The 'Joe Rogan of the left'? Adam Friedland can barely put his pants on
Adam Friedland is pacing his apartment on Zoom, glasses sliding, hair a little greasy, the way your friend looks when the call runs long. "I don't know how any of this is happening. I barely know how to put my pants on!" he says. Then he laughs, half-nervous, half-daring you to believe him. And still, here we are - people calling him the "Joe Rogan (movies and tv series) of the left."
It's absurd to him. It also says something real about where political talk has moved. Podcasting - once a side hustle with a cheap mic - is now where big fights and unexpected breakthroughs happen. Friedland's YouTube talk show, The Adam Friedland Show, started as a joke on old-school TV - the '70s set, the Dick Cavett (movies and tv series) vibe - and somehow turned into a place where politicians, stars and internet creatures get weirdly honest.
The show's racked up more than 70 million views across two seasons. Not bad for a guy best known, until recently, for co-hosting a provocatively titled comedy podcast and getting swept into a Matty Healy (movies and tv series)/Taylor Swift (movies and tv series) internet mess. Friedland studied Middle Eastern studies, thought he'd go into law, then fell into stand-up. Now he's fielding headlines that suggest he "could be the Millennial Jon Stewart (movies and tv series)" and shrugs: "Shame on society for anyone applying any of these labels to me."
He says he's not building a movement - he's telling jokes
Friedland bristles at the idea that his show is a political project. "I don't want the show to be 'of the' anything," he says. "I think that typically makes comedy not funny, and I just want to make a funny show." He'll tease it, sure - at one point joking he's the "Mahatma Gandhi (movies and tv series) of Generation Alpha" - but the point is to make guests relax and talk like humans.
That's his secret weapon. He flatters and needles, vape in hand, wearing his dad's suit ("we have matching bodies," he deadpans). He's clearly done the homework, then acts like he hasn't. It disarms people who are used to sparring on cable hits and walking away untouched.
The moment that changed the temperature
The show tipped into the mainstream conversation after an episode with Rep. Ritchie Torres (movies and tv series), a New York Democrat known for his support of Israel. Friedland - the son of South African Jews who spent a year in Israel after high school - got emotional pressing Torres on his stance. It wasn't a gotcha. It was raw. The clip spread fast, picking up praise from people who don't usually retweet comedians.
Friedland swears it wasn't planned. He'd booked Torres because his life story - poverty, a suicide attempt, getting to Congress - moved him. "I think it's important for Jewish people to speak up and express solidarity with Palestinians," he says. "But what was difficult about that for me is I'm a freaking comedian! I'm not used to presenting myself in that way."
Here's why it resonated: it didn't sound like a Senate hearing. It sounded like a person asking another person to drop the talking points. "Let's cut the bullshit, can you just talk like a human for a minute?" That's the energy. It's also the gap traditional shows keep missing.
There's a video available with this story - the Torres interview. It will appear below. You can also watch it directly on YouTube.
Platforming or puncturing? He knows the criticism
Some fans hate that he hosts conservative commentators or chaotic YouTube guys with big audiences. Is he laundering their image? Or letting hollow arguments fall apart in daylight? Friedland's take is blunt: these figures already reach millions. "If you disagree with something, if it's absurd to you, as a comedian you joke about it," he says. He points to an older radio era where offensive guests were brought on to be mocked, not sanitized.
"So what (movies and tv series), I'm supposed to make him look like he's Adolf Hitler (movies and tv series)?" he adds about one guest. "That's just the hyperbole of the internet." His goal isn't humiliation; it's comfort. Get someone comfy enough and they tell you who they are. That's the bet. And honestly, he's right about one thing: audiences can hear what's hollow.
Why this matters for anyone making talk TV
The late-night model is wobbling - we've all seen it. A few headlines, a canned story, roll the clip. Meanwhile, a looser, scrappier version of the format is thriving on YouTube. Friedland jokes he was expecting "nation states" to call by now - "Gulf states or the Chinese, perhaps. I mean, I'm open for business" - but there's a serious undercurrent. The talent, the risk, the energy? It's online.
For people programming talk blocks or booking guests, here's what Friedland's run is signaling right now:
- Audiences crave unscripted emotion over tidy arguments. The Torres clip worked because it felt uncoached.
- Research matters, but the tone matters more. He's prepared, then undercuts himself to lower the guest's guard.
- The set can be shabby; the stakes can't. The questions need to feel like they come from a real person living through this moment.
- Mix the guest list. Politicians, pop figures, internet personalities - the friction creates its own heat.
Who he invites - and why it's working
This season he's bounced from Sarah Jessica Parker (movies and tv series) to Senator Chris Murphy (movies and tv series) to Amanda Knox (movies and tv series), plus controversial names who come with baggage. He insists the aim isn't exploitation. "I just want to do something that can be both compassionate but also funny," he says. "Being nice is kind of difficult to make funny."
So he treats the internet like a living room. There's the vape. The fidgeting. The pauses that PR reps hate but viewers trust. And there's the line he keeps toeing: curious, not cruel.
The weird humility at the center of it
Friedland credits Trump for legitimizing the medium. "I owe so much to Trump. He really did legitimise a platform," he says. It's a bit provocative, sure, but he's making a practical point: politics followed the audience - and the audience went online.
He also can't resist breaking the spell. "They think I'm Foucault or something but, literally, I'm just wearing glasses," he says. "I'm one of the dumbest guys ever. Genuinely, this is a house of cards that is going to come tumbling down." It's self-effacing, and maybe it's armor. But it's also part of why guests unclench around him.
Here's what this could mean
People are tired. "It's the most demoralised and bummed out I've ever seen American people," Friedland says. He's 38, grew up here, and wants to make something that doesn't leave viewers feeling worse than when they clicked. Not a sermon. Not a dunk tank. A conversation that's messy and funny and sometimes hits a nerve.
Maybe it's timing. Maybe it's luck. But if you make shows for a living, you can feel the shift: the audience will forgive low-gloss if the talk feels true. The trick - and Friedland's figured this out - is sounding like a person first, a platform second.
Note: This article includes a video from the show. The player will appear below automatically.
If you want a deeper profile on Friedland's rise, GQ's feature is a solid companion read.
The Adam Friedland Show streams on YouTube with new episodes on Thursdays.
