podcasts during the 2024 campaign season, including his interviews with Logan PaulTheo VonShawn RyanAndrew Schulz, the Nelk Boys, and Joe Rogan. In the course of this examination, I will pay attention not only to what Trump said on these shows, but also to the way in which they established a sense of intimacy, and how that intimacy worked to underscore Trump’s reputation for authenticity. Along the way, I will also discuss the podcasts and podcasters themselves and attempt to locate them within the broader scope of the manosphere. Finally, given the passage of time since Trump’s appearances, I will consider to what extent, if any, individual hosts have become critical of his administration’s policies and actions – as Joe Rogan famously has.

Here’s the second installment, on This Past Weekend with Theo Von.

***

This Past Weekend with Theo Von: Brocasting Trump, Part II

DOI: 10.59350/qkwp6-e439

With about five-and-a-half minutes remaining in the podcaster and comedian Theo Von’s August 2024 interview with Donald Trump, the conversation turned to the U.S. southern border. Thus far, the interview had not shied away from policy concerns; however, though the questions were earnest, the answers were evasive and superficial. Noting that he had hosted Border Patrol agents on his show in the past, Von reported that one of the biggest problems that the agency faced was that its officers were arresting the same people over and over again. The reason, according to Von, was that “the people that are coming in illegally aren’t being prosecuted.”

The 44-year-old podcaster then asked the president in his lilting Louisiana accent what he would do differently to alleviate the problem and make the border more secure. Like many, it was a question that allowed Trump to indulge in his penchant for superlative and self-aggrandizement.

“So, the borders, well, I did it. I did it,” Trump declared. “We had the best border … we had the wall built. We had more going to come beyond, long beyond what I promised. I built hundreds of miles of wall, and it worked.”

Now, this post isn’t necessarily the venue for relitigating the failures of what was Trump’s signature project during his first administration, for reminding you, dear reader, that despite his promise on the 2016 campaign trail that he would “build a great, great wall on our southern border” (which Mexico would pay for), and despite signing an executive order just days after taking office that directed the Secretary of Homeland Security “to immediately plan, design, and construct a physical wall along the southern border,” by the end of his term in office in January, 2021, only 452 miles of wall had been constructed – much of which was not new, and had merely replaced existing barriers. Such reminders can be found elsewhere.

Rather, the moment captured the credulity which Von freely gave the former president throughout the interview, and thereby highlighted what I suggested in my last post is the problem – or, from the candidate’s perspective, the virtue – of a media strategy that allotted a significant amount of time to non-journalists: it was unlikely that he’d get much pushback.

***

And after listening through the episode a few times and trying to put myself in the place of an apolitical Theo Von listener, or one perhaps too young to remember the first Trump administration, I began to more fully appreciate the extent to which his apparent authenticity coupled with a sense that he is not just a political outsider, but an autonomous agent free of obligation to party. Typically, this last part comes out when Trump takes aim at “them” – Joe Biden, Kamala Harris, Chuck Schumer, Nancy Pelosi, and other unnamed Democratic elites, as well as any other members of the “deep state,” or “establishment” who oppose him.

In contrast to these shadowy figures, Trump presents himself as someone who, largely because of his wealth, remains independent, and as such, is uncorrupted by “them.” He can thus position himself as a man of the people, and in fact frequently trumpeted his own popularity during the episode – with Von only too happy to provide affirmation.

Still from “Donald Trump | This Past Weekend w/ Theo Von #526” created by Sounding Out!

But this turn toward the border and to immigration policy is also significant in retrospect, given that Von has since been critical of the second Trump administration’s mass deportation policies, and of the Department of Homeland Security’s (DHS’s) unauthorized use of his image and voice in one of its marketing videos in a way that seemed as if he supported the department’s deportation efforts.

In the now-deleted video (part of which can be seen here), Von looks directly into the camera and says “Heard you got deported dude, bye.”

The comedian quickly took to X (formerly Twitter) to vent. “Yoo DHS I didn’t approve to be used in this,” he said in a post that he later deleted. “I know you know my address so send a check. And please take this down and please keep me out of your ‘banger’ deportation videos. When it comes to immigration my thoughts and heart are a lot more nuanced than this video allows. Bye!”

Roughly a week later, on October 2, 2025, Von returned to the subject on his podcast with an impassioned statement explaining to his listeners the situation with the video and outlined some of his own thoughts on immigration. Contextualizing the clip by saying that it had been made in a parking lot after one of his comedy shows as a joke – though in Von’s telling, what he said still comes off as callous, as the “girl” who approached him with the camera was trying to tell the comedian that her friend had recently been deported – Von went on to talk about the blowback he received as a result of the DHS video, which was in no way an accurate depiction of his complex thoughts on immigration.

“And my father immigrated here from Nicaragua, right?” he explained, his voice beginning to break. “Like one of my prized possessions is I have his immigration papers [from] when he came here. And I have them in a frame … and, so I have tons of thoughts about it, but this was just fucked up, right? It was fucked up. And it was everywhere. It was on all platforms and stuff.”  

What Von seemed to be doing here was saying that, though he may have supported a tough line on illegal immigration and had little tolerance for those who had been admitted into the country with a criminal record, he could not necessarily get behind the Trump DHS’s indiscriminate deportation scheme, which was sweeping up immigrants who had come into the country the “right way” alongside those who maybe hadn’t. 

However in listening to Von’s Trump interview from 2024, it’s hard not to hear the future president laying the groundwork for what would become a maximalist strategy on immigration. “We have over 20 million people, in my opinion, right now, that came into our country [the number of unauthorized immigrants in the U.S. was estimated at 14 million in 2023]. Many come from prisons, jails, mental institutions, many terrorists,” Trump claimed, later adding that “we’re going to spend a lot of time getting the criminals out … we have a lot of people, hundreds of thousands of murderers. We have people, drug dealers … it’s not even believable.”

Although it would have been difficult at the time of the recording to imagine the terror that Trump’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) sweeps would unleash on communities like Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, and Portland in the months following his return to office, we can hear in his attempts to vilify unauthorized foreign nationals, and in his fear-mongering about how many of them were bad actors, a justification for the use of blunt force rather than nuanced policy.

And it seemed like Von agreed, at least in principle, with the law-and-order logic underpinning Trump’s statements. “Oh, I don’t think people should be allowed to be in our country if they’re criminals,” he stated.

To give this conversation a charitable reading, it is perhaps likely that Von assumed that, once in office, Trump’s administration would have the tools to determine which foreign nationals were authorized to be in the country and which were not.  Further, he may also have believed ICE would know who among this group had a criminal record – and not conduct mass roundups based on race.

Yet, as we should have all probably known by the summer of 2024, for Trump and his chief advisers, blunt force (and cruelty) was the point. Recall the so-called “Muslim Ban” instituted during Trump’s first term, which was hardly an example of a well-calibrated policy, but was rather a “total and complete shutdown” of travelers and immigrants from seven Muslim-majority countries (though even this wasn’t without its conflicts of interest as it excluded several countries like Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates where Trump had business dealings).

Even the wall, which was conceived by Trump insiders in 2015 as a mnemonic device intended to help their boss to remember to mention illegal immigration at his campaign rallies, was deemed effective precisely because it was not subtle. As Trump 2016 campaign adviser Sam Nunberg told Business Insider, “I think one issue is people did understand walls … the wall in 2016 was symbolic of Donald Trump: common sense, practical solutions, simplified answers – as opposed to long nuanced, detailed policy speak.”


President Donald J. Trump’s signature is seen on a plaque on the border wall Tuesday, Jan. 12, 2021, at the Texas-Mexico border near Alamo, Texas. (Official White House Photo by Shealah Craighead) (PDM 1.0)

And this would be a fair characterization of Trump’s remarks on This Past Weekend – when Von asked earnest policy questions, Trump offered simplified, seemingly common sense responses that presented his own approach to the problems of government as something different than politics-as-usual, different because it was guided by an intensely practical, no-nonsense ethos.

Like his appearance on Logan Paul’s Impaulsive, Trump’s calm, yet forceful tone of voice on This Past Weekend tended to support his overall credibility as a leader capable of bringing logical solutions to a crisis-ridden government – of brining decisive, masculine order to the chaos in Washington. Such was the impression that listeners may have gotten, for instance, from Trump and Von’s discussion of the president’s first term executive order mandating price transparency for hospital care, which Von asked Trump about specifically, and which, Trump claimed, “would have brought down the cost of care by 50, 60%” if Biden and Kamala had enforced it.

But Trump’s appeals to common sense also provided cover for what might have otherwise been an embarrassing bit of hypocrisy. When Von began to turn the conversation toward the power of lobbyists, asking why it was that the government couldn’t seem to do anything about the so-called revolving door, Trump explained that there was a “whole constitutional thing there” (the First Amendment right to petition the government), and agreed with Von that it was “a problem and … a big problem,” adding that “we were [in his first term] doing things about it.”

What his administration did, was issue an executive order banning executive branch employees from becoming lobbyists for a period of five years. This move may have seemed like it indicated a genuine desire to “drain the swamp,” as Trump routinely promised to do on the campaign trail in 2016, but, as ProPublica revealed in a 2019 report, his administration had actually hired 1 lobbyist for every 14 political appointees that it had made since taking office (281 in total), which was four times more than Obama had appointed six years into office.

Given that they had provided ingress to the executive branch, it is perhaps unsurprising that they would eventually provide egress, executive order notwithstanding. Indeed, on the final day of his first term, Trump revoked the order without giving explanation, clearing the way for members of his administration to secure lucrative lobbying gigs.  Such contradictions, however, were more or less concealed behind Trump’s populist rhetoric, behind his apparent recognition that conflicts of interest are a problem in politics, or that medical debt is crushing Americans.

Cropped Still from “Donald Trump | This Past Weekend w/ Theo Von #526” created by Sounding Out!

But taking a sound studies perspective, we can also see – or hear – how Trump’s tone of voice, which admittedly seems less energetic than it was during his Logan Paul interview, tended to convey an assurance that what he said was an authentic expression of his own thoughts and perspectives. Again, this was not the kind of stream-of-consciousness raving that we have come to expect from his rallies, but rather a low-key, intimate conversation about relevant issues and facts – or, at least facts as Trump saw them.

The implication here is that Trump as a political leader is free to operate in ways that mere politicians and government officials simply can’t because of their obligations to party, to donors, or to lobbyists. What is likely missed in all of this, however, is that what Trump is describing is a thoroughly authoritarian approach to political power, one that is of a piece with his claim that “I alone can fix it.” Positioning himself outside the political establishment – and even independent of the Republican Party of which he is nominally the leader – Trump can offer himself as a political messiah and claim the moral authority to act without regard for democratic processes in the name of a specious popular mandate.

In other words, by contrasting himself with “them,” and by holding himself at a distance from the dominant political order, Trump clears himself of the obligation to work with any group or individual that he deems to be opposed to his own quasi-populist agenda.

And for Von and those in his audience who are fed up with the status quo, that is a powerful appeal.

Featured Image: Theo Von, Edited James Tamim, Wikimedia Images (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Andrew J. Salvati is an adjunct professor in the Media and Communications program at Drew University, where he teaches courses on podcasting and television studies. His research interests include media and cultural memory, television history, and mediated masculinity. He is the co-founder and occasional co-host of Inside the Box: The TV History Podcast, and Drew Archives in 10.

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Layout by Jennifer L. Stoever

Echoes of Ian Curtis: Film and the Punk Voice

PUNKSOUND
Image of Alice Bag used with her permission (thank you!)

For full intro and part one of the series click here. For part two, click here. For part three click here. For part four click here. For part five click here.

Our Punk Sound series implicitly argues that sound studies methodologies are better suited to understanding how punk works sonically than existing journalistic and academic conversations about musical genre, chord progressions, and/or genealogies of bands.  Alexandra Vasquez’s sound-oriented work on Cuban music, for example, in Listening in Detail (2014) opens up necessary conversations about the “flashes, moments, sounds” in music that bear its meanings and its colonial, raced, classed, and gendered histories in material ways people can hear and feel.  While retaining the specificity of Vasquez’s argument and the specific sonic archive bringing it forth, we too insist on “an ethical and intellectual obligation to the question: what do the musicians sound like” (12) and how do folks identifying with and through these musical sounds hear them?

In this series, we invite you to amplify varied historicized “details” of punk sound–its chunk-chunk-chunk skapunk riffs, screams, growls, group chants, driving rhythms, honking saxophones–hearing/feeling/touching these sounds in richly varied locations, times, places, and perspectives: as a pulsing bead of condensation dripping down the wall of The Smell in Downtown LA (#savethesmell), a drummer making her own time on tour, a drunk sitting too near the amp at a backyard party, a queer teenager in their bedroom being yelled at to “turn it down” and “act like a lady[or a man]”. . .and on and on.  In today’s essay Landon Palmer shows us how film may be just as responsible as music for how we remember the punk voice.

SOUND!

NO, SOUND!

–Aaron SO! (Sounding Out!) + Jenny SO! (Sounding Out!)

DOI: https://doi.org/10.59350/379zj-3ew95

In Joy Division’s 1979 song “Transmission,” singer Ian Curtis embodied several aspects of what made the group’s post-punk sound unique with the chorus, “Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio.” As a piece of music, its repetition is intense and rousing, working as a compelling instruction that, when played loud enough, can be felt to the bone via Curtis’s deep timbre. At the same time, Curtis’s voice is robotic and distant, the signature of the group’s bleak sound that signified the post-industrial alienation of Thatcher-era Manchester. A historically specific critique of media, “Transmission” plays out a loss of agency. In the 21st century, however, the song has circulated more as a self-referential testament to Joy Division’s – and Curtis’s – musical skill, a container and a summary of myth.

Image by Ho-Teng Chang @Flickr CC BY.

To adopt Alexandra Vasquez’s question that has framed this series, what happens to representations of punk sound as they change over time? I argue that the cinematic techniques employed in presenting Ian Curtis and his voice in both 24 Hour Party People (Michael Winterbottom 2002) and Control (Anton Corbijn 2007) help us to understand the construction of a mythic punk voice.

Punk’s avoidance of comprehensibility, identification, and what Dave Liang calls “the prettiness of the mainstream song” have existed in awkward relation to narrative cinema, which requires legibility as a central component of storytelling (70, 71). While displacing the voice through fragmentation and asynchronous sound work has proven vital to theorizing and subverting cinematic norms, rarely has depicting a well-known punk singer’s voice in cinema translated to a cinematic punk aesthetic, as Stacy Thompson argues regarding the narrative and documentary Sex Pistols biopics Sid & Nancy (Alex Cox 1986) and The Filth and the Fury (Julien Temple 2000) (49-50). Even the revered punk documentary The Decline of Western Civilization (Penelope Spheeris 1981) renders punk voices legible by providing lyric subtitles. However, the two most notable cinematic portrayals of Ian Curtis–24 Hour Party People and Control, released during the band’s resurgence in 21st century popular culture–demonstrate competing interpretations for a punk voice’s place within filmmaking and put into play the question of how to interpret it.

Image by a town called malice @flickr CC BY.

Despite Curtis’s short lifetime, his voice continues to be amplified throughout popular culture. These extended echoes of his voice have participated in shaping its meanings and myth. In his book Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, Chris Ott writes that Joy Division’s music “defied imitation” (xiii); however, imitation (and citation) have fueled public memory of the band and augmented the myth of Ian Curtis. By the time Joy Division’s two LPs were re-released by Rhino in 2007, several contemporary bands–The Killers, Editors, Interpol and She Wants Revenge–built music careers that are openly indebted to this Manchester sound but distinct from its socio-historical context. Public memory of the group has been interpreted through uses of their music in the 1980s-set period pieces like Donnie Darko (Richard Kelly 2001) and Netflix’s Stranger Things (2016). The contemporary circulation of Joy Division’s music has extended to films that resurrect Curtis himself.

To start, 24 Hour Party People self-consciously stages an inquiry into Ian Curtis’s meanings and his contemporary resonance as part of the post-punk scene writ large. Chronicling the ‘70s-‘80s Manchester music scene through Tony Wilson (Steve Coogan), the attention-seeking TV personality and unlikely underground music patron who formed Factory Records, the film fits several tenets of Thompson’s definition of punk cinema in its “engage[ment] with history” and “critique [of] its own commodification” (64). A tongue-in-cheek historical guide, Wilson narrates via a fourth-wall-breaking blend of mythmaking, footnotes, and commentary that reflects upon the film’s historiography as he articulates it, and in so doing overtly selects myth over “truth,” stating, “When you have to choose between truth and the legend, print the legend” (itself a quote dubiously credited to John Ford). The film’s self-conscious performance of history extends to its musical numbers, where Winterbottom liberally blends imitation with the genuine article through a mix of archival and staged footage, thus overtly staging encounters with key moments in Manchester musical history. The film’s play with historiography does not go so far as to trouble its reinforcement of a canonical timeline.

It is in this spirit that 24 Hour Party People brings actor Sean Harris’s portrayal of Ian Curtis to life. In re-creating Joy Division’s performance of “Digital” at the Hacienda Club, Harris invokes Curtis’s jittery-mechanical dance style while his “voice” remains Curtis’s. Additionally, the film mixes ambient crowd noises with a band of actors performing in synch to the song’s studio recording. 24 Hour Party People not only preserves Curtis’s voice as an inimitable icon of this history, but places the studio recording of “Digital” as the authoritative version of the song within the nascent period of the Manchester scene, thus mapping this studio recording onto the band’s live sound (rather than implementing an existing live recording). Curtis’s voice is reproduced only through the most valuable, resonant historical record of it–the recorded commodity.

Image by bixentro @Flickr CC BY.

The retrospective framing implied by this choice speaks to the film’s greater approach to Ian Curtis as a figure best understood (or perhaps inevitably shrouded) via his posthumous legacy, and thus foregrounds Curtis’s transformation into myth. Due to the timing of his passing, there exists a relatively limited media archive of the actual Curtis compared to other late-20th century rock singers of similar influence. Beyond official performances on television, music video, and records, scant recordings of Curtis performing and speaking are available via silent 8mm home movies and archival audio interviews. Thus, 24 Hour Party People cannot resort to the historical record(ing) in all instances, and thus Harris’s voice proves central to interpreting Curtis off-stage. In recalling Joy Division’s notorious first encounter with Wilson, 24 Hour Party People portrays Curtis as intimidatingly sure-footed, confronting Wilson through quick, direct speech and locked eyes. Harris conveys the actorly qualities that so often typecast him in villain roles. Further complicating Curtis’s public image, Coogan’s Wilson provides a counter-narrative of the singer following his suicide, asserting to the audience that Curtis was not exactly the “dark and depressive…prophet of urban decay and alienation” that his music suggested, and recounts a rousing collective rendition of “Louie Louie” with the band to prove his point. The only instance in which Harris’s actual voice is used as Curtis’s singing voice, this cacophonous chorus depicts a Curtis participating in a deliriously muddled punk sound. Yet even this counter-narrative does not challenge the mythmaking of Ian Curtis, for it reinforces Curtis’s suicide as central to his meaning and value as a musician.

Music biopics have long bolstered definitive interpretations of a popular performer’s biography. In contrast to 24 Hour Party People’s self-conscious approach to mythmaking, Control is adapted from Deborah Curtis’s autobiography and directed by a former Joy Division photographer. Control’s most conventional choices as a rock biopic are the narrative associations the film makes between events in Curtis’s life and his songwriting, connecting Curtis’s music directly to his troubled marriage and the distress caused by his epilepsy. Control juxtaposes Curtis’s interior life with his production of music, cutting to the recording of “She’s Lost Control” after he learns that a client in his unemployment office has died of epilepsy, and featuring a performance of “Love Will Tear Us Apart” following a scene in which he tells his wife (Samantha Morton) that he no longer loves her. Control thus connects the singer’s authorial voice to the film’s narrative voice, arguing that the sounds Ian Curtis left behind are legible remnants of his biography. In so doing, the film deterministically situates his life through the framework of his death, his music serving a seemingly inevitable path to his suicide and thus transformation into musical myth (staged at the end with a crane shot rising up to the Manchester skyline during “Atmosphere,” indicating a ubiquitous echo of Curtis that has transcended the corporeal).

Punks in Manchester. Image by agogo @Flickr CC BY.

The film’s voicing of Curtis is articulated through Sam Riley’s performance, not through archival audio of the singer. As with 24 Hour Party People, Corbijn initially planned to have Riley and the supporting actors mimic their performances. However, during preproduction the band of actors rehearsed together until they were confident enough to play live shows for Joy Division fans. This convinced Corbijn to utilize them as a sort-of legitimate cover band for the purposes of embodying Joy Division’s history. Riley’s voice is notably higher than Curtis’s and is thus distinctive enough that it resonates comfortably alongside the numerous bands of this century whose leads “sound like” Curtis. Indeed, the resonance of Curtis throughout contemporary alternative rock may have helped make Riley more palatable as an authorized substitute for Corbijn and Joy Division fans. Such homage through imitation is reinforced by Control’s end credits, which features The Killers’ cover of “Shadowplay.” Both of these invocations of Curtis locate his value in his contemporary influence, not his historic place, an approach evident in Control’s less overt interest in post-punk’s socio-cultural context than 24 Hour Party People.

Control is uninterested in recreating the details of Joy Division’s history with exacting verisimilitude, forgoing the archive for a resonant aura of the band’s history. This approach is evident in Corbijn’s visual decisions – shooting the film in black-and-white memorializes the band through the stark photography with which Corbijn captured them – as well as his musical ones. In Control’s depiction of the band’s breakthrough performance on Tony Wilson’s (here played by Craig Parkinson) Granada Television program So It Goes, for example, Corbijn’s Joy Division perform the enduringly popular “Transmission” rather than “Shadowplay,” the song they actually played. Joy Division’s breakthrough television moment was further recast through “Transmission” in a fan-made Playmobil animation that curiously combines introductory audio of Parkinson’s Wilson from Control with Joy Division’s 1979 performance of “Transmission” on BBC2’s Something Else. Control not only situates Curtis’s singing voice coherently within authorial and narrative legibility, but also reflects and participates in contemporary popular memorialization of Joy Division regardless of the historical accuracy of such choices.

Pamela Robertson Wojcik argues that the human voice and its mediation through recording technologies is an important but overlooked component of cinematic performance. It is also vital to consider how famous voices travel and gain meaning through processes of imitation and citation–tropes of authenticity which pervade the musical biopic. While 24 Hour Party People and Control avoid many clichés of the musical biopic, narrative cinematic imperatives of legibility, coherence, and individual-centered storytelling motivate each film to participate in the production of rock star myth despite efforts at historical critique in the former or the austere style of the latter. Even in punk, rock star death is the most compelling biographical framework. The punk voice has long held a discordant relationships to cinematic norms, and these two films demonstrate how the translation of punk sound into cinematic soundscapes presents the inherent problem of recounting punk’s history.

Featured image “scream” by be.refreshed @Flickr CC BY-NC-ND.

Landon Palmer is a PhD Candidate studying Film and Media in the Department of Communication and Culture at Indiana University and recently defended a dissertation on the cross-industrial history of casting rock stars on film titled “Rock Cinema: A Transmedia History, 1956-1986.” He has published on popular music and moving image media culture in Music, Sound, and the Moving Image, iaspm@journal: Journal of the International Association for the Study of Popular Music, and Celebrity Studies.

tape reel

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