Meta's Threads and All the Smoke podcast highlight the future of community and connectivity

LOS ANGELES –– Indelible connections often unassumingly begin. They make their marks on out hearts and psyches with the whisper of a question: What if?

What if a link could be more than a link? 

What if sharing a favorite podcast episode felt less like a broadcast and more like an invitation? 

Earlier this month, Threads answered. Meta introduced features that let podcasters and their afficianados plant their flags, pinning their work to their profile with pride.

They made episode shares not just visible, but vibrant. This was the technical seed. But the true story is about the soil where it was planted. 

This is about the community that formed around a restaurant called Somerville.

To cross its threshold was to slip through time. Its decoration is an homage to the loving spectral echoes of Black excellence speakeasies that defined the Harlem Renaissance. This was no mere venue; it was a vessel. 

Wooden beams, skeletal and sincere, stretched overhead like the bare ribs of a great, welcoming beast, married to the soft glow of romantic lighting. 

The air hummed with a latent energy, the quiet thrill of a secret too good to keep. Plush brown seats held bodies leaning in, not back. This was the clubhouse for a playground's elite, and on Thursday, the NBA was the conversation.

On delicate plates, the philosophy of connection was served in edible metaphors. 

Scrumptious tuna tartare, a diminutive masterpiece, its ginger-soy dressing performing a delicate dance on the palate. A sesame ice cream cone waltzed in perfect, savory harmony with shallots and chives. 

Truffle-flavored popcorn bursts with umami —a complex chorus of garlic, pepper, and a unique woodsy blend—each bite a tiny explosion of crafted communion. 

And weaving through it all, the sultry, sinuous voice of Briana Washington at the piano, wrapping around ballads like "A Lovely Day." This was the soundtrack of shared humanity.

Because some truths are universal. Food, music, sports—these are the ancient, unbreakable codes that bypass borders, beliefs, every arbitrary self-absorbed monument that we build. 

They are the common tongue. And in this temple of that truth, Threads made its stand, not with a mere press release, but with a party.

At the center sat Connor Hayes, Head of Threads, a man whose love for basketball was the engine of this experiment. His was not a corporate passion. It was born in the upper deck of the old Boston Garden, a childhood etched with the struggles of a bad Celtics team and the singular obsession with a player like Ron Mercer. 

"I've been watching…I could watch all 82 games of that team," Hayes said. His fan's heart still beats beneath a builder's hoodie. 

For him, Threads was a chance to rebuild the digital arena as it should be: a "second screen" where the community's roar during a Wembanyama highlight feels electric, intimate. 

"I have a ton of people that I've met through Threads who are also Celtics fans," Hayes shared, describing a group chat that spanned from the Philippines to Brazil. "One person… made Joe Mazzulla magnets for everybody and mailed them to them. That's the kind of magic we're trying to create."

His vision is to formalize the fellowship fans have already forged. To add the flair of team loyalty, so "you know who you're dealing with." 

To move from hot takes to heartfelt bonds. 

This event, Hayes noted, was about "the intersection of podcasts that are growing, communities that are growing on Threads, and commentators that we think speak to us."

And into this curated crucible stepped the day's hosts. Matt Barnes. Stephen Jackson. And their guest, the formidable, unfiltered Kendrick Perkins.

The podcast taping of "All the Smoke" became a séance. 

The proverbial smoke cleared not to obscure, but to reveal. 

Perkins, the ESPN persona known for volcanic takes, softened into something more vulnerable, more valuable. 

He spoke of the athlete's tunnel vision, a poignant regret that hung in the perfumed air. 

"One of my biggest regrets as a player," Perkins confessed, "we may pass people up, they may give us their business cards. We keep it moving… Now we're in this space… those business cards actually mean something."

It was a stunning admission of life deferred, of human connections missed in the single-minded pursuit of the game.

He dissected the alchemy of team chemistry not with cold stats, but with the warmth of memory. He shared where things went awry in Oklahoma City.

"After you won a championship, man, you think you was the reason why. Everybody in the locker room think they was the reason." 

His analysis was layered, empathetic, and born of experience. This was the content Threads dreamed of housing: not just debate, but depth. Not just reaction, but reflection.

Meta's Jocelyn Jones, from Threads, watched it fuse into her soft manifesto. 

"We think that Threads can be the place," Jones said. "Where's the conversation that happens around podcasts? There's not a natural place… So, like, why not there be a place for that to happen?"

Somerville was the answer. It was the "why not." 

It was the physical manifestation of a digital thesis: that discovery is not a fleeting feeling, that discussion is a meal, that community is a melody you feel in your bones. 

The new features on the app are mere signposts. Still, this—this warmth, this whiskey-washed wisdom, the collective silence of onlookers who hung on to every word as "Big Perk" peeled back layers of his persona, exposing a vulnerable underbelly, was the destination.

As Meta updates their code, users of the platform will find convenants in their conversations. 

In a room lit by the glow of screens and content creators, where common threads formed the smells of truffles and heritage wafted, uncommon connections.

The joy of discovery has found its home. And this, as they say, is just the opening act.