『This Is A Podcast About House Music』のカバーアート

This Is A Podcast About House Music

This Is A Podcast About House Music

著者： ThatPodcastGirl C.Dub
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This Is A Podcast About House Music. A deep dig into house music history by city and decade. ASMR-style storytelling, spoken slowly and in a moderated tone, built for long listening sessions. The kind of show you put on autoplay while you work.


-ThatPodcastGirl C Dub.

All episodes and more at https://www.thatpodcastgirl.com

Reach me at ThatPodcastGirlCdub@gmail.com

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  • S4 E2: The Missing Twin: Chicago, Belleville, and the Boys that Built Techno (in the 80's)

    S4 E2: The Missing Twin: Chicago, Belleville, and the Boys that Built Techno (in the 80's)
    2026/07/07
    Send us a text if you like it and want more of it. Season 4, Episode 2 "The Missing Twin"Hello house fans, it's ThatPodcastGirl Cdub, and This Is A Podcast About House Music.For years, this story got told a certain way: house came first in Chicago, and then, a little later, techno showed up in Detroit — almost like a colder cousin arriving late to the party, borrowing a sound that already belonged to somebody else.I want to tell you right now: that version is wrong.Because at the exact same time Frankie Knuckles was reshaping disco on Chicago's West Side, something else was happening less than a day's drive away — in a bedroom outside Detroit, on the same kind of drum machines, powered by the same kind of hunger to make something nobody had heard yet. This is Case File Number Two: The Missing Twin.Case note one: the family tree was filed wrong.Here's the lazy version of this story, the one you'll hear if you only read one paragraph about it: house came first in Chicago, techno came later in Detroit, so techno must be house's little cousin — house with the emotion drained out and the chrome painted on.That's tidy. It's also not what the record shows.Juan Atkins — one of three friends from Belleville who'd go on to shape this whole sound — released "Alleys of Your Mind" under the name Cybotron in 1981, on his own tiny label, out of a relationship formed at community college with a Vietnam veteran named Rick Davis, a synth expert with serious gear who taught Atkins the basics of electronic production. The record sold well locally around Detroit before most of Chicago's foundational house records had even been pressed.So this was never really a straight line — Chicago first, Detroit downstream. This was two things happening at close to the same time, in the same Midwestern corridor — Chicago on one end, a small town called Belleville outside Detroit on the other — connected less by geography than by records, machines, radio signals, and hunger.The cleaner file, the one we're opening today, says this: Chicago house and Detroit techno are fraternal twins. Not identical. Not parent and child. Born close together, sharing real DNA, raised by two different rooms.And when the family tree gets filed wrong, everything after that gets distorted — who gets called original, who gets called derivative, who gets centered, and who gets footnoted.Case note two: the DNA.Before we get into what made these two sounds different, I want to be honest about what they actually share, because the twin metaphor only works if the DNA is real.Both cities were drawing from disco and its afterlife. Both were drawing from funk and soul — Detroit especially from Parliament and George Clinton, whose influence on the Belleville Three runs so deep that Derrick May would later describe their entire sound as, in his words, something like George Clinton and Kraftwerk trapped in an elevator with nothing but a sequencer to keep them company.Both cities were drawing from European electronic music — Kraftwerk's fingerprints are on both Chicago house and Detroit techno, just pressed down with different weight.Both cities had access to the same generation of drum machines, synthesizers, and sequencers, newly cheap enough for teenagers to get their hands on — the same handful of Roland boxes showing up in bedrooms on both sides of this story, even if the exact gear evolved a little differently city to city.And both cities had radio as a lifeline. Chicago had WBMX and the Hot Mix 5, turning club music into citywide youth culture. Detroit had a DJ named Charles Johnson — everyone called him The Electrifying Mojo — who ran a five-hour show called The Midnight Funk Association on WGPR, with no format restrictions at all. One night he might play Kraftwerk's "Trans-Europe Express" back-to-back with Parliament, then Prince, then something nobody in the room had a name for yet.Same DNA.Different nursery.That's the whole case.First nursery: Chicago.We're not going to rebuild the Warehouse for you again — you already know that room. You already know Frankie Knuckles and Ron Hardy and the Music Box. You already know Jesse Saunders and "On & On" and the whole contested first-record argument.That's Episode One's file.What I want you to hold onto here, for comparison's sake, is the shape of Chicago's upbringing.House was raised inside a room.A specific address.A specific crowd, packed close enough to become one organism.A specific DJ reading that crowd in real time and deciding, song by song, whether tonight's version of the record worked.Chicago's question, the one baked into the music itself, was:How do we hold this room together until sunrise?That's the nursery.Bodies.Sweat.Proximity.A dance floor that could kill a record or crown it.So if Chicago's twin was raised by the room, Detroit's twin was raised by the signal.Second nursery: Detroit.Now here's the twin nobody raised in that room.Juan Atkins, Derrick May, and Kevin ...
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    14 分
  • S4 E1: Who Built The House in House music? A Cold Case

    S4 E1: Who Built The House in House music? A Cold Case
    2026/07/01
    Send us a text if you like it and want more of it. Season 4, Episode 1: Who Built the House? A Cold CaseHey my sexy listeners, it’s thatpodcastgirl Cdub, and This is Season Four of This Is A Podcast About House Music. And this season, we're doing something different.We're treating the history of this genre like a case file cuz ya’ll love true crime podcasts.Case file number one. The question everybody thinks they already know the answer to:Who invented house music?Ask a casual fan, you'll get one name back almost every time: Frankie Knuckles. The Warehouse. Chicago. Done. Next question.And look — that answer isn't wrong, exactly. It's the same way "Al Capone ran Chicago" isn't wrong. It's true enough to repeat at a party. It just isn't the whole file.Because the second you start pulling threads, you find other names insisting they belong in this story too. A guy named Jesse Saunders, who says he made the first house record, on vinyl, that you could actually buy. A guy named Chip E., who says Saunders is wrong, and that his record is the one that actually invented something new. A DJ named Ron Hardy, at a club called the Music Box, where songs didn't get released so much as they got put on trial in front of a dance floor that could make you or break you in real time.So here's the case we're opening today. Not "who did it" — because "it" isn't a crime. The case is: how did the story get this scattered? And what were we actually looking for when we asked the question in the first place?Let's start with what we thought we knew, because you have to state the assumption clearly before you can take it apart.The assumption is this: Frankie Knuckles invented house music at a club called the Warehouse.Here's the version of that story you've probably heard. 1977. A club owner named Robert Williams opens a members-only spot at 206 South Jefferson Street in Chicago. He brings in a DJ from New York — Frankie Knuckles — to run the booth. The crowd is Black, Latino, largely gay, and they are there to dance in a way that most of America's clubs were not built for. Knuckles plays disco, imports, reworked soul and funk records, stretching songs out, building the night like it's one long piece of music instead of a sequence of singles.And then — as the story goes — kids around the city start going to record stores asking for "that music they play at the Warehouse." Somebody shortens it. "House music." A genre gets its name from a building.It's a great story. It's got a location. It's got a hero. It's got an origin myth as clean as anything Marvel ever put out. Frankie Knuckles becomes "the Godfather of House," and the case, as far as most people are concerned, is closed before it opens.But here's the thing about clean stories.They're usually hiding a body.So let's actually build the case file. Because once you lay the evidence out side by side, you start to notice something — nobody's lying, exactly. They're just each holding a different piece of the same crime scene.The Warehouse is real. It opened in 1977, it operated until 1982, and Chicago's own city landmark records confirm that this was the room where Frankie Knuckles helped shape what would become house music. That's not folklore — that's in a municipal document.But here's the complication. In its early years, the Warehouse wasn't playing "house records." There was no such thing yet. It was playing disco, it was playing imports, it was playing reworked soul and funk cut up and extended for the dance floor. The Warehouse might be the birthplace of a culture and a name — but it was not, in its first years, the birthplace of a recorded genre. Those are two different crime scenes, and we've been treating them like one.Knuckles earns the title "Godfather" honestly. He came out from New York after Larry Levan — a legendary DJ in his own right — turned the Warehouse residency down. Knuckles spent years building that room into one of the most important spaces in Chicago nightlife.But — and this is the complication that keeps showing up in this case — Frankie Knuckles didn't make the records. He shaped a room. He didn't stamp vinyl. If the question you're actually asking is "who made the first house record," Frankie's name doesn't even come up first.Which brings us to our next suspect.In early 1984, a DJ named Jesse Saunders releases a track called "On & On" on his own label, Jes Say Records. It's built around a Roland 808 drum machine, and it's widely cited — including by most historical accounts — as the first house record ever pressed to vinyl.This is a genuinely different claim than "invented house." This is "made house into a product." Before Saunders, house was something you experienced live, in a room, mixed by a DJ. After Saunders, house was something you could hold in your hands and sell.But — and here's where the case file gets messy — not everyone agrees "On & On" deserves that crown. Which brings us to our fourth suspect, ...
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    13 分
  • When The Crate Became Searchable: Beatport, SoundCloud, and the Weight of Endless Music (S3 E8)

    When The Crate Became Searchable: Beatport, SoundCloud, and the Weight of Endless Music (S3 E8)
    2026/06/12
    Send us a text if you like it and want more of it. Hello, my sexy listeners. I'm ThatPodcastGirl C Dub, and This Is A Podcast About House Music.Let me take you somewhere.It's a Saturday. Not morning yet — that thing after morning where the light hasn't figured out what it wants to be. You're standing in a record shop. Not browsing. Waiting. The man behind the counter is watching your face while the needle drops on something he hasn't told you the name of yet. And the kick lands, and something shifts in your chest, and you don't say anything because you don't need to. He already sees it. He pulls the sleeve from under the counter and slides it toward you like a secret.That was the whole thing. That moment was the whole thing.The search had geography. It had weather. It had train rides and phone calls and handwritten track IDs on folded pieces of paper you kept in your coat. It had standing there with headphones pressed to your ears, heart doing something, nobody naming it.Before digital files filled the booth, discovery lived in physical places.Then the map changed.In 2000, Kevin Lewandowski built something that looked, from the outside, like a database.Discogs started as an archive for electronic music. But what it really was — what it became — was a memory. A living one. A place where the credits could be corrected, the aliases finally connected, the white labels identified, the forgotten pressing traced back to a person and a session and a year. House music is full of hidden lines. One producer under five names. One vocalist uncredited on a remix that became bigger than the original. One dub that circulated for a decade before anyone pinned down who made it.Discogs didn't make the music easier to feel. It made it easier to follow.That's a different kind of gift. Don't underestimate it.Meanwhile, the booth was changing shape.DJs were moving toward laptops and CDJs and digital files — and the music they actually played, the underground stuff, the stuff with feeling in it, was almost impossible to buy cleanly. You might find it on LimeWire. You might find a mislabeled rip that sounded like it had been recorded through a wall. You might find a version that cut off before the outro. You might find a folder with someone's initials and nothing else, a file you couldn't identify until you played it on a system loud enough to matter.Eloy Lopez asked a question that sounds obvious now and wasn't obvious at all then: Why can't we buy the music we love digitally?That question became Beatport.Jonas Tempel, Eloy Lopez, and Bradley Roulier launched it out of Denver in 2004. A store built for DJs. Genre filtering. Label filtering. Charts. Release dates. The bins never closed. The shipment could arrive while you were home in your pajamas. A record could go from label to folder to booth inside a week.The crate had become searchable.And I want to sit with that for a second, because it sounds like pure progress. It was, in some ways. But something else was also happening. Discovery was becoming visible. A chart wasn't just a list — it was evidence. A DJ could see what everyone else was buying. A label could see what moved. The record shop had trained DJs through scarcity. You could only buy what reached you. The digital archive was training DJs through something else entirely. Abundance. Which sounds like freedom and sometimes is and sometimes isn't.Traxsource knew the difference.Brian Tappert and Marc Pomeroy — Jazz-N-Groove, Soulfuric, Soulsearcher, Urban Blues Project, names that mean something if you know, and if you're listening to this podcast you know — helped build Traxsource as a home for real house music in the digital marketplace. The language was deliberate. Real house music. Soulful. Deep. Vocal. Afro house. Garage-leaning records. Music that still carried the fingerprints of singers, arrangers, basslines, gospel chords, rooms where the groove needed to breathe.Beatport could feel like an airport terminal. Huge, moving, all signs and categories, every genre sitting next to every other genre like they're the same distance from the door. Traxsource felt closer to the shop. Not because it was small — but because someone behind the counter still knew what you meant when you asked for something with feeling in it.Two different philosophies. Both necessary. One teaching the algorithm, one protecting the lineage.Then the blogs happened, and everything got loud and intimate at the same time.Anthony Volodkin was a student in New York in 2005, frustrated by how slow magazines and radio were moving compared to what he was reading online. MP3 blogs were posting actual songs — not writing around music, sharing it. He built Hype Machine to index those blogs, turn scattered posts into a single living feed of what people were actually talking about.For dance music, this mattered because discovery went social again — even when nobody was in the same room.A track could travel through a write-up and a ...
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    11 分
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