Procyon lotor
By Conrad Weems
Fig. 1A - Toki Whisky & Highballpandemic + Garage + Bandit = Story
Fig. 1B - Simulcra Portrait, “The Raccoon”Thursday, 9:30pm – July 24th64 degrees, 70% humidityHe’s a pirate radio DJ, and he’s late. Fiddling with his setup. “Be right back,” he says.
When he’s recording Raccoon Radio (raccoonrad.io), it’s a one-man act. No streaming, no distractions—just him, his music, and a story told in songs and scraps of voice. But tonight, the internet’s in the way.
I sip a Toki highball. The cubes clink. A desk fan and dehumidifier groan in tandem. It’s not that hot, but the air clings. No central A/C out here. If you know, you know.
Fig. 2 - Animal // A raccoon operating a personal computer (PC) late at nightTranscript
Conrad: This setup’s audio-only, no video. I like that it auto-transcribes — it’s got a solid filter system.
The Raccoon: Nice. So you don’t have to type much — just copy, paste, and edit?
Conrad: Yeah. Dig through, find the interesting stuff. Toss the rest.
The Raccoon: Delete the parts where we go way off the rails.
Conrad: Exactly. So—how are things?
The Raccoon: Things are good. M[redacted]’s good. It’s been a lot. H[redacted] just got laid off, so we’re figuring that out. I bought her a new laptop—she’s starting to build her own thing now. Work’s been busy, family life, all the usual chaos—plus, you know, the state of the world.
Conrad: Remember when the only thing we had to worry about was staying inside for a couple weeks during the plague?
The Raccoon: Yeah. What was it—three weeks and done? We all behaved responsibly and that was that, right?
Aside
After a brief hiatus, he’s back. New hobbies, new chaos. Boxing classes. A band. “Raccoon stuff hasn’t been high on the radar,” he admits — but that’s changing. With episode 51 on deck, the raccoon mantle is coming out of the closet.
Transcript
The Raccoon: I decided yeah, I want to get back into it. I’ve already got solid notes for a new episode, probably recording that tomorrow—just a getting-back-in-the-saddle kind of thing. Then I’ll tackle the backlog. I’ve got 4 or 5 episodes blocked out for a pretty fun run to close out the season.
Conrad: “For the rest of the season,” in as much as “season” means anything. Unless you’ve got some internal logic there.
The Raccoon: Season means absolutely nothing, really. Technically, Raccoon Radio follows an 11-episode arc, where every 11th episode is a kind of finale or culmination. The arc usually just evolves organically. Honestly, I just like the number 11. And Django wanted visual cues for the podcast feed, so every 11 episodes, he’d change the color of the logo.
That worked for the first few seasons. Then my friend Conrad got really into Midjourney and made this badass cover shot that’s kind of taken over the Raccoon Radio visual universe. That’s now the default cover for everything RR.
“Remember when the only thing we had to worry about was staying inside for a couple of weeks during the plague?.”
Aside
We both chuckle. He’s talking about me.
I’d been dusting off my own projects—trying to get Moosehive out of limbo, wrangling deadlines and mockups into something real. Ten issues a year, five-week cycles, that kind of thing. So when the Raccoon mentioned spinning up the radio again, the timing felt aligned. We started talking about the weight of keeping up—and what happens when you stop trying to.
Transcript
The Raccoon: There’s a big, common problem all content creators have—whether it’s podcasting or making fictional band merch—and that’s expectations. Actually, backing up, one of our biggest challenges as humans is the expectation of other people’s expectations. We hold ourselves to this standard we think others are holding us to.
We believe the audience expects certain things—like consistent output—or we’ll lose engagement, lose attention.
And people already have fractured attention spans. Everyone’s over-consuming media. You can’t talk to someone without feeling behind. There’s no way to see all the shows, hear all the music, watch all the things.
When you’re a content creator, you have to set a low bar for engagement. If I made Raccoon Radio for the sake of engagement, I’d be clinically depressed. Every episode I say, “Hey, if this speaks to you, shoot me an email,” or “Let’s connect.” And I’ve got maybe three people who regularly respond. At this point, it’s just tradition.
It’s rare to get feedback directly. That’s why creators spam content—three videos a week, daily posts—just to keep the endorphins up. But if you only put stuff out a few times a year, you might still have listeners. You just don’t see them.
Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone I haven’t seen in six months, and they’ll drop something I said in an old episode—like, of course they listened. And I had no idea they even knew the show existed.
One time, I walked into a place and said something, and this guy—someone I’d never met in person but had talked to online—looked up and went, “You’re the Raccoon.” He recognized my voice. Total wild moment. I didn’t realize he listened at all.
Weird when those worlds collide.
Aside
We all have personal relationships with music—but for the Raccoon, it’s more than taste. It’s context. A story. He doesn’t announce tracks. There’s no “Next up, Black Sabbath.” He just drops them in. A familiar tune lands differently when it’s the punchline to a personal monologue. Even songs you hate might catch you off guard, reframed in a new emotional lens.
Transcript
Conrad: There’s a lot in what you just said. You drop content into the void because some part of you needs to tell a story—or maybe it’s just the joy of putting together a list of songs that amuses you or hits you emotionally. Your relationship with music is really different from mine. I don’t have a strong personal investment in it. My taste is this eclectic mishmash of things I’ve stumbled into.
The Raccoon: But see—that’s exactly the point. Your relationship with music is just as personal.
For me, expressing that relationship is a hobby. It’s important enough that I feel a kind of obligation to share it—because if I connect to it, maybe someone else will too. We all have a personal relationship to music, but it’s hard to talk about, because our biases get in the way. Two people can love the same thing, but for totally different reasons. So it’s hard to connect, even over shared taste. Your eclectic, weird-ass collection is exactly what I have. I just focus more of my energy on it.
Conrad: For folks unfamiliar, Raccoon Radio is a musical journey. Some episodes have narration, others are just music—maybe one line at the top, then it rides. And part of what makes it interesting is that you don’t name the artists or songs. It’s weirdly frustrating—in a good way.
The Raccoon: Right. And that’s because of those biases I mentioned. If I tell you I’m going to play “Self Esteem” by The Offspring, part of your brain might go, “Ugh, not that again.” But if I just tell a story, and the mic-drop moment is that song—it lands differently.
You might hate it, but maybe now you hear it with new context. Maybe you see why I care about it. And that’s what I’m after.
I love telling stories where every moment is this weird little mic drop. That’s the thrill.
But really, I’m sharing a weird, eclectic, usually socially unacceptable taste in music—and giving people the context to understand why I love it. If you can look at it and go, “Ah, I see why this connects for him,” that’s the bridge. That’s the appreciation.
And that’s the game—can I get someone’s grandma to like death metal? Maybe, if I give her the right lens to hear it.
Fig. 3A - A dumpster
Fig. 3B - A flag, "Jolly Raccoon"
Fig. 3C - A dartboard
Fig. 3D - A pineapple
Aside
The show began in the garage. A global pandemic. Nowhere to go. He couldn’t even walk through the house without interrupting Zoom calls. So he slipped into the garage, threw darts, and talked into a mic—for no one in particular. That was five years ago.
Transcript
The Raccoon: It started with the music.
In fact—I think it might literally be today—that it’s the five-year anniversary of Raccoon Radio. I recorded the first episode almost exactly five years ago. That was three or four months into the Eternal March we talked about earlier.
Once the pandemic hit, H[redacted] had to start working from home. We didn’t have a good setup then—she was at the kitchen table, bouncing between Zoom meetings. I couldn’t walk through the room without being in frame or making noise.
So I ended up in the garage.
Didn’t have much to do—just threw darts and listened to a ton of music. And I wanted to talk about the music, but I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I’d text a friend, like, “Hey, have you heard this album by so-and-so?” Crickets. So I thought—well, I’ve got this recording gear out here. I can’t go in the house. What if I just talk into the mic for a hypothetical audience that might give a shit?
But if I was going to share music, I needed to give it context. To do that, I had to find a voice. A way to tell stories.
The early episodes were clunky. It took a few tries before it sounded natural—and a few more before it became a compelling journey. But once I hit a few key episodes, it clicked.
The story became more important than the music. The music is now an accessory to this weird art form—this storytelling format I’ve never seen anyone else do.
And maybe that’s because it’s fucking impossible. Licensed music is the least internet-friendly thing you can build a show around. I’m basically a walking cease-and-desist order. But I’m proud of what it’s turned into.
It’s storytelling first now—but I still get to share songs people don’t know, or give them a new way to appreciate the ones they think they hate.
Aside
Raccoon Radio operates in a gray zone — the kind of space where storytelling and legality diverge. Every song is paid for. Every transition is intentional. But sharing those tracks online, even in context, can technically violate copyright law. “I’m the guy still buying music,” he says. “And they want to swat me.”
Transcript
Conrad: As a fan of the show, I think the legal landscape around it is fascinating. We live in a world where everything is copyrighted to the gills. There’s content everywhere—but the second you want to remix or share it, suddenly it’s illegal.
You’re kind of a modern pirate radio DJ—but more than that, you’re a storyteller broadcasting in a way that skirts legality. Friends and fans can access it... but technically, you’re sharing copyrighted music.
The Raccoon: Right. “Pirate” is a convenient label—but I’m more Jack Sparrow pirate than Somali pirate, you know?
Every track on Raccoon Radio comes from my personal library. I’ve either bought it or gotten permission from the artist. People ask why I don’t just use Spotify. I do—for backend stuff—but I don’t explore or discover music there. If I like something, I buy it. I want the file so I can use it in my setup.
I’ve got the tools to rip anything off the internet—but I don’t. I only use music I’ve paid for or gotten permission to share. I’ve bought songs I’d never otherwise buy just to get a four-second mic-drop moment. Like, I literally bought a random Jennifer Love Hewitt track because I needed two words from it.
So in that sense, I’m not a pirate at all. But legally? Yeah, I am. Because once I share that music—even paid for—someone can extract it with basic tools and walk away with full, clean copies. And that’s what scares the industry.
In their eyes, I’m a threat. But at the same time, I’m the kind of person who still buys music and encourages others to do the same. I’m the guy appreciating the art and trying to give it a wider audience.
So yeah—it’s weird. I’m a fly they want to swat, but without me and people like me, they’ve got no ecosystem.
Conrad: You’re that guy at the house party with the gray beard, the band tee, and the crates of records. Except it’s digital. You’ll be like, “Hang on, I’ve got just the thing,” and pull it up from your collection.
The Raccoon: Yeah—I’m the digital version of that guy.
Conrad: I’m thinking about Pump Up the Volume.
Remember Hard Harry? Mark Hunter? That movie came recently. I quoted it in a piece about the Soviet rock scene: “Talk hard, steal the air, play it loud. Hang on to your self-respect and let the music blast.” That’s what Raccoon Radio feels like to me. You’ve got something to say—and even though there are rules in place, you transmit anyway.
The Raccoon: Most people wouldn’t guess that if they just ran into me on the street. It’s strange connecting “the voice” with the actual person. Because the Raccoon is a persona—it’s not exactly me.
You mentioning Pump Up the Volume—that hits hard.
Aside
He’s been teasing it for years: a grand Raccoon Radio episode built around Pump Up the Volume. A Gen X cult artifact about teenage rebellion, pirate radio, and finding your voice. The plan was to make it episode 50. Life got in the way.
Transcript
Conrad: What’s the plan now?
The Raccoon: It’s still happening—probably as episode 55, the finale of season five.
I’ve already done interviews with teens to get modern takes on teen angst. Because that’s what the film is about—being young and stuck in a system that’s crushing you, and trying to punch through with a voice that matters.
And I got Ron [redacted] involved—you know him?
He and a friend do a podcast where they analyze old songs and movies through a legal lens. One’s a radio guy, the other’s a lawyer. I asked them to do a breakdown of Pump Up the Volume:
Like—what would really happen if a teen pirate broadcaster pissed off the FCC and got chased through town in a van? What legal consequences would Mark Hunter actually face in 1990?
Conrad: That movie dropped right around when I was starting high school.
The Raccoon: Yeah, and it’s kind of a Gen X artifact. Episode 51 is just a “hey, I’m back” kind of thing, but Pump Up is coming—maybe for 55. And then we’ll launch into the next wave.
Fig. 5 - Entity // ”The Guy”, as spotted at many house parties
Fig. 4 - Christian Slater as Mark Hunter AKA Hard Harry
Conrad: Okay, interviewer hat on. Thinking about the whole arc of Raccoon Radio—there are clearly phases to it. But for you, was there a particular episode that marked the shift? Where it went from “I’m just doing this to stay sane during lockdown” to “I’ve actually found my voice... maybe I’m good at this”?
The Raccoon: Yeah—it was kind of a one-two punch.
Episode five, “Ladykillers”, was the first time I thought, “Maybe I’ve got something special here.” It explored women in heavy metal, and how the neckbeard crowd often snubs them. I built it like a Lincoln-Douglas debate: I’d quote some trollish garbage from forums, then immediately follow it with a knockout track from a woman-fronted metal band. Let the music punch back. That’s where I first realized the power of storytelling through curation.
Then episode seven—”Relationsnipped”—that one’s probably still the best episode I’ve done. It was completely spontaneous. I’d just had a vasectomy, literally sitting on an ice pack, and I hit record. I’d recently rewatched High Fidelity, so I had that retrospective vibe going. I decided to walk through all my past relationships—what I got wrong, where I was the problem—and pair each phase with music that spoke to that time. It was raw, honest, kind of confessional.
And the response? People told me they laughed, but they also wanted to cry. It was real. And that’s when I knew I had something more than just a hobby.
Conrad: I’m glad you mentioned “Relationsnipped”, because that was the episode for me too.
I remember exactly where I was—driving with Kasey to Seattle Children’s Hospital for a prenatal checkup in August 2020. She was pregnant with our son. It was a delicate pregnancy—Kasey has a form of pseudo-dwarfism, and they’d already confirmed our son had inherited it.
So we’re driving, quiet, summer sun... and I put on Raccoon Radio. And “Relationsnipped” hits. You’re talking about your past, totally unfiltered—where you messed up, how you grew. The music is perfect. It’s one of those “no notes” moments. That’s when I thought, “Okay. He’s really doing something here.”
The Raccoon: That’s when I learned that Raccoon Radio only works if it’s genuine. I don’t script much—just get the concept, build the playlist, and hit record. What I say between songs? That happens in the moment. Sometimes I’ll re-record the intro 10 times, but I never write it out. If I did, it wouldn’t land right. You’d feel the difference.
Conrad: Two other episodes stand out for me. First—”Eye of the Storm”, episode 38.
The Raccoon: That one was wild.
Conrad: I won’t spoil it, but readers—go find it. I’ll just say: it’s a journey. You reach the end exhausted. It’s a storm in every sense of the word.
The Raccoon: Exactly. And that’s what I love about it. It sounds too ridiculous to be real. But those are always the truest stories.
Conrad: The other episode I have to call out is “A Quiet Beach”. Jesus fucking Christ, man. That one wrecked me.
It’s about suicide, about your sister, and it feels like we’re eavesdropping on a private conversation—one you didn’t record for us, but shared anyway. What was it like to make?
The Raccoon: That was a cathartic one. I recorded it for the one-year anniversary of the event.
Raccoon Radio’s always been an experiment, and I’m not afraid to break format. Some episodes are scripted, some are interviews, some are just sonic mood boards. But that one was very specific. I made it for one person—and then shared it with everyone else, without context. Dropped you right in.
Here’s the weirdest part—”A Quiet Beach” is probably the most musically accessible episode I’ve done. There are Disney songs in there. Radio hits. Pop tracks. On paper, it’s the lightest playlist. But paired with that story? It’s devastating.
Those contradictions... that’s what Raccoon Radio does best.
Fig. 6 - Surgical Shears for Male Sterilzation. Circa 1874.Aside
We switch tracks, talking about the episodes that didn’t quite land—and the burnout that came with his self-imposed release schedule. Some felt like flops. But he found a fix: go back, and make them better.
Transcript
The Raccoon: Episode 18—”Guitartheist”—is a blast. It’s all about lead guitar solos, which is my thing. I’m air-guitaring the whole time, just grinning. I wanted to follow it with “Guitartheist II: The Unplugging”, about acoustic music. But at the time I was doing an episode every week—this was number 19—and I was burning out. That one just sucked.
After that, I put out a statement saying I needed to slow down. Some folks thought I was quitting. I got a bunch of really touching messages like, “Don’t stop!” So episode 20—”The Truth”—dropped the next week to say, “Hey, I’m still here. Just changing the pace.”
Eventually, I went back and redid episode 19. Now it has this creepy Southern Baptist preacher vibe running through it—totally different energy. Way better.
In another vein: episode 13—”The Signal”. I didn’t have a strong idea going in. Wildfires were raging, COVID was surging again, and I just felt off. So I made the whole thing about that—about the pressure to create when you’ve got nothing to say. It’s actually a great episode now. It was my go-to “start here” recommendation before episode 33 became that.
Conrad: Which is also just called “Raccoon Radio”, right?
The Raccoon: Yeah—episode 33 is a full intro to what the show is, what I do. But back then, 13 was my welcome mat. Because it shows the process—the struggle. It’s me fighting my way out of writer’s block in real time.
Conrad: That’s real. And really healthy. I mean, you know me—I compulsively create. Projects, ideas, distractions. It’s hard to stop.
But realizing “Hey, I can’t do this weekly and keep the quality where I want it”—that’s powerful. It’s easy to burn out.
The Raccoon: Totally. And once I let go of the weekly grind, things got better. Now I average maybe five to eight episodes a year. I skip early-year stuff because I’m a CPA and tax season eats my life. Then I do a few in summer, a few in fall, usually one near year-end. But only when I have something to say.
Not because I feel like I have to say something.
Conrad: That’s the right balance. Even if it frustrates us as listeners—because we never know when the next episode’s coming—it’s better. The episodes hit harder.
You sound refreshed. Like you’re bringing something that’s been percolating. And honestly, part of the fun is figuring out what you’re building. Sometimes it’s clear from the start. Other times, I’m halfway through like, “Ohh, that’s what he’s doing.”
The Raccoon: I appreciate that. It was funny hearing you describe it earlier—you called the journey “frustrating.” Do you actually find it frustrating?
Conrad: Not in a bad way. It’s more like... suspense.
You’re telling a story, but it’s broken up by music. So I have to wait to get to the next piece. Sometimes it’s one song. Sometimes three. And then the voice comes back, and I’m like, “Yes! Now we’re moving again.”
And the music—you don’t tell us who it is. That’s part of it. I might recognize a song, or I might be going, “What was that?” But you don’t say. You’re not that DJ saying, “Coming up next, Jefferson Starship!” You just drop it.
The Raccoon: That’s intentional. What bugs me in media is when the creator doesn’t trust the audience. They spoon-feed everything.
I’d rather invite people to discover things. I layer a lot into Raccoon Radio. Some of it probably never lands—but if you get it, you really get it. I want the “aha” moments. Maybe you don’t get why a song is there right away. Maybe not until two episodes later. But if you care enough to dig, it’s there.
And sure, there are Easter eggs I’ve forgotten I even left. But that’s the fun. I want people who like that kind of art to find that kind of art.
Outro
Conrad: At Moosehive, we explore art, culture, and tech—so music is part of our soul. In this issue I have playlists from contributors inspired by what guests are listening to. So, right now—what’s under your skin? What have you been listening to that you’d like to share?
The Raccoon: That’s always hard to pin down—since I’m constantly discovering—but here’s a snapshot:
Spirit World: old‑school death metal meets country western—“Death Western.” It’s delightfully ridiculous and sticks with me.
Amon Tobin: surreal electronica using real‑world soundscapes. Not ambient—it’s deeply textural and immersive.
Alestorm: because pirate metal is so dumb, and I fucking love it.
Flight of the Conchords soundtrack: the show was written almost around the music. I admire the backward process—songs inspired the narrative.
Professor Elemental: ridiculous chap hop positivity from a guy who sounds like he’s living in 1903. Uplifting and unexpected.
We Lost the Sea: Australian post‑metal—particularly their album Departure Songs. Instrumental, emotional, all about tragedy and sacrifice. Feels like a Raccoon Radio episode in album form.
Conrad: Fantastic. On behalf of Moosehive readers—and me personally: one, you’re one of my favorite humans, and I can’t thank you enough for being the inaugural Under the Hood feature. You’re the pirate‑storyteller‑DJ—wrong word maybe, but the act of Raccoon Radio in issue one just feels perfect. Especially this late‑night, summertime vibe. Thank you.
The Raccoon: The pleasure’s mutual. I really appreciate it.
We gave The Moose the Raccoon’s current listening and asked him to spin out a Mixtape for us inspired by that sound. Here’s what he cooked up for all of us. How did he do?
MIXTAPE // VOLUME: “SPURIOUS DEVOTION”
A Tracklist by The Moose
“Comancheria” – SpiritWorld
A boot stomp straight into hell. Death metal with a six-shooter on its hip. The guitars gurgle like ghosts in barbed wire — it’s cartoonish violence painted with real blood.
“Esther’s” – Amon Tobin
Drips like rain on neon plexiglass. Something’s stalking you in the subway — but maybe it’s your own nervous system tuning in. Found-sound noir, dense as wet velvet.
“Drink” – Alestorm
Idiot joy. Beer-soaked plunder-core with a side of accordion whiplash. This one smells like rum breath and anime conventions. Scream along with your shirt off.
“Robots” – Flight of the Conchords
The future is analog and extremely dumb. Two men from New Zealand gently dismantle dystopia with Casio beats and awkward falsetto. You’ll grin, then cry, then grin again.
“Splendid” – Professor Elemental
Like if Mary Poppins joined Wu-Tang. High tea with breakbeats. Uplift through absurdity, and a monocled man shouting joyfully about trousers. Needed more than you’d think.
“A Gallant Gentleman” – We Lost the Sea
No vocals. Just slow-building heartbreak. Feels like watching your memories drown in amber. Australian post-metal as cinematic elegy — for astronauts, for everyone.
BONUS (if you’ve got three minutes left): “Theme from Sledge Hammer!” – Danny Elfman
Because this whole playlist deserves a curtain call that winks while punching through drywall. Synth horns and slapstick swagger.
