Enjoying the show? Support it here.

The early internet wasn't polished.

It was messy. Colourful. Sometimes impossible to navigate. And it was filled with websites, profiles, and pages created by people who simply wanted to make something that felt like their own.

In the Season 1 finale of Artifacts, Danny Brown explores a time when the internet invited us to create instead of consume. From GeoCities and Angelfire to MySpace profiles, LiveJournal entries, and hand-coded homepages, this episode reflects on an era when every corner of the web felt personal.

But this isn't really a story about HTML, animated GIFs, or visitor counters.

It's about creativity, curiosity, and leaving a little piece of yourself behind in a digital world that encouraged individuality over algorithms.

As the season comes to a close, we look back at the artifacts we've explored, and the memories, friendships, optimism, and imagination they still represent.

Because sometimes the objects fade.

But the feeling doesn’t.

Get involved

If you enjoy Artifacts, you can support it with either a one-off tip, or become a monthly Archivist.

No commitment - just a simple way to say thanks. Show your support here.

If you enjoy the show, I'd love for you to leave a rating or review on your favourite podcast app!

And please let your friends and other podcasters know they can listen for free on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, their preferred podcast app, or online at Artifacts Podcast.

Products I Use for Artifacts

Note: these may contain affiliate links, so I get a small percentage of any product you buy when using my link.

My equipment:

• RODE NT1-A large diaphragm condenser mic
• Rodecaster Pro II audio production studio
• Sony MDR-7506 Studio Monitor Headphones
• Elgato Wave Mic Arm Low Profile

Recommended resources:

• Captivate.fm podcast hosting, distribution, analytics, and monetization
• Hindenburg Pro recording and editing
• Auphonic mastering tool for audio post production

Before we begin, a quick thank you and sincere apologies for no doubt saying

this wrong, since it's a username, to Djfifjenwosmskeoend for their recent

Apple Podcasts review of Artifacts.

DJ wrote, "I really feel drawn to this idea of a slower, more intentional, more human life.

Thank you for reminding me of the reason why I can't seem to throw out my mixtapes or burn CDs.

I like the simplicity and thought in each of the episodes. Keep them coming."

DJ, thank you so much for the kind

words, and thanks for helping keep the archive alive with your review.

Now, this week's Artifact.

There used to be a place on the internet that nobody else in the world could

have made. It looked exactly the way you wanted it to.

Maybe the background was black. Maybe it was bright green.

Maybe there were animated flames at the bottom of the page. Maybe snow fell all year round.

Or maybe music started playing the second someone arrived, whether they wanted it to or not.

It was chaotic, sometimes impossible to read, occasionally an assault on good taste.

But it was perfect because it was yours.

Not designed by a template, not arranged by an algorithm, not optimized for

engagement, just a little corner of the internet that reflected who you were.

This was a time when the internet invited you to build something.

Not a following, not a brand, just a homepage, GeoCities, AngelFire, Tripod,

later MySpace, LiveJournal, even forum signatures.

Every one of them began with the same quiet question. What do you want this to look like?

And suddenly, people who had never written a line of code were teaching themselves HTML.

Not because somebody promised them a career but because they wanted sparkly

text, or scrolling marquees, or a visitor counter that proudly announced you're

visitor number 143, which somehow felt like the whole world had shown up.

You learned by breaking things by copying snippets of code, by changing one colour,

refreshing the page. and changing it back then trying something else.

Nobody called it learning to code - it was simply making your page yours.

Looking back, those websites were objectively terrible. Fonts clashed,

backgrounds fought with the text, buttons really lined up, half the GIFs blinked

at different speeds, and some pages took forever to load.

Others crashed your browser completely.

But perfection was never the goal, expression was.

You could tell who somebody was by the way their page looked.

The bands they loved, the films they quoted, the colours they chose,

The jokes they hid in tiny corners of the page.

Every homepage felt like walking into somebody's bedroom. Posters on the walls,

books on the shelf, music playing quietly in the background.

It wasn't polished, but it was personal. And maybe that's why we remember it so fondly.

Today, most of the internet is beautifully designed. Open almost any app and

everything feels familiar.

The same layouts, the same fonts, the same profile pictures inside the same circles.

Convenient? Absolutely. Accessible? More than ever.

But somewhere along the way, the internet stopped looking like the people who

used it, and it started looking like the companies that owned it.

Our creativity became customisation. Pick a profile picture,

choose a banner, maybe change your accent colour.

The walls stayed exactly where they were. but once upon a time we built the walls ourselves.

Over the last few weeks, we've talked about the Dreamcast, internet forums,

burned CDs, away messages, midnight launches, the family computer, and game manuals.

Different objects, different memories, different stories. Or so it seemed.

Because underneath every one of those artefacts was the same idea.

The Dreamcast wasn't really about a console. It was about optimism.

Forums weren't about message boards. They were about belonging.

Burned CDs weren't about music. They were about saying, I thought of you.

The family computer wasn't about technology. It was about sharing,

Game manuals weren't about instructions. They were about imagination.

And those homemade websites, well, they weren't really about HTML. They were

about leaving a little piece of yourself somewhere. A tiny digital fingerprint.

Proof that, for a moment, you were here.

The internet has become faster, smarter, and more useful in almost every measurable way.

And yet, sometimes I miss when it was wonderfully unfinished.

When curiosity mattered more than clicks, and when creativity mattered more than polish.

When people made things simply because making them brought them joy.

And maybe that's what all these artifacts have really been trying to tell us.

Technology changes. Platforms disappear. Websites vanish. Consoles stop working.

CDs become scratched, and forums go offline.

But every one of these things carried something far more durable than code or plastic.

They carried pieces of us. Our curiosity. Our friendships. Our imagination. Our optimism.

Our awkward teenage attempts at self-expression. The people we were becoming.

And maybe that's why these objects stay with us. Not because they changed the

world, but because they helped shape ours.

Thank you for spending this first season with me. For remembering,

for smiling, for sharing your own artifacts along the way. I'll see you soon when

we open the archive again.

Until then, take care of the things that matter to you - even the small ones. Because

sometimes the objects fade, but the feeling doesn't.

I'm Danny Brown, and this is Artifacts.