Will You Be our Third? : The Rise of the Duo Podcast and Parasocialism

Among aspiring influencers, a seemingly surefire shot to stardom has become increasingly popular: the duo-podcast. It seems that picking up the equipment, sitting down with your best friend, and turning on the mic and camera is a well-being tapped by many. 

The format of having two hosts or speakers interact on camera is by no means recent. If you want to go way back, talk and radio shows used this format long before internet influencers or podcast streaming. Early YouTube was arguably built by channels like this, for example, Good Mythical Morning or Dan and Phil. But I feel as though most notable duo channels were few and far between.  Recently, there has definitely been an uptick in the amount of duo channels and podcasts. Off the top of my head, I think of Bald and the Beautiful, Las Culturistas, Ride, Billie and Jean, Sinjin Drowning, Out of Character, Emergency Intercom, Cocteau Twinks, Cancelled, and Frenemies, to name a few. My current and personal favorite, Upstairs Neighbors, hosted by the hilarious Dom Roberts and Maya Umemeto-Gorman, is also popular among my close friends, which results in a lot of references. So much so, “My close and personal friends Maya and Dom,” is a common joke we used to reference the pod. While we were joking, it did make me think about how watching the two podcasters talk felt like listening to some of my closest friends. I realized I probably gravitated towards them because they reminded me of my friends, but it made me question if the rise in the presence and success of duo podcasts on the internet is owed to a rise in parasocialism among consumers. 

With duo podcasts, conversation topics are very rarely heavy and generally focus more on the co-hosts' day-to-day life or pop culture happenings. Unlike early YouTube, most duo-anythings would participate in challenges or have fixed topics. Going back to Good Mythical Morning, the hosts Rhett McLaughlin and Link Neal most often did something as the meat of their content- a challenge, a reaction, a game. The pair were lifelong friends, but their personal lives weren’t the main attraction. In contrast, Upstairs Neighbors could talk about a dentist appointment, their current favorite TV show, and then circle back to a funny story that happened over the week. Their conversations feel natural and genuine, favoring less of their talk show or radio segment predecessors, and more like you're listening in on two friends that would have that same conversation even if the camera wasn’t on. This goes for the other podcasts I mentioned before. They all hinge on the fact that people are more than entertained just watching or listening to friends joke, muse, and storytell. All of these podcasts feature real chemistry and spontaneity, and their successes are part of the growing preference of the general public who favors authenticity over anything scripted or planned.

Not to get tangential, but a good example of this preference is the breakout influencer, Staples Baddie. An effortlessly funny Staples employee by the TikTok handle @blivxx and lovingly dubbed Staples Baddie by her viewers, took to her TikTok to post about various products and services Staples offers. Completely of her own volition, the posts gained traction because of how informal yet interesting they were. Arguably more effective than any advertisement or PR stunt the brand could have actually deployed, the series actually spurred people to take to Staples to stock up on office essentials. This goes to show how much genuine, unscripted marketing acts as a much stronger force than anything deliberately planned or packaged. Personally, when I am looking for a new product to resolve X or help with Y, and every video I come across has an orange TikTok Shop cart in the corner, my eyes gloss over. In the age where collaborations and brand support are manufactured and tailored, it's becoming more apparent how much consumers value authenticity over all. 

The media we consume is no exception to this. Back to podcasts.

I don’t know many people my age who regularly watch late-night shows (think Fallon, Kimmel, etc). The interview segments always come across as a bit canned, optimized for easy clipping onto their social media and not as if they are having a meaningful conversation. In stark contrast, consumers are much more willing to tune into a weekly, hour-long podcast where the speakers could oscillate between topics like going to their therapist, coping with a parent’s death, and then getting scammed on Depop. Less sensational and more relatable, these podcasts operate on a framework of lifting the curtain and letting people in. They are saying, “This is our friendship, and it is open to you.”  A little voyeuristic at its core, people like the sense of closeness this presents. By doing what I have dubbed as inviting the listener to be the third in their duo, they manufacture a loyalty and bond that eventually grows into a pretty strong fanbase. But what happens when closeness morphs into invasiveness? 

With an audience that feels like they are part of your lives and your relationship, there comes a danger of parasociality. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, parasociality, or parasocial relationships, are a direct cause of the perceived intimacy someone feels with a celebrity or persona whom they feel they know intimately, despite the idol not knowing them. This is a breeding ground for all kinds of inappropriate invasions of privacy. Think, “Spencewuah, we need to be friends”, as a milder example, or a fan falsely accusing a 16-year-old Justin Bieber of impregnating her in the extreme cases of stalking. 

With duo podcasts, I don’t think parasocial relationships are an unwanted side product but rather the goal. The loyalty that comes with a fanbase that feels like they are actually your friends can slingshot you to stardom. However, when fans feel entitled to your life or you, it can have some nasty repercussions.

The case study I would like to examine is a past favorite, Emergency Intercom. The co-hosts, Drew Phillips and Enya Umanzor, were internet icons before the formation of their podcast. Both gained fame on Vine and then YouTube, so the pair had a bit of clout prior to the conception of EI. Phillips was known for his satirical and comedic videos, and Umanzor was hailed as one of the internet's most important “cool girls.” But the two of them together and their dynamic on screen was the real star. The cozy atmosphere that was created by two best friends just joking about their day was addictive. I think for many young people, the desire to have a friendship like that is ridiculously strong, so for those who either didn’t have it themselves or enjoyed seeing a friendship similar to their own, sitting in on their conversations from home was much more important than I think it was intended to be. It wasn’t long before the podcast gained traction, with the hosts achieving brand deals, notably with Marc Jacobs, Wildflower Cases, and A24. They appeared as red carpet hosts and had many viral TikTok audios born in the kitchen corner where they recorded. I don’t think it's crazy to say they defined the humor of many teens and young adults. However, what started as a pair of best friends talking candidly about navigating young adulthood gradually changed. As the pair reached new levels of notoriety, fans noted their conversations were much less relatable. Many fans also noticed how less eager the pair was in telling the audience stories or information from their private lives, something that was a pillar of the podcast in its early stages. This, in combination with a ridiculously ignorant statement the pair made about activist Greta Thunberg, which was the straw that broke the camel's back for most, caused them to fall out of favor with a large chunk of their fanbase (yours truly included).

Now, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a reposted clip of theirs that doesn’t have at least one comment lamenting that they became “lame,” “lobotomized,” or “LA-ified,” and irritated that they refused to get personal all of a sudden. That last gripe always makes me laugh, because even while I grew tired of the gradual hush-hushness they developed, it is a funny thought. Becoming agitated with a pair of best friends for having inside jokes and what I assume was them pulling back and trying to regain some privacy due to the deluge of parasocialism they assuredly faced feels somewhat trivial. I think most of the annoyance comes with the implied contract co-hosts of duo podcasts sign when they advertise themselves and their brand as this “open friendship.” Opening your life and yourself in exchange for interactions, attention, and ultimately fame, only to slowly close yourself off, is, from a marketing standpoint, abandoning the brand. After all, if your job is talking to your friend about things going on in your life, but you don’t feel like talking about your life, filling an hour-long episode suddenly feels like pulling teeth. 

Image Courtesy: People Magazine

Side note, I also feel like the gradual blandness the podcast developed also had to do with the fact that, after a couple of years, the pair had less and less to talk about. Stories could only be repeated so many times, and even the most interesting people would be hard-pressed to have consistently interesting material every week. But that aspect only further highlights that while people love duo podcasts for their authenticity, that unscripted nature comes with tradeoffs. In a talk show, if the conversation stagnates, the hosts have points that keep the momentum going. When you reject the script and speak from your own experience, you cannot create new talking points without betraying the authenticity you are known for. 

Another danger I see with this paradigm is the fact that the hosts are not playing a part. Very rarely do you see the speakers, often young adults, put on a persona. They are being themselves in every sense of the phrase, unlike radio hosts who definitely put on personalities for their shows. The detriment in this is that hate or criticism is not being fired at a character, but at an actual person. Using the example of EI, Umanzor, the female host of the podcast, faced a lot of criticism that savored strongly of misogyny from the fanbase pretty frequently. Complaints that she was too loud, rambunctious, or unfunny, which, in the case of a talk show, would be levelled at a character, were being thrown at her actual, authentic self. As a young woman, I cannot imagine the harm that could cause to your self-esteem, and it is a glaring example of the danger that follows when fans feel like they are entitled to criticize their idols as if they actually knew them. 

The last example I would like to look into is a podcast called Just Roommates. The hosts, Jake Egizio and Mohammed Albattah, debuted their podcast sometime last year, and once again, their main attraction was the fact that the two were close friends and had undeniable chemistry and camaraderie. The podcast and their individual accounts soared in popularity among the avid duo-podcast consumers, with many drawing comparisons to Slushy Noobs (which the hosts definitely leaned into). Something I noticed about the pair was the fact that they would comment on and repost every video made about them. This friendliness was very appreciated by their growing fanbase, and it kindled their reputation as a channel that was close with the viewers (do you see where I am going with this?). Their climb came to a screeching halt when screenshots of one of the hosts standing in front of a Blue Lives Matter flag resurfaced. Now, the pair who quite literally made a name for themselves by communicating frequently with their viewers went radio silent until the obligatory apology video was posted. Whether or not the apology felt genuine or if they were deserving of the lashings they received is besides the point. I couldn’t help but wonder if their open relationship with their viewers sped up the parasocialism. That may be because they feigned closeness at such an early stage of their career, people felt entitled to rummaging around in their closets for skeletons. Regardless, I thought it was a prime example of how becoming a public figure using the duo podcast format necessitates that you can handle being under an extreme microscope; you cannot afford to have skeletons in your closet. Or Blue Lives Matter flags. It was also a lesson on how you really cannot mitigate boundary overstepping when you frame yourself as a friend of the viewers. When it comes to profiting off parasocialism, you can’t have your cake and eat it too. 

Personally, I am led to wonder if the duo podcast bubble is going to pop soon. In the case of Just Roommates, people were quick to throw them to the side due to the presence of so many other alternatives. In any sphere that is inundated, the risk of becoming oversaturated is a valid concern. It also isn't a business model that has longevity. We have seen that hosts run the possibility of running out of interesting content, becoming jaded by the creative process, and the pressure and scrutiny that come with the inevitable parasocial relationships. That might prove too cumbersome to overlook for content creators moving forward. Maybe these podcasts will serve as a means of gaining visibility for budding creators and act as a jumping-off point for them to pursue different creative careers. I am eager to see how this trend evolves and how it may birth new trends of content in the future. 

Strike Out,

Orlando

Written By: Rosita Mecherie

Edited By: Olivia Wagner & Sarah Franquelo

Rosita Mechérie is a Staff Writer for Strike Magazine Orlando and a freshman at the University of Central Florida, where she is majoring in Journalism and Film. Rosita is a self-proclaimed fangirl, an aspiring cinephile, and she could talk you to death about anything pop culture. She hopes to have a career in entertainment journalism and eventually write a novel or two. Reach her at rositamecherie@gmail.com or @rositamecherie on Instagram.