Keen On America

Andrew Keen
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Nobody asks sharper or more impertinent questions than Andrew Keen. In KEEN ON, Andrew cross-examines the world’s smartest people on politics, economics, history, the environment, and tech. If you want to make sense of our complex world, check out the daily questions and the answers on KEEN ON. Named as one of the "100 most connected men" by GQ magazine, Andrew Keen is amongst the world's best-known technology and politics broadcasters and commentators. In addition to presenting KEEN ON, he is the host of the long-running show How To Fix Democracy and the author of four critically acclaimed books about the future, including the international bestselling CULT OF THE AMATEUR. Keen On is free to listen to and will remain so. If you want to stay up-to-date on new episodes and support the show, please subscribe to Andrew Keen’s Substack. Paid subscribers will soon be able to access exclusive content from our new series Keen On America – keenon.substack.com

  1. 8h ago ·  Video

    Breaking ICE: Sonali Kolhatkar Explains Why Only the People Can Save the American Republic

    “It’s a dying gasp of white supremacy — and I say dying with a caveat, because that part depends on us.” — Sonali Kolhatkar   Yesterday, Wendy Lesser suggested that Americans can learn much from the anti-fascist history of Berlin in the 1930s. Today, Rising Up With Sonali host Sonali Kolhatkar is even more explicit. Yes, she argues in her new book, Breaking ICE, the 2020s are eerily similar to the 1930s, especially in what she calls “state terror” and “MAGA fascism.”   In 2023, Sonali Kolhatkar came on this show to talk about Rising Up, a book about the power of narrative. Three years later, her new book describes what she sees as the dying gasp of white supremacy. But to fully die, she argues, the community needs to rise up. So, like the perennial fascist threat, the ability to tell stories is a perpetual feature of politics. Thus Breaking ICE, Kolhatkar’s story of stories about community defense against MAGA fascism.   Five Takeaways   •       Narrative Is Everything. The crackdown, Kolhatkar argues, was built on stories: immigrants “poisoning the blood of the nation” — Hitlerian language, used repeatedly — recast a population of workers and families as criminals, justifying the funding, the raids, and the denial of due process. The counternarrative is her book’s project: the activists who retold the story of ICE agents as Gestapo-like masked thugs, and did it so successfully that public opinion has swung back. Trump, she argues, overplayed his hand — every day brings another story of a Trump voter whose spouse is deported at a routine check-in, protesting “this is not what we voted for.” The sequel to Rising Up thus practices what that book preached: narrative as the primary weapon of politics — a weapon, she notes via Springsteen and the protest singers, that artists have always wielded and the right has lately understood better than the left. •       A Dying Gasp — With a Caveat. Asked flatly whether this is a repeat of the 1930s, Kolhatkar answers yes — and adds that the echo is deliberate, down to “homeland,” a favorite term of the Nazis that George W. Bush domesticated. But the deeper lineage is homegrown: her interviewees Ibram X. Kendi and Robin D. G. Kelley trace American fascism through Native dispossession and mass enslavement — authoritarian, anti-democratic, racist. ICE, on this reading, is simply race-based policing restored. Hence her verdict: “a dying gasp of white supremacy,” with the caveat that the dying depends on us. No magic bullets, no finish line: “democracy is an ongoing exercise. There is no resting when it comes to freedom.” Fittingly, the episode lands the day after Wendy Lesser’s Berlin hour — Kolhatkar making explicit what the cautionary mirror implied. •       The Mamdani Lesson. The hour’s sharpest political analysis: flip the script on electoral politics. Politicians want elections as popularity contests — “this is who I am, who’s behind me?” — when voters should be saying “this is what we want, who will back our demands?” The not-Trump ad is the losing move: it was Hillary Clinton’s approach, Kamala Harris’s approach, and now Xavier Becerra’s in California. The winning move is Zohran Mamdani’s: voters could instantly name what he was for — free buses, city-run grocery stores, rent control, universal childcare, fixed potholes. Her model is the civil rights movement, which didn’t wait for a savior politician but marched and forced hands. And her defense against the radicalism charge: what the American left demands — healthcare for all — is centrist in Europe. If public schools are education for all, why not Medicare for All? And to Andrew’s pushback — doesn’t Abolish ICE alienate the persuadable middle? — her answer is the polling: majorities already oppose the raids, because Trump overreached. •       What State Terror Looks Like. The subtitle’s claim, cashed out: downtown Los Angeles under curfew, freeways shut, armed National Guardsmen at the federal buildings — and the refrain she heard nationwide: who will save us from these masked thugs? The realization that the police belong to the same structure taught the lesson in her credo: only the people can save the people. The terror is bureaucratic as much as theatrical — green-card applicants seized at airports en route to see friends, families ripped apart, and 20,000 immigrant children stripped of legal representation in defiance of a law George W. Bush signed (“who we thought at the time was the fascist authoritarian and is now, you know, like a Democrat”). Against it, the book’s nineteen voices — from Maine to Georgia to LA — deploy whistles, bullhorns, patrols, documentation, and, in a civil-rights echo, holding hands and singing to bring the temperature down. With Viet Thanh Nguyen, Kendi, Kelley, and a foreword by Roberto Lovato supplying the long view. •       Detention Centers & Data Centers. The conversation’s bridge to this show’s long Luddite summer: Kolhatkar sees the fight against immigrant detention centers and the fight against AI data centers as one struggle, since both, she argues, distract from and serve the same billionaire fleecing — “if we are busy blaming the day laborer at the street corner for stealing our job, we’re not gonna look at what Elon Musk has done.” Even MAGA voters, she notes, don’t want to live next to either. On movements that wither, her revision: Black Lives Matter didn’t fizzle, it was muzzled — Musk bought Black Twitter, its biggest bullhorn — and its abolitionist platform reads as current as ever: take the first four letters away from police, and you’re left with ICE. Her ask of journalism itself: solutions journalism — start with how people are fighting back, not one more story of how they’re being crushed.   About the Guest   Sonali Kolhatkar is an award-winning multimedia journalist and the founder, host, and executive producer of Rising Up With Sonali, the long-running television and radio show airing on Free Speech TV and Pacifica stations. A senior editor at YES! Magazine and writing fellow at the Independent Media Institute, she is co-director of the Afghan Women’s Mission and serves on the board of the Justice Action Center. Her books include Rising Up: The Power of Narrative in Pursuing Racial Justice, Talking About Abolition, and Bleeding Afghanistan (as co-author). Breaking ICE: Community Defense Against State Terror and MAGA Fascism (Seven Stories Press) gathers nineteen of her conversations from the front lines, with a foreword by Roberto Lovato.   References:   •       Breaking ICE: Community Defense Against State Terror and MAGA Fascism by Sonali Kolhatkar (Seven Stories Press, 2026). •       Rising Up: The Power of Narrative in Pursuing Racial Justice — the book behind her first Keen On appearance, three years ago. •       Among the book’s nineteen voices: Viet Thanh Nguyen, past Keen On guest Ibram X. Kendi, Robin D. G....

    Breaking ICE: Sonali Kolhatkar Explains Why Only the People Can Save the American Republic

  2. 1d ago ·  Video

    What Berlin Teaches Us About Resisting Tyranny: Wendy Lesser’s Cautionary Mirror for Our Times

    “Hitler had to abolish democracy to take over Berlin.” — Wendy Lesser   “Ich bin ein Berliner” (I Am a Berliner), JFK famously said in West Berlin on June 26, 1963, in the face of Soviet imperial tyranny. Today, Wendy Lesser is offering the same defiance in her new book Berlin Before and After. Only Lesser offers a cautionary mirror for our times of not just post-Soviet Putin but also wannabe-tyrants like Trump.   Lesser’s loving portrait of Berlin is of a free city. She reminds us that even in Germany’s darkest hour, Berlin never actually went Nazi. The city voted left up to and including 1933, so Hitler had to abolish democracy to take it over. Nor, Lesser argues, was Nazism a reaction to Weimar Berlin’s Cabaret-style nightlife, any more than Trump is a reaction to wokeness. Economic forces, not cultural ones, she insists, enable dictators.   Today’s Berlin, as a city that memorializes its own crimes, offers America an urban lesson in acknowledging historical guilt. That’s what makes Berlin such a defiant beacon of freedom in our authoritarian age. There are more urbane cities than Berlin, but none quite as dedicated to freedom. Go there and/or read Berlin Before and After. Today we should all be Berliners.   Five Takeaways   •       Our Own 1929 — or 1932? The book began as a love letter to the Berlin Lesser adopted in 2003 — the everywhere writer of Berkeley, New York, and Berlin, against Lampedusa the ultimate somewhere, who never left Sicily and carried Shakespeare through the coffee houses of Palermo. But as she wrote, America’s condition worsened: “We were not only in our own 1929, but perhaps in 1930, ’31, or even ’32 — verging on our own descent into frightening dictatorship.” Hence the subtitle’s cautionary mirror — though history, she insists, never exactly repeats itself, and the American analogies came unforced, surfacing every thirty or forty pages without hammering. Being an everywhere, she says, doesn’t make you write better — Lampedusa proves that — “but it improves your life,” and it gave her the subjects her native California never could. •       Berlin Never Went Nazi. The episode’s revelation: the city of Weimar flamboyance never gave the Nazis a majority — Berlin voted left up to and including 1933, and “Hitler had to abolish democracy to take over Berlin.” From which follows her sharpest argument: Nazism was not a backlash against Berlin’s sexual and artistic freedoms, “just as I do not see the election of Trump as a reaction to so-called wokeness or trans rights. Cultural manifestations do not cause such government changes. Economic forces do” — wealth gaps, regional deprivation, the east feeling second-class, then and now (the AfD’s heartland). The direct equivalences are rhetorical: America’s poisoned-blood language on immigrants comes “straight from the Goebbels playbook,” and the rights that flowered in twenties Germany were “instantly squished” in the thirties. As for today: the AfD polls high before Berlin’s September city elections, but the firewall holds — and the party is formally flagged by German intelligence as constitutionally dangerous. Andrew’s question stands: any vaccines for this thing? •       1929: The Year Everything Premiered. Why that year: Grosz, Sander, and Otto Dix at their peak; Brecht and Piscator both premiering; All Quiet on the Western Front, the underrated Grand Hotel, and Berlin Alexanderplatz in the bookshops — plus Thomas Mann’s Mario and the Magician, the novella that predicted fascism; Billy Wilder still a weekly-paper journalist shooting his first film; and Christopher Isherwood arriving on the first visit that became Goodbye to Berlin and, via Broadway, Cabaret. “Only in retrospect do we see these things as major.” The culture flourished beside economic and political chaos — “having a terrible government is not inconsistent with producing good culture. Look at nineteenth-century Russia” — and when the chaos won, the exiles washed up in the German ghetto of Los Angeles: Brecht (on the beach, per this week’s Baerwald episode), Döblin, Mann. Many went back — Brecht in 1949, Piscator after — because in Hollywood and New York they “couldn’t live on the thin slice of culture,” a homesickness Lesser saw again in Berkeley’s own Czesław Miłosz, watching Americans like children playing in a sandbox. •       After Means 1989. The title’s twist: the After is not the Nazis’ arrival but the Wall’s fall. The dark half-century — twelve years of Reich, then “with barely a pause to take a breath” the divided city — is deliberately skipped: “the city is going to tell you what happened,” through what its monuments confess, like Bebelplatz’s memorial to the burned books of May 1933. Berlin now wears its freedom knowingly: graffiti flourishes precisely because speech was twice policed; May Day’s bottle-throwing is tolerated and swept up; Freiheit arrives like the choral finale of Beethoven’s Ninth — Andrew’s analogy, which she embraced with irony, since “nobody is totally free these days.” The Wall’s hothouse island remains separate from Germany half a century on. And the city stays cinematic to the point of unreality — Wings of Desire’s angels in the actual Staatsbibliothek (“I thought it was just a set”), Babylon Berlin’s set-choosers clearing away the present — with a thriller shelf to match: Deighton’s Berlin Game (freshly reread on his death), le Carré’s Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Herron, McEwan, Schneider’s Wall Jumper. •       A Mirror That Might Become Useful. Berlin’s deepest lesson is for after the fall: it is the city that acknowledges its bad deeds — monuments and plaques saying this is where we did it — while America “likes to brush it all aside and act like we’re always the heroes.” Andrew’s pushback landed: Montgomery, Bryan Stevenson’s lynching memorial, the African American Museum — “You’re right. I’m not being fair.” But the qualification sharpens rather than sinks the thesis: “we do not have a history yet like Holocaust Germany or even Berlin Wall Germany… It’s a mirror that might become useful if the worst comes about.” Meanwhile Berlin models the livable city: rent control the voters wanted to push all the way to expropriation, transit worth “ecstasies,” and a constitutional welfare clause promising a dignified existence — economic rights our Bill of Rights never mentions. The book ends aboard the M29 bus, top deck, regular fare, from the Maybachufer’s twice-weekly market (running since before 1929) across the old West to Grunewald. “Maybe you’re going to be made into a Berlin angel.” “A great fate.”   About the Guest   Wendy Lesser is the founding editor of The Threepenny Review, the celebrated Berkeley literary quarterly, and the author of a novel and twelve works of nonfiction, including You Say to Brick: The Life of Louis Kahn (winner of the Marfield Prize), Why I Read, and Scandinavian Noir. A fellow of the American Academy of Arts & Sciences, she has held fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the NEH, the Cullman Center — and the American Academy in Berlin, where her love affair with the city deepened. Berlin Before and After: A Cautionary Mirror for Our Times (Harper, September 2026) is her portrait of the city in 1929 and now. She divides her time between B...

    What Berlin Teaches Us About Resisting Tyranny: Wendy Lesser’s Cautionary Mirror for Our Times

  3. 2d ago ·  Video

    A Global Storm in a Capitalist Teacup? Jeremy Adelman on Why There’s No Exit to the Market

    “There’s no exit in capitalism.” — Jeremy Adelman   Is that ongoing quarrel of modern politics, the battle over capitalism, just a storm in a teacup? Economic historian Jeremy Adelman thinks it might be. In The Capitalist Era, Adelman argues that all camps — left and right, Keynesian and Hayekian, socialist and libertarian — accept the unavoidability of global capitalism. There is no alternative, as Mrs Thatcher used to annoyingly say. Although Adelman, certainly no Thatcherite, isn’t celebrating the apparent inevitability of our capitalist epoch.   What interests Adelman is the making and unmaking of what he calls the “global mind.” The revolutionary quality of capitalism, he says, is that we now think of strangers as somehow part of our community. So when Adam Smith, the moral philosopher father of economics, drank his Chinese tea while reading of a deadly earthquake in China, he recognized that capitalism inevitably entangled our moral thoughts with our self-interest.   It wasn’t just economists who began to think differently of strangers. Artists as varied as Picasso, Joseph Conrad, and the photography-obsessed Émile Zola all made this moral inquiry of strangers the heart of their work. Yes, Adelman is probably right to say there’s no capitalist off-ramp in our post-global economy. But capitalism’s octopus-like “global mind” and its (mis)treatment of strangers should turn all economists into moral philosophers and all artists into observers of economics.   Five Takeaways   •       The Mind, Not the Material. Against Sven Beckert’s material history (which Adelman admired and reviewed in Foreign Affairs), The Capitalist Era studies how we think about capitalism — because the thinking sets the policies, creates the attachments, fuels the wars, and builds the institutions. Capitalism, on his dating, is an eighteenth-century invention that dawns with Adam Smith’s “commercial society”: the first economic system to tie strangers across the whole planet into one interdependent web — global from the very start. Its founding text is a thought experiment: Smith’s gentleman of humanity, drinking Chinese tea while reading of a Chinese earthquake, asked whether he minds the deaths of thousands as much as the pain in his little finger. The marketplace entangles our moralities — and the question of whether sympathy can keep pace with self-interest has governed the global mind ever since. •       No Exit in Capitalism. For or against? A fair question with a layered answer: we are all heirs to the Marxist tradition — inequality and exploitation are inherent to interdependence, and “the propensity to be predatory coexists with the propensity to be empathetic.” But the trap is real: “there’s no exit in capitalism” — leaving is so punitive that every socialist revolution has paid catastrophically, a logic Adelman calls part of “the awful cunning” of the Trump administration’s economic statecraft. Keynes versus Hayek? When Andrew suggested it amounted to a family squabble — a storm in a teacup — Adelman largely agreed: both camps accept that we live inside capitalism, arguing only over how to live interdependently. No exit, though, doesn’t mean no alternatives: the argument worth recovering — lost since the globalization of the 1980s was “dumped on us” — is which form of interdependence we actually want. Gramsci’s interregnum, the time for monsters, is exactly when that argument matters. •       The Veil Between Strangers. The book’s gallery: not only philosophers but artists — Picasso, the poets, Borges (“I have a hard time writing any book without” him) — and above all photographers, because how we think about strangers is mediated through media. Smith’s verb was to see: the stranger’s invisibility was the whole problem, and photography — cheap to reproduce, claiming realism — promised to remove the veil. Zola was obsessed with it; street photography made New York and London legible as cities of vice and poverty; and the Opium War photographs that reached London in the 1860s forced a scandal, because this suffering was inflicted by our own troops. But seeing bred a new problem Smith never foresaw: indifference — too many images numbing the sympathies they were meant to awaken. In today’s supersaturation of digital and artificially generated strangers, the early doubters’ warning compounds: market interdependence plus growing indifference between the interdependent is “a recipe for calamity.” •       Earth Hunger. The charge that capitalism is eating the planet is as old as capitalism: the era of Hobson’s Imperialism named the West’s insatiable appetite to conquer and carve — “earth hunger” — after the Boer War. Joseph Conrad and Roger Casement traveled the Congo River together: Conrad turned it into Heart of Darkness; Casement wrote the first great humanitarian reports — rubber for Europe’s bicycles and tires, extermination for the Congolese and then Amazonians — before renouncing the crown, joining the Irish rebellion, and hanging for treason. Slavery runs through the same river: on Smith’s mind from the start, the plantation bonanza’s awkward foundation, with dehumanization as extraction’s precondition — a through line to the 1930s. To James Crawford’s vanishing earth (last week’s episode), Adelman offers a friendly dissent: the earth isn’t vanishing, but the accelerating metabolism of resources — extracted inhumanely for those who live there — is stressing the system. Alternatives exist; exit does not. •       Hoard the Returns, Externalize the Burdens. Adelman refuses the apocalypse chorus: end-time arguments breed cynicism — grab what you can while you can — which is precisely what turned the 1930s murderous; and the great debate the 2008 crisis should have sparked was stifled by crisis management that worked too well. “Neoliberalism” he finds overblown — the world is a mixed, messy hybrid, China neither socialist nor neoliberal — and the Thucydides Trap is a “silly metaphor”: Sparta and Athens were never as interdependent as China and the United States. Hence the closing duel: Carney versus Trump as two arguments inside the global mind about how to need strangers. Trump, the Toronto-born historian argues, is no isolationist — his is a global vision that wants to “hoard the returns and externalize the burdens,” punishing the asymmetrically dependent (Canada above all) through a predator’s bilateralism whose 1930s pedigree Adelman names with discomfort. And China? Sitting on the sidelines, courting Canada, playing “an old game” of constructing and dividing markets — as old as the global mind itself.   About the Guest   Jeremy Adelman is the Henry Charles Lea Professor Emeritus at Princeton University and professor of history and director of the Global History Lab at the University of Cambridge. Born in Toronto and educated at Toronto, the LSE, and Oxford, he has lived and worked in seven countries. His many books include Worldly Philosopher: The Odyssey of Albert O. Hirschman and Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic. The Capitalist Era: The Making—and Unmaking—of ...

    A Global Storm in a Capitalist Teacup? Jeremy Adelman on Why There’s No Exit to the Market

  4. 3d ago ·  Video

    Before Abe Was Lincoln: Jonathan Earle on the Most Important Election in American History

    “Seward had all the money and Seward had all the bullies. Lincoln didn’t have money or bullies, but by God, he had the people.” — Jonathan Earle   Yesterday, Kurt Andersen fictionalized a 21st-century broken America without an Abe Lincoln as savior. Today we talk about the man himself with Jonathan Earle, author of He Has the People, a new history of the 1860 election that made Lincoln president and probably saved the then young Republic.   Earle’s mission is to bring Lincoln down from Mount Rushmore. He tells the story of a flesh-and-blood politician, a six-foot-four autodidact who, in 1859, was barely known outside Illinois. What changed everything was John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry in October 1859. Lincoln recognized as much, spending the winter in the archives of the State Library of Illinois, then delivering a speech at Cooper Union that won over the New York media. Then onto the Republican convention in Chicago where the wily Lincoln ran rings around the establishment candidate William Henry Seward.   In 1860, Abe Lincoln became Lincoln. The rest is history. He Has the People should be required reading for both obscure Republicans and Democrats planning to run for president in a fatally divided election. Earle suspects that 2028 might be as historic as 1860. Perhaps it will deliver another politician with the wit and wisdom to bring a broken America together. Somebody who, like Abe, has the people.   Five Takeaways   •       Before Abe Was Lincoln. Earle’s stated mission: take Lincoln off Mount Rushmore and out of the throne Daniel Chester French sculpted, and restore the flesh-and-blood politician — “among the canniest politicians our country has produced, maybe the planet.” The pre-marble Lincoln: born in an actual Kentucky log cabin, wholly self-taught (favorite book: Euclid), the first genuinely Western president, six-foot-four when most men stood five-eight, a storyteller who learned politics riding the Illinois judicial circuit — breaking bread and sharing mattresses with judges and rival counsel — his ambition, in his law partner’s famous phrase, a little engine that knew no rest. In 1859 he was barely known outside Illinois, a one-term ex-congressman regarded as vice-presidential material at best — the Jon Ossoff of his day, Earle suggests: making noise, not yet a name. Americans declare every election the most important in history; Earle’s answer is the book’s premise: hold on — it’s not 1860. •       The 9/11 Before the Election. For decades both parties buried slavery beneath compromises — 1820, 1850 — until a tiny, hated minority of abolitionists forced the question. Then John Brown and twenty-one followers seized the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry in October 1859, intending to arm the enslaved (a plan so improvised, Earle notes, that Brown didn’t bring lunch). The raid detonated inside a presidential campaign — as if 9/11 had preceded the 2000 election, or Pearl Harbor come before FDR’s 1940 reelection — and it scrambled the chessboard: after Brown, every Southerner saw a secret John Brown in every Northerner, every Northerner saw a Slave Power that had run all three branches since the founding, and compromise died. Earle’s verdict, unusual for a historian: the Civil War was inevitable after John Brown — the only question was who would be in charge when it came. •       Chicagoland. Lincoln’s self-introduction was the strangest in campaign history: a tour of Bleeding Kansas (“the Gaza of the day”), then a winter of archival research in the State Library of Illinois, proving the founders believed they had the power to stop slavery’s spread — delivered at Cooper Union in February 1860 in a reedy high voice that nonetheless won Horace Greeley and the New York press: his Obama-in-Boston moment. William Henry Seward — the famous New York senator, the Hillary of the piece — led the first two convention ballots. But Lincoln’s handlers had pulled off the venue coup of the century (Chicago, his home state) and worked the smoky backrooms with offices, favors, and newspapers while their candidate wired “make no promises that bind me.” Seward was soft in Ohio and Indiana; the Republicans needed Pennsylvania, Indiana, Illinois; and a shocked Lincoln man coined the title: Seward had all the money and all the bullies — “but by God, he had the people.” Andrew’s caveat: in Chicago, “the people” were power brokers. •       A Revolution, Reported from Paddy’s Run. The general election was really two simultaneous contests: Lincoln versus Douglas in the North, Breckinridge versus Bell in the South — four candidates winning electoral votes, resolved as 180 for Lincoln (152 needed) on 39.8 percent of the popular vote, the lowest winning share in American history, with a scarcely believable 81.8 percent turnout. The franchise: white male citizens, no property requirement, citizenship easy enough that Democrats met the Irish ships at the docks — simultaneously the widest political participation on the planet and a restriction whose repair (the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments) would shut suffragists out for two more generations. Earle’s narrative spine is Murat Halstead of Paddy’s Run, Ohio — the nation’s first campaign journalist, the only man at all seven of 1860’s conventions, a Seward man who called it straight: this was a revolution — the first antislavery party wresting Washington from “Northern men with Southern principles” like Buchanan, Van Buren, and Pierce. And in the secession winter, Lincoln refused to compromise the victory away: We won. •       Is There a Lincoln Out There? Lincoln tops every presidential ranking, Earle argues, because he grew — the arc Earle compares to Bobby Kennedy’s journey from McCarthyite to tribune of the poor. This Lincoln moved from denying racial equality in 1860 to a final speech — John Wilkes Booth in the audience — endorsing the vote for Black Union soldiers: killed, in effect, for the growing. He held the 1864 election in the middle of the war he expected to lose it (Earle’s pointed contrast: Zelensky’s wartime postponement — “I think that’s a mistake”). To Andersen’s cheerful breakup scenario, the LSU historian — whose Louisiana is one-third African American — gave a hard no: disunion meant “unremitted servitude forever,” and the republic needs Mississippi and Wyoming alike. For 2028: historical contingency always wins — nobody had heard of Obama two years out, and the general public hasn’t heard the next name either. “I do think that there is a Lincoln out there. I do.”   About the Guest   Jonathan Earle teaches history and politics at Louisiana State University, where he has been Dean of the Ogden Honors College since 2014. A historian of antebellum American politics, he is the author of Jacksonian Antislavery and the Politics of Free Soil, John Brown’s Raid on Harpers Ferry, and (as co-editor) Bleeding Kansas, Bleeding Missouri. He Has the People: Abraham Lincoln and the Election of 1860 (Oxford University Press, Pivotal Moments in American History series) draws on t...

    Before Abe Was Lincoln: Jonathan Earle on the Most Important Election in American History

  5. 4d ago ·  Video

    When America Broke Up: Kurt Andersen Looks Forward to the Divorce of the United States

    “We are the beginning of a bright and shiny dark age.” — Kurt Andersen, from The Breakup   It’s 2045 and America has got divorced. That’s the premise of The Breakup, by the historian and novelist Kurt Andersen. “The future is fiction. It hasn’t happened yet,” the historian in Andersen reminds us. But his near-term fictional future, an America of civil war and national divorce, certainly isn’t inconceivable. Nor, in an increasingly divided United States between high-tech coastal elites and a medieval hinterland, does such a scenario appear quite as nightmarish as it once did.   In contrast with the bloodiness, say, of Alex Garland’s Hollywood version of an American civil war, Andersen’s literary breakup is the “scattered violence of a Middle Eastern kind.” Lebanon comes to the United States in the form of loosely confederated militias, assassinations and kidnappings. This war kills 28,000, half of them civilians. It could have been worse. Indeed, it is worse today — when compared to the 44,000 people killed by guns each year.   The novel also tells the story of the breakup of a twenty-three-year marriage between the Tennessean poet Natalie and the San Francisco tech bro Asher. Natalie doesn’t much like Silicon Valley and warns that “we are the beginning of a bright and shiny dark age.” But for Andersen this age isn’t totally dark. Marriages and countries break up, he reminds us, and that is often the beginning rather than the end of the story. Not quite darkness at noon. So get ready for the mid-21st-century break-up of the United States. Such a split might actually be brighter than America’s current dark marriage.   Five Takeaways   •       The Future Is Fiction. After Fantasyland (five hundred years of how America went haywire) and Evil Geniuses (the last fifty), Andersen considered a third history — of the future — and realized the genre is folly: futurism is just experts guessing, Alvin Toffler in a new suit. “The future is fiction. It hasn’t happened yet. It’s imaginary until it happens.” So the trilogy’s conclusion became a novel — his fifth — and the bookseller algorithms’ “dystopian” label gets a correction: dystopian satire, maybe, but “we are in a dystopian period now.” Where Alex Garland’s Civil War embedded journalists inside the fighting, The Breakup lives with a couple seven years after it — the good, the bad, the thank-God-we-were-okay — and, chalk it up to the Midwestern upbringing, it ends ambiguous but not without hope. •       A Manageable Civil War. The backstory his fictional journalism flashes back to: a blue political comeback — Supreme Court expansion, Puerto Rico and DC statehood — ignites a ferocious right-wing backlash, and the violence that follows is “scattered… of a Middle Eastern kind”: loosely confederated militias assassinating, kidnapping, and bombing, while a presidential administration insists it’s a crime spree — until the military crushes the insurgency with drones and robots in eighteen months. The toll: 28,000 dead, half civilians, 45,000 wounded — numbers Andrew notes are roughly a single year of American gun deaths, and that Andersen’s character Natalie keeps in proportion: “could have been worse… We’re not living in Mad Max time.” Against the 1860s — millions dead from a far smaller population — this is a war America can talk itself into surviving. Which may be the scariest thing about it. •       The Disunion’s Logistics. The novel’s deep research problem: how would you actually do it? You can’t draw an 1860 line, because the real divide runs between cities and countryside, not North and South — so the negotiated Disunion takes seven years, producing Natalie’s Free American Republic and Asher’s smaller United States. The Brexit analogy gets swatted (“the EU is not a country” — this is a whole different deal), balkanization into five or twelve republics is doubted (the prosperities of scale), and the best twist is secessionist remorse: Montana runs the numbers and realizes the West, unlike the South, gives more to Washington than it takes — so why join them? Beneath it all, the state nobody thinks they need: Medicare, Social Security, the federal machinery people discover only as DOGE-style contempt dismantles it. And still, the magic holds: immigrants keep coming, because only in America do you become American by showing up. •       The Soft Breakup Papers. The nonfiction beneath the novel is Andersen’s New York Times essay: America as a long, loveless marriage — separate lives, separate tracks, staying together for the kids — that may already have had its soft breakup. His research assembled what nobody had put together: ten- and twenty-state climate alliances, sanctuary cities, Second Amendment sanctuary states and a thousand such counties — “governmental apparatuses emerging for these separate governments” since 2009, unremarked because the only people saying “national divorce” were Marjorie Taylor Greene and Rush Limbaugh, and nobody serious could agree with them. The mechanism is Hemingway’s bankruptcy: gradually, then suddenly. Fintan O’Toole warned him the book could become self-fulfilling prophecy; Andersen answered that the elephant in the room must be named — and he has the Cassandra receipts, having published Fantasyland’s post-truth diagnosis before Trump was first elected. “Don’t blame me. We’ll reconnoiter in ten or twenty years.” •       A Bright and Shiny Dark Age. The episode’s keeper, from the novel’s tech-despising heroine: “We are the beginning of a bright and shiny dark age.” One political party marches back toward the medieval — no public health, no vaccines, no intellectualism — while the Bay Area ships magic, William Gibson’s unevenly distributed future arriving all at once. In 2045, AI is background hum “like electricity,” the tech trillionaires are plural, and the robots are everywhere and unremarkable — though Andersen’s own book trade is his caution against straight lines: print was declared dead fifteen years ago and still sells half of all books. The age of anxiety — the loneliness, social media’s riled-and-angry business model (30% of the blame or 70%, “but it’s large”), a president “selling pessimism” in his simultaneous idiocy and brilliance against optimism’s old American pillar — reads, in the novel’s hindsight, like the premonition of the breakup. And yet no zombies, no rubble: not without hope.   About the Guest   Kurt Andersen is the New York Times bestselling author of the histories Fantasyland: How America Went Haywire and Evil Geniuses: The Unmaking of America, and the novels Turn of the Century, Heyday, True Believers, and You Can’t Spell America Without Me. Co-founder of Spy magazine and longtime host of the Peabody-winning public radio program Studio 360, he has written for the New York Times, Vanity Fair, and The New Yorker. The Breakup (Random House, August 2026), his fifth novel, is set in the AI-suffused, post-civil-war America of 2045 — “the most brilliant social novelist of our time,” per Walter Isaacson, “in the tradition of Tom Wolfe and Don DeLillo, but even funnier and deeper.”  ...

    When America Broke Up: Kurt Andersen Looks Forward to the Divorce of the United States

  6. 4d ago ·  Video

    An Unknown American Hero: Katie S. Sanders on the Man Who Saved Her Grandfather's Life in WW2.

    Grandfathers, grandfathers. Yesterday, David Baerwald talked about his grandfather, Ernst Baerwald, an American spy in Second World War Japan. Today, Katie S. Sanders talks about her grandfather, Murray Simon, whose life was saved by an American spy in Second World War France. In Ortiz’s War, co-authored with historian Nicholas Reynolds, Sanders writes about Peter Ortiz, who became the Allies’ secret weapon against the Nazis in France.   With his stunning looks, Ortiz might have been a Hollywood creation. Polylingual Franco-American aristocrat, French Foreign Legion, race-car driver, circus lion tamer, the most battle-decorated member of America’s first spy agency. He even played himself (anonymous brave soldier) in a number of post-war Hollywood movies. I wish he was my grandfather.   Five Takeaways   •       The Spy Who Saved Her Grandfather. Murray Simon was a 23-year-old Jewish kid from Queens who had never flown before the Army Air Forces trained him — then sent him over occupied France in a black-painted B-24 Liberator carrying spy supplies and carrier pigeons for the resistance. Shot down on May 6, 1944, a month before D-Day, on an OSS mission whose standing advice was don’t get shot down — spies were tortured and killed, not taken prisoner — he was hidden by a Bulgarian-born Jew passing as Catholic, a man with an eight-month-old daughter and a pregnant wife who was “already supposed to be dead” and opened his door anyway. Smuggled onward, Murray was intercepted by Peter Ortiz — and made it home to the GI Bill, a family, and what he called “the warm womb of Uncle Sam.” Katie never met him; the book is her way of meeting him. “I gravitate towards stories of resistance, probably in part because I’m a product of one.” Publication day: the anniversary of the liberation of Paris. •       No Peacetime Soldier. Peter J. Ortiz’s résumé reads like an unpublishable novel: son of a founding editor of Paris Vogue; French boarding-school runaway into the Foreign Legion (North Africa, Casablanca included); merchant seaman, dude-ranch manager, race-car driver, circus lion tamer; wounded fighting the Germans in 1940, captured, serially escaped — once off a hospital train under a dead soldier’s identity; docked in New York the day after Pearl Harbor and enlisted in the Marines, rising to become the most battle-decorated member of the OSS and one of the most decorated Marines of the war. His military file: not a good candidate for a desk job, ever. He spoke five languages, not Wikipedia’s ten (“Wikipedia is a storyteller”), walked into bars in occupied France wearing his Marine uniform, and wrote his own epitaph in a twenty-page memoir: “I’m no peacetime soldier.” Afterward: John Ford’s Hollywood, minor roles, his own uniforms as costume — and no bragging, ever. •       The Heroic Surrender at Centron. The book’s climax is Operation Union II, August 1944 — Ortiz’s own inter-Allied mission into the Alps, culminating in the massive “Le Grand Parachutage” supply drop to the Maquis. He recruited his own Parris Island parachute instructors — Marines who remembered the legionnaire who blew them all away at boot camp — plus Francis Coolidge: Harvard dropout, fellow Foreign Legion veteran, and great-great-great-grandson of Thomas Jefferson. When his patrol was surrounded at the village of Centron by vastly superior German forces on a murderous late-war rampage, Ortiz chose saving the town over fighting — the surrender as the war’s most heroic act, bravery as the capacity to think while being shot at. Centron celebrates him every year; Katie was just there with Marines stationed in Germany, for the eighty-second anniversary. Guiding lights: noblesse oblige, Don Quixote, and a lifelong allergy to McCarthyism. •       Wild Bill’s Wartime Startup. The OSS — forerunner of the CIA, whose Langley lobby still holds Wild Bill Donovan’s statue — was, in Katie’s telling, a wartime startup: 13,000 military and civilian personnel, mostly Wall Street lawyers, bankers, cryptographers, and cartographers, with a tiny operational subset that included Moe Berg, Virginia Hall trekking the Pyrenees on a wooden leg, and Ortiz. Donovan — World War One Medal of Honor recipient, FDR’s “secret legs,” the man who could “see an acorn, envision an oak tree” — was banned from D-Day as the one man carrying too many secrets, and went sniffing around anyway. J. Edgar Hoover was considered for the job and rejected, with Churchill’s SOE helping tip the choice. “I respect Donovan a lot more than I respect J. Edgar Hoover.” The lineage runs straight to today’s Navy SEALs and MARSOC — including past Keen On guest Brandon Webb. •       Are We in 1939? Katie walks the museum timelines — 1933, and it’s “not great”; 1936, and the warnings mount; “I certainly hope we’re not in 1939.” Against Andrew’s needling about greatest-generation nostalgia (via Brandon Webb’s complicated heroism, Kristin Beck’s good-and-evil seduction, Richard Overy’s question of whether the war ever ended, and Matt Damon’s regret-soaked Odysseus), she holds the line: someone like Ortiz is great in any time — and especially needed when democracy is under threat. The warfare itself has closed its chapter: her grandfather’s black-painted bomber and carrier pigeons have become Ukraine’s drones, delivering aid with less risk and less human connection alike. What survives the technology is the lesson: heroes don’t brag — her grandfather and Ortiz would be mortified by the spotlight — and by illuminating what they did, the rest of us might learn to do the right thing.   About the Guest   Katie S. Sanders is an award-winning journalist who has written for National Geographic, The New York Times, Washington Post Magazine, TIME, Smithsonian, and Vanity Fair. Her reporting has brought her to the CIA, the White House, and the homes and reunions of World War II veterans and Holocaust survivors. After discovering that her late grandfather — a Jewish-American pilot shot down over France — was rescued by Peter Ortiz, she teamed up with the historian Nicholas Reynolds (Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy) to co-author Ortiz’s War (Harper Horizon, August 25, 2026). A summa cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, she lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.   References:   •       Ortiz’s War: The Allies’ Secret Weapon Against the Nazis in France by Nicholas Reynolds and Katie S. Sanders (Harper Horizon, August 25, 2026). •       Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy by Nicholas Reynolds — the co-author’s Hemingway biography, the book that put him on Katie’s radar. •       The Fire Agent by David Baerwald — yesterday’s episode: another grandfather, another secret war, rendered as fiction where this one insists on fact. •    &nb...

    An Unknown American Hero: Katie S. Sanders on the Man Who Saved Her Grandfather's Life in WW2.

  7. 6d ago ·  Video

    From Japan With(out) Love: David Baerwald on His Grandfather Spy Who Helped Flatten Tokyo

    “That’s how I would picture fascists: this never-satisfied, dissonant climb to nothing… to ruin.” — David Baerwald   Earlier this month, the historian James M. Scott came on the show to talk about those three deadly days in August 1945 when the Americans dropped two nuclear bombs on Japan. Today we return to that war in the skies above Japan. Only with a fictional twist.   Behind this fiction, however, is the kind of family saga that few novelists have either the nerve or imagination to invent. It concerns three generations of the Baerwalds. In the Thirties, a German Jewish organic chemist called Ernst Baerwald worked for (of all people) I.G. Farben, the company that manufactured the gas used at Auschwitz. A sophisticated Japanophile, Baerwald was Farben’s man in Tokyo, where he hobnobbed with a member of the royal family. American intelligence turned Ernst Baerwald into a spy, using his intimate knowledge of Japan in their firebombing of Tokyo. In exchange, Baerwald fled to the United States with his wife and son Hans, who became a leading authority on 20th century Japanese politics. Hans’ son, David Baerwald, meanwhile, became a platinum-selling musician who has worked with Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Rickie Lee Jones, Sheryl Crow, and Bruce Springsteen.   Growing up in California, David knew little about Ernst. But seven years ago, while clearing out the family home after the Los Angeles fires, he discovered his grandfather’s diaries, photographs, and letters. He found a 1943 speech to the American Intelligence School proving that Ernst, a German Jew who loved Japan, knew the details of the Tokyo firebombing in which 140,000 people died, two years before it happened.   “I have no qualifications as a historian,” David Baerwald confesses. So what followed was The Fire Agent, a 624-page novel loosely imagined around his grandfather’s enigmatic life. But what David brought to this epic was a lyricist’s skill in the kind of musical composition that enabled him to keep characters in play like sections of an orchestra. No wonder then that The Fire Agent is one of the most acclaimed literary debuts of the year. And no wonder that, in our age of looming fascism, The Fire Agent reads as more than just history.   Five Takeaways   •       Papers Found in a Fire. The novel began, appropriately, in flames: during a Los Angeles fire at an old family home, Baerwald discovered his grandfather’s papers — among them a 1943 speech delivered at the American Intelligence School in San Francisco, proving that Ernst Baerwald was deeply involved in, or at least privy to, the planning of the Tokyo firebombing two years before the bombs fell in March 1945. The shock was moral as much as archival: everything David knew of his grandfather was how much he loved Japan and hated what happened to it. The contradiction became an obsession, the obsession became an investigation — of one family, and of the joining of industry and fascism in three countries — and the investigation became a novel, because “I have no qualifications as a historian” and a novel allows some jokes to carry the tragedy’s weight. •       The Man Who Knew Where the Gas Was. Ernst Baerwald, the family’s “dye seller,” was nothing so modest: dyestuffs being slang for organic chemistry, he was Asia director of the chemical cartel that supplied IG Farben — the conglomerate that built a work camp at Auschwitz — a violinist mentor to Prince Takamatsu, and a German Jew too valuable to fire until far too late. He helped build Tokyo’s natural gas distribution system after the Kanto earthquake, which meant he knew every depot, fuel store, and pumping station in the city he loved — knowledge that made this dual enemy alien mysteriously trusted by American intelligence. His OSS box is nearly empty; the OSS Society’s verdict was “he was a commie.” Behind him stands the Philanthropin — the Frankfurt school of the Jewish Enlightenment his father Hermann ran — which raised Ernst antifascist before fascism existed: “before he was a German, before he was an American, before he was a lover of Japan, he was a hater of tyranny.” •       “So We Firebombed the Civilians.” The moral reckoning at the book’s heart: 140,000 killed in Tokyo, sixty-five more cities burned — while the industrial strip from Tokyo to Yokohama was deliberately spared, because America wanted it intact to rebuild the Japanese economy after the war. Baerwald calls the firebombing “an atrocity of unspeakable terms” and, following Gar Alperovitz, questions the necessity of the atomic bombs — a message to the Soviets more than a strategy against Japan. His father, scheduled for the invasion that never came, felt lifelong relief at Hiroshima — one of many things father and son never discussed. “Why do fathers and sons have problems? A lot of reasons.” The writing became a posthumous reconciliation: “I understand more of my father than I ever did when he was alive. I’ve forgiven him a lot.” The next book is about him — the UCLA Japan scholar who lost his security clearance to McCarthyism for being insufficiently anti-communist about China. •       From Boomtown to The Fire Agent. What a songwriter brings to a 624-page epic: reliability — a working lyricist learns he can “write a page on demand” — and orchestration, since composing instrumental music means keeping track of characters the way you track an orchestra, knowing what each instrument cannot play. Baerwald’s formation was the émigré Los Angeles of a breakfast joint on the Pacific Coast Highway where his surf crew gathered mornings — the same tables once shared by Duke Kahanamoku, Bertolt Brecht, and Stravinsky, in the Santa Monica neighborhood of Thomas Mann, on the street where James Dean later lived. Brecht was always his favorite lyricist, a secret he kept: in Los Angeles, admit you want to write songs like Brecht and “they lock you up in a padded room.” The German Jewish musical tradition that fled to his hometown now flows, a generation on, back into prose. •       The Music of Fascism. The novel’s present-tense purpose: fascist movements “have a very limited vocabulary,” and sometimes it’s easier to hear how stupid it is from the mouths of foreigners. The mechanisms — how such movements are funded, how they function, what they do with total power — were identical in Germany, Japan, and Italy, and the contemporary echoes are “impossible to avoid. They’re identical.” All three countries ended as rubble. In Japan, where prime minister Takaichi stands in the lineage of Kishi Nobusuke and Nanking denial persists, the conservatives will object; Baerwald hopes to spark debates. And asked what neo-fascism sounds like, he composed it: Kundera’s kitsch — the child in the field, the tear on the cheek, “sanitized absurdities because the truth is so bloody awful” — rendered as a music-box melody gradually tortured by Ligeti dissonance, resolving into the Shepard tone: an audio illusion of endless ascent that never arrives. “That’s how I would picture fascists: this never-satisfied, dissonant climb to nothing… to ruin.”   About the Guest   David Baerwald is an award-winning singer-songwriter, composer, and recording artist, best known fo...

    From Japan With(out) Love: David Baerwald on His Grandfather Spy Who Helped Flatten Tokyo

  8. 6d ago ·  Video

    We Are (Not) the Champions: Why Silicon Valley Isn’t Providing an AI Human Dividend

    What’s the truth about our AI future? Our guests have different takes. On the one hand, Dave McClure and Aman Verjee predict a $7 trillion future for just three AI startups in 2027. On the other, Salima Bhimani doesn’t believe that Silicon Valley has the imagination to create the moonshot to address our jobless future.   For That Was The Week publisher Keith Teare, it’s a time for what he calls “champions.” What he wants is the development of a “human dividend” from intelligence. Supposedly this will be provided by the multi-trillion dollar AI companies like OpenAI and Anthropic that will pioneer the social ownership of intelligence. But a Norwegian-style Human Wealth Fund is about as likely, I suspect, as a new Freddie Mercury recording of “We Are the Champions.”   Dream on. Salima Bhimani is right. The moonshot to fix our jobless AI future won’t come out of workaholic Silicon Valley. Look elsewhere for those types of champions, my friends. Brazil perhaps. The movie, not the country.   Five Takeaways   •       The Zeitgeist Exaggerates. The week’s split screen: a $7 trillion future for OpenAI, Anthropic, and SpaceX on one side; Ed Luce’s “AI phobia” consensus and Jill Lepore’s AI-versus-the-people politics on the other. Keith’s contrarian read: the negativity is loud but thin. Most intelligent people already use AI daily — from high school onward — and simply don’t talk about it; weigh the happy users against the vocal critics and the users “massively dominate.” He suspects a tipping point has been reached, with the anti-AI minority “starting to sound a little cultish.” The political stakes are his real worry: if the Democrats mistake the noise for populism and run against AI, they will lose 2028 “quite heavily” — and Lepore, he charges, is writing opinion, not history. •       Who Are the Champions? The editorial’s diagnosis: the problem isn’t negativity but “the lack of vocal connection between AI and people’s futures.” The champions exist — but they hedge everything into pointlessness, “trained as politicians as opposed to business leaders,” each with a little voice saying don’t upset anybody. “Can you imagine any other major breakthrough in human history where people would be shy to champion it?” His roster pointedly omitted both Dario Amodei and Elon Musk (“fairly balanced with who I left out”); the goal is to assemble the articulate case so “the minority who are politicizing negativity can be exposed as a minority.” Andrew’s genealogy for the project: Nixon’s silent majority, reborn with a token budget. •       90% Sacks — and Squashed Armadillos. The hour’s fault line ran through David Sacks’s tweet: Dario believes frontier AI is “too powerful to distribute”; Sacks believes it is “too powerful to centralize,” fearing a marriage of corporate and state power. Andrew took Dario’s side; Keith claimed the middle until Andrew invoked the Texas rule — the only thing in the middle of the road is squashed armadillos — and extracted a confession: “I agree with Sacks, I’d say, 90%.” The 10% is Keith’s own position: happy with centralized giants (free intelligence needs their investment) and happy with the growing edge — the world’s intelligence in a solar-powered box, no grid required. Dario is championing “handcuffs on AI”; Lepore’s car-regulation analogy fails because corporations are already regulated and AI itself is safe; and Helen Toner’s Hugging Face alarm, aired on Ezra Klein’s podcast, was “contrived in a lab” — a dismissal that sparked the hour’s frenemy flashpoint: “Are you telling me I’m ignorant of something?” •       Metering the Dividend. Keith solved Andrew’s billing mystery on air: the $100-a-month Claude plan that throttled him last week has a quota page he never found — and the price is “actually a very generous amount. They’re losing money on you.” The honest price would be $200 to $400. Hence the editorial’s champion, Stripe: its acquisition of OpenRouter — which routes every prompt across all the models to the cheapest good answer — puts the payments company in the middle of the token traffic stream. Azeem Azhar’s $6 AI agent points the direction: prices tending toward zero at the edge, free for the kid, the school, and the hospital, paid for by the company running three thousand agents — even if delivering intelligence to six billion people ultimately costs tens of trillions. The parable: a Chinese dumpling shop built an agent API so customers’ AIs could place orders, and sales went through the roof — the corner store getting a website, circa 1994. “You could do it with Keen On,” Keith noted. Meanwhile founders live like Captain Kirk on the bridge — productivity through the roof, but the agents must be flown daily. •       The Human Dividend. The coda: Keith’s book is done, and its name is settled — The Human Dividend, asking who owns intelligence. Written in two days, cut from eighty thousand words to sixty in three more — seventeen chapters rewritten paragraph by paragraph in an AI agent’s two-panel editor, purging repetition and AI-isms until “it was a Keith Teare-written book.” The thesis in one line: intelligence is the central product of this era; its surplus is co-produced; the property should be too. The mechanism: a Human Wealth Fund on the Alaska-Norway model — one share per person, given not bought, expiring at death with no inheritance — funded by AI companies donating equity on day one and governed by its own constitution, no state involved (unlike Trump’s $1,000 baby accounts: what the state gives, the state can take away). The pitch to the companies: owners, not just users, are how you win affinity. Sell it or give it away? To be continued in two weeks — Andrew is off to Italy, and Manchester United, who lost to Hull, are off the champions list entirely.   About the Co-Host   Keith Teare is the co-host of the weekly That Was The Week segment on Keen On America and editor of the That Was The Week tech newsletter. Founder and CEO of SignalRank Corporation, he was previously a founder of TechCrunch (with Michael Arrington), Archimedes Labs, EasyNet, and cyber café Cyberia. A serial entrepreneur across four decades of Silicon Valley and London tech, he writes weekly on the state of innovation — and is completing his first book, The Human Dividend.   References:   •       That Was The Week — Keith Teare’s newsletter; this week’s editorial: “Who Are the Champions?” •       Ed Luce’s Financial Times column on “AI phobia” as America’s new consensus — its third invocation on this show in a week. •       Jill Lepore’s FT weekend essay and new book on “AI versus the people” — the politics of 2026 and 2028, per America’s best historian. •       David Sacks’s tweet on Dario Amodei — “too powerful to distribute” versus “too powerful to centralize” — the hour’s fault line. •       Helen Toner’s conversation with Ezra Klein on the Hugging Face incide...

    We Are (Not) the Champions: Why Silicon Valley Isn’t Providing an AI Human Dividend
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Nobody asks sharper or more impertinent questions than Andrew Keen. In KEEN ON, Andrew cross-examines the world’s smartest people on politics, economics, history, the environment, and tech. If you want to make sense of our complex world, check out the daily questions and the answers on KEEN ON. Named as one of the "100 most connected men" by GQ magazine, Andrew Keen is amongst the world's best-known technology and politics broadcasters and commentators. In addition to presenting KEEN ON, he is the host of the long-running show How To Fix Democracy and the author of four critically acclaimed books about the future, including the international bestselling CULT OF THE AMATEUR. Keen On is free to listen to and will remain so. If you want to stay up-to-date on new episodes and support the show, please subscribe to Andrew Keen’s Substack. Paid subscribers will soon be able to access exclusive content from our new series Keen On America – keenon.substack.com

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  • Creator
    Andrew Keen
  • Years Active
    2019 - 2026
  • Episodes
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    Explicit
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    © 2026 Andrew Keen
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    Keen On America

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