When I think back to my years running the Austin Chronicle and organizing the Austin Music Awards, there are a few moments that stick out not for their glamour or glitz but for the chaos they created. One of the strangest lessons I ever learned about connecting with an audience came from an unlikely source: anti-family, anti-porn activists. Most people would not expect to gain insight into how to engage readers and festival-goers from people who were trying to shut you down. For me, it was eye-opening.

It was 1989, and the Chronicle had been growing steadily. We were publishing stories about music, film, and culture in Austin that other outlets ignored. We had a loyal following, but that year we hit our first real wave of organized pushback. Mark Weaver, a conservative activist, decided that our coverage and editorial choices violated his sense of community standards. He lodged complaints with local grocery stores and successfully had our paper removed from 17 HEB locations. It felt surreal. For years I had been writing about bands, movies, and artists that most of Austin had never heard of, and suddenly, a small group of people had the power to disrupt our entire distribution network.

At first, my reaction was a mixture of disbelief and frustration. How could a few letters and complaints dictate who could read a newspaper? It seemed absurd, and in many ways, it was. But what I realized over the following weeks was that Weaver and his supporters were, in their own way, giving me a masterclass in audience dynamics. They were forcing me to think about the very people we were trying to reach and how passionate people respond when they feel threatened.

We immediately saw that while Weaver and his followers were attempting to silence us, our actual audience was rallying. Letters poured in, protests formed, and people began speaking up on behalf of the Chronicle. I learned that controversy, when handled honestly and with transparency, can galvanize support in ways you cannot predict. Our readers were not passive consumers. They had opinions, values, and loyalties. They were not just absorbing content; they were actively defending it.

This lesson carried over to every project I tackled afterward. When we started the first South by Southwest festival, we had no idea what we were doing. We were simply two friends trying to create something interesting for the city. The idea of adding music, film, and later new media, was not a carefully calculated strategy. It was chaotic, full of guesswork, and deeply personal. Yet, by observing how people reacted to challenges—whether it was an activist group objecting to our coverage or an artist demanding attention—we learned to pay attention to our audience in real time.

Audience dynamics are not static. They shift depending on context, mood, and perceived threats. I saw this during the Austin Music Awards as well. Bands would show up expecting one thing, audiences would respond in unpredictable ways, and my job was to anticipate reactions without ever losing the spirit of the event. The anti-family activists had unintentionally trained me to think ahead, to recognize that audience engagement is about more than content. It is about emotion, investment, and a sense of participation.

Another lesson came from the absurdity of the situation itself. Weaver and his group were fighting something they could not control. Their actions revealed the limits of influence and the power of authenticity. People are drawn to honesty, passion, and risk. They respond when they sense someone is being genuine. This applied to everything I did, from writing music reviews to programming screenings for the Austin Film Society. The key was to respect the intelligence of the audience while giving them a reason to care deeply.

It also changed how I thought about failure. We could have seen Weaver’s campaign as a defeat, but instead, it became an opportunity to experiment. We learned to communicate more clearly with readers, to make the stakes tangible, and to create an inclusive environment where people felt ownership of what we were doing. The activists inadvertently helped me understand that audience engagement is participatory. It is not enough to produce content and hope people consume it. You must invite them, provoke them, and sometimes even challenge them to see what they value.

Looking back, it is ironic. Anti-family, anti-porn activists were trying to limit expression, yet they taught me more about freedom, creativity, and connection than any other group. They reminded me that an audience is never a monolith. It is messy, passionate, and unpredictable. And it is those moments of unpredictability that reveal the most about what people truly care about.

I often think about these lessons when I see a new artist or filmmaker struggling to find an audience. I tell them to pay attention to who reacts, who engages, and who pushes back. Sometimes, the people who seem to oppose you are the ones teaching you the most important lessons. They force you to think, adapt, and grow. That is exactly what happened in 1989. A few letters from a small activist group became a guide to understanding audience passion, engagement, and loyalty in a way I could never have learned from books or classrooms.

Those experiences, as frustrating as they were at the time, shaped how I approached every project afterward. They helped me build SXSW into something vibrant, the Austin Chronicle into a respected voice, and ultimately taught me that an engaged audience is the lifeblood of any creative endeavor. The lesson is simple, but it took a few anti-family activists to make it stick: know your audience, embrace unpredictability, and never underestimate the power of genuine connection.