The Idea Is Dead

In 1986, The Smiths released The Queen Is Dead.

Side A, track 2 was Frankly, Mr. Shankly, a song they wrote to express their frustration with their record label, Rough Trade. Written in the vein of a letter of resignation, it signaled the end for their relationship.

I'm no Morrissey, but this week I've also found myself looking for the words to express similar frustration. So much so, that I will have written a similar letter by the end of the week.

What I have learned from the experience is nothing new. Simply that indifference kills creativity.

I remember first learning that lesson back in 1994. While reading my weekly copy of NME, a British music paper, I read an interview with Brett Anderson, the lead singer of Suede and also, as it happens, another Morrissey-wannabee. He discussed how indifference was the worst type of reaction that people could have to his music, only then to find the following week that he was quoted describing the new release by their arch rivals, Blur, as "Ok".

So, after weeks of creative soul-searching, punctuated by one presentation after another, I'm afraid to say that we were also met by the blunt force of brutal indifference.

But then again, indifference isn't the only way to kill an idea.

Here's a few more, courtesy of Scott Campbell, an art director based in San Fransisco (via 99% via Fast Company via FLIRTing with the Crowds).

Actually, those eight were just to get you started. Here's another seventeen (courtesy of Roger Neill, from his time at Synectics).

1. See it coming and quickly change the subject.

2. Ignore it. Dead silence intimidates all but the most enthusiastic.

3. Feign interest but do nothing about it. This at least prevents the originator from taking it elsewhere.

4. Scorn it. "You're joking, of course." Make sure to get your comment in before the idea is fully explained.

5. Laugh it off. "Ho, ho ho, that's a good one Joe. You must have been awake all night thinking that up.

6. Praise it to death. By the time you have expounded its merits for five minutes, everyone will hate it.

7. Mention that it has never been tried before. If the idea is genuinely original, this is certain to be true. Alternatively, say, "If the idea's so wonderful, why hasn't someone else already tried it?"

8. Say, "Oh, we've tried that before" – even if it is not true. Particularly effective with newcomers, it makes them realise what complete outsiders they are.

9. Come up with a competitive idea. This can be dangerous tactic, however, as you might still be left with an idea to follow up.

10. Stall it with any of the following: "We're not ready for it yet, but in the fullness of time"; "I've been waiting to do that for a long time, but not right now"; or, "Let's wait until the new organisation has settled down".

11. Modify it out of existence. This is elegant. You seem to be helping the idea along, just changing it a bit here and there. By the time the originator realises what's happening, the idea is dead.

12. Try to chip bits off it. If you fiddle with an idea long enough, it may fall to pieces.

13. Make a strong personal attack on the originator. By the time he or she has recovered, the idea won't seem so important.

14. Appoint a committee to sit on the idea. As Sir Barnett Cox observed: "A committee is a cul-de-sac down which ideas are lured, then quietly strangled."

15. Drown it in cold water. As in: "We haven't got the staff to do it...the intangible risks would be too great...that's all very well in theory, but in real life..."

16. Return it to sender with: "You need to be much more specific about your proposal."

17. If all fails, encourage the originator to look for a better idea. Usually a discouraging quest. If he or she actually returns with one, start them looking for a better job.

I'm sure, by now, you get the point.

And who else but David Thorne – whom I first mentioned only last week – to provide a raucous insight into his own experiences of the creative process?

I should point out that my own issues pale into insignificance when compared to his extreme position, and I'm certainly not planning on adopting a similar approach. Quite the opposite, I'd like to think I'm more like Morrissey when it comes to putting pen to paper.

"I do not mean to be so rude,

Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly."

Money matters (or not)

In my experience, money has a strange effect on people. Rich and poor, happy and sad, there's simply no rhyme or reason.

In England, for example, they don't seem to worry so much about how much money you've got, but more about where it came from. You can blame that on a class system where the noveau riche are often vilified for their supposed vulgarity and lack of taste.

In the United States of America, the combination of their lack of a class system and historical hatred of all things English means that the opposite is true – in the form of the American Dream. Ian Brown, sometime singer with The Stone Roses, summed it up best for me when interviewed last month by The Quietus: "I can rent a convertible BMW in America and drive around, and I'll get homeless people saying, ‘Nice motorcar'. I get one here [in England], and people want to put a 50p up the side of it."

As for Australians and money, it's a very different story again. I've always found the biggest talking point is not how much you have or where it came from, but whether or not it's waterproof.

In marketing terms, understanding the relationship a man has with his money – and, more importantly, how to come between them – is an important one. As much they say "mo' money, mo' problems", no money isn't really a practical alternative for most commercial enterprises.

easyJet, the European budget airline, highlighted this well when they took a new approach to their segmentation of the business traveller market in the mid-90s. Rather than worry too much about the category conventions, they divided the market in a different way by separating those whose company paid for their airline travel from those who paid for their own. As you would expect, a value-based proposition was far more enticing for those who were spending their own money, and that simple insight saw them break the market.

Separating a company from its cash is always serious business, and it goes without saying that you need to make sure you're offering something of value in return – and it's certainly not something I take lightly.

However, I still find myself surprised on occasion by clients who treat negotiations with professional services firms as though they're haggling at an Asian night market.

(At this point, I should apologise if my point of view seems a little one-sided, but I can only write what I know from the benefit of experience.)

When it comes to financial negotiations at the outset of a project, it's worth remembering that logic most often applies, not the rules of minimalist design. In other words, less is not more, less is almost certainly less. Less money, less work. However, the desire to please often leads to the decision to discount – more for less, added value, and so on and so forth. But I can tell you now that someone almost always loses out.

Which I why I was pleasantly surprised to read this little gem recently on a blog called greyscalegorilla – following a link from 99%. (Thanks!)

A good piece of advice if ever I heard one. And, as they used to say in ancient Rome, pro bono.

You can't be serious

A recent research study concluded that people who laugh on average four times a day – or, thirty times are week – can expect to live up to ten years longer than people who frown perpetually or don't find Woody Allen funny. Personally, I try to read one of Woody's short stories at least once a week in order to keep my spirits up, and my physician often takes time to comment on my amusing demeanour.

Of course, it's not always possible to have a copy of Mere Anarchy to hand. And I consider myself fortunate to have found a very different but equally humorous protagonist to keep me in good shape on a more mobile basis via the worldwide web.

By way of introduction, David Thorne is the man who tried to pay his bill with a drawing of a spider. Just one example among a host of other equally ludicrous stunts that all go to show the pen is far mightier than the sword. He is very funny. In fact, he's hilarious.

However, I find it just as disheartening that humour struggles to register on our collective consciousness as a more meaningful genre in today's society.

In the case of David Thorne, he is typically dismissed out of hand as a serial prankster or pest, not someone with something significant to contribute. In his mind, the Internet is a playground, so let’s start playing.

For example, if you want to win an Oscar, you'll always stand a far better chance with a drama or a tragedy, never a comedy.

Most people read newspapers but frown upon comics. It seems as though forcing yourself into a manic state of depression over your bowl of morning cornflakes is preferable to a quick giggle or the opportunity to save the planet from a vicious army of twin-tailed rats while the kids are still tucked up in bed.

And the despicable rogue of the class is always the colourful joker, never the conscientious dullard who takes everything at face value and finds it difficult to talk to people, let alone make eye contact for more than a fleeting moment.

All of this adds up to one thing.

I am desperate to know why we can't have more fun if we want to be taken seriously.

There's questionable fame or fun in working ridiculous hours that pinch your life, instead there's more to gain from leading a fun-filled existence. Just ask anyone from Aristophanes, the ancient Greek playwright who loved nothing more than to poke fun at the establishment, to Tina Fey, the brilliantly funny creator of 30 Rock, or Larry David and his improvised comedy show, Curb Your Enthusiasm. Collectives like The Chaser are serious journalists, but they just happen to use humour to tell their story – and, much to everyone’s shame, it works.

In much the same way, Banksy's street art uses a darker humour to reveal certain truths about our society. It's funny, but at times his use of humour can also be slightly unsettling.

I like being taken seriously, but I'm not so keen on being serious. Life should be fun, and there's no reason why our brands shouldn't be equally entertaining.

More comedy, less corporation! – that's what I say.

Or, you know what? Laugh. It won't kill you.

Tell tales

For a while now, corporations around the world have been talking about the power of storytelling.

And they’re right.

To put it simply, people love a good yarn. From the nomadic adventures of Homer’s Odysseus – who can forget one of storytelling’s most fearful monsters, the Cyclops! – to the rise and fall of any number of so-called celebrities in the daily papers.

But it’s a shame that the English language frowns so heavily upon “telling tales”. And, as children, we're often reminded to focus more on the real world and less on the curious meanderings of our mind, even if that does mean hurting the feelings of a few invisible friends along the way.

I tell stories to my boys most nights. They always make sure I remember which parts they like best, and I try hard to live up to their wildest expectations.

Often, they'll want the same story told night after night after night. No deviation is permitted, and even the slightest stumble or memory lapse can land me back at the start. As much as I'm the storyteller, it's quite clear that it's their story.

If the devil's in the detail, then my two boys are little lucifers. Make no mistake, the details are important. In fact, not just important, they're sacrosanct – it's these details that paint such vivid pictures in their mind. Forget the details, and you can kiss goodbye to their attention. Which generally means it'll be an uphill struggle to win them back before you can get them into bed.

These small details are the moments that trigger their imagination – why the train is bright red, or what happened to the elephant's nose to turn it into such a long trunk. Nothing is taken for granted, little is accepted at face value, and you can see them listening to every new word, as pictures form before their eyes and the words float across the room.

And they love superlatives, not subtlety. The bigger, the better. No! – the biggest, the best. Not just words, but also actions, sound effects (however unrealistic!), and anything else to intensify the tale. What's more, they too want to get in on the action – hold a train, throw the monkey in the air, bounce the ball, anything to get involved and throw themselves into the story.

I'd say that stories are a special part of our lives, but I don't think for a moment that my kids are out of the ordinary. Quite the opposite, they're pretty much the same as most people with hopes and desires.

They want stories that inspire their dreams, not send them to sleep.

Listen today to Morrow

Last night, I watched The Chaser's Julian Morrow present this year's Andrew Olle Media Lecture.

And it was absolutely brilliant. Unmissable, in fact. (That is, unless you have to make do with the heavily edited 15:22 version that the ABC have since chosen to upload to YouTube.)

Fortunately, the ABC have kindly provided the full transcript here, where you can also choose to listen to Julian Morrow's speech in its entirety, in addition to the introduction from ABC 702's Richard Glover and the vote of thanks given by the ABC's Managing Director, Mark Scott.

If you're genuinely interested in the role and future of the media – both the sick and the salubrious – I simply can't recommend this enough.

Read all about it (redux)

I love newspapers.

I know I wrote a B&T story here that lamented their fate (a shape–up–or–ship–out type of story).

And forget the fact that I have a blog, Twitter feed, Facebook and LinkedIn accounts. Plus an iPhone with all sorts of strange apps. All things that would suggest to the average consumer researcher that I don't know my broadsheet from my Berliner.

But they couldn't be more wrong, and there's no getting away from the fact that I love newspapers. And, in particular, I love The Australian.

As it happens, The Australian is undergoing a bit of a makeover at the moment and the associated commentary makes for some interesting reading – and viewing.

It's not often that you get to see inside the creative process as it hits the shelves, and it's equally rare that its creator takes you on a personal tour, although not quite so rare now that we live in the grip of web 2.0.

That said, I have to admit that the commentary wavers between resounding insight and a slightly hollow ring. I realise it's only part of the story (and I prefer to focus on the deeper, more insightful part), but I would like to believe that there is much more besides to be gained from a redesign of The Australian at the dawn of the 21st century. And I say that not as a cynic for whom nothing is ever good enough, but as an optimist in the eternal hope of utilitarian prosperity (which is not necessarily as complicated as it sounds).

I daren't write more for fear of journalistic retribution on a karmic scale given that I write as a mere amateur on the subject of not only my favourite newspaper, but also the patron of writers far more expert than me.

But I do write as someone who believes in the future of the printed newspaper (and its dull thud as it is delivered to the doorstep). Long may it linger.

How does it feel to feel?

My Friday afternoon took a rather sinister turn after a fight broke out at Melbourne airport.

A couple of guys walked through the terminal, found their man, and then came a violent eruption of punches until a couple of brave passengers stood between them. The attackers checked themselves, uttered a few choice words about broken noses, and then turned and traced their steps back through the airport.

It was all over quite quickly, but the emotion in the air was intense.

Admiration for the brave men who had put themselves in the middle of the melee, and stopped the fight from going any further. Fear from the female Qantas ground staff who found themselves in the thick of it as the fight spilled behind the customer service desk. And a mixture of anxiety, shock and excitement swirled around the scene, along with pretty much every other emotion you care to name.

And it reminded me of just how emotionally charged we are – as a species, I mean.

Yes, granted we spend a great deal of time thinking – "Cogito ergo sum", as Descartes once famously pronounced – but so much of our existence also relies upon our capacity to feel.

Earlier this week, Adam Ferrier wrote in his blog, Consumer Psychologist, about the Melbourne Cup, gambling and the concept of variable positive reinforcement – the practice of rewarding desired behaviour (for example, gambling) at random times and with random amounts. And he wondered why marketers didn't use this concept more often and not just in promotions, under the pretext that, "If it's the strongest conditioner of human behaviour, shouldn't marketers be trying to understand it and applying its principles in a slightly more sophisticated way"?

Again, what Adam is raising here is the very visceral nature of the human race – ideas that relate to our deepest inward feelings rather than to our intellect.

The automotive industry, for one, has always worked hard on designing a human feel to its cars. Not simply when it comes to how they function, but also how they look. In fact, most cars smile.

If you look at the VW Beetle or the new model Mazda 3 (just to name a couple), the bonnet, grille and headlights are often designed and positioned to mirror a human face. And a happy one at that.

At the opposite end of the scale to happiness is loss – specifically death, in the form of cult brand, Death Cigarettes.

Here's some of the on-pack copy:

A pack of Death cigarettes leaves no doubt as to the risks of smoking. We don't print a health warning just because it's law. We believe in telling the truth...a responsible way to market a legally available consumer product which kills people when used exactly as intended.

You couldn't get a more honest smoke.

As humans, we are a complex race full of raw emotion and feeling. They say the truth hurts, and they're right. But not because it's true in thought, more so because it hurts our feelings.

So it is, that the most successful brands are often also the most primal. And if you ask me, that feels just about right.

Short is sweet

The most effective design is often the most immediate.

So it's no wonder that one of my very good designer friends would rather the same was true of some of my longer blog posts.

In his world, short is sweet. Short hair. Short black. Short sleeves. Short board. Sweet.

Now perhaps I shouldn't pay too much attention to him given that he's off to work in Paris. However, that would also be to ignore the global language that brands create, even if you've only made it as far as Perth.

No economy of words could ever match the power that is represented in a single stroke or swoosh when it symbolises something as influential as a brand like Nike. The brand's identity acts as a shorthand that cuts across countries and cultures, allowing individuals to translate its meaning for themselves without having to dive into the dictionary.

So, as a parting gesture to my Parisian-bound friend – and at the risk of neglecting those of us who aren't about to start intensive French language classes – it seems right to recount the thoughts of Blaise Pascal, a 17th century mathematician and philosopher. In his words, "Je n'ai fait celle-ci plus longue parce que je n'ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte". Obviously, he hadn't heard of just do it.