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."

More than words

Humans are an inquisitive bunch, demonstrated no less than when we wonder what such-and-such would say if only the baby-pet-car-thingamajig could speak.

More often than not it's a rhetorical question. Nevertheless, I wonder whether it may also be a question asked in vain, given the propensity of most of those blessed with the power of speech to default to the drearier corners of the English language. Words are no less a form of self expression than a means of communication, however, most people rely on their words for mere data transfer.

Like humans, many brands also try to strike up conversations with those around them.

Try me, buy me, cook with me, look at me.

Yet they seem to struggle just as much as humans when it comes to using their voice as a vehicle to convey emotion. Communications feel cold and corporate, jargon jockeying for position amid an avalanche of acronyms. You can have the most pleasant and rewarding conversation with the person in the call centre, only to receive the standard, automated letter from the call centre's computer. It may very well provide a neat summary of your discussion with word perfect precision, but you are now left wondering if you are really a customer to be cared for or simply a statistic to be served.

I read a piece earlier this week from The Writer, an agency in London that specialises in writing (not surprisingly), in which they were discussing the language of the car industry.

It started with Mercedes-Benz, that colossus of German engineering, and the way Mercedes describe the SL 65 AMG Black Series (a long name, I know!) in standard yet soulless fashion. "The new design reduces exhaust gas back-pressure. The acoustic side effect of this is to produce a distinctive 12-cylinder sound, from the two trapezoidal tail-pipes."

There's nothing necessarily wrong with what Mercedes have written, but you do have to wonder whether they've missed the point of a sports car at full speed. Especially when you consider the energy that Lamborghini inject into their language. "The exhaust in this car makes a sound that ranges from the heavy rumble of a stormy night, through the trumpeting of mighty elephants, through to the roar of a raging lion."

The difference is startling. It's not just what you say, but it's how you say it.

In some other bits and pieces I've read this week, I found a comparison of two famous authors, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemmingway, in the way in which they write about feeling tired.

In the words of Faulkner. "He did not still feel weak, he was merely luxuriating in that supremely gutful lassitude of convalescence in which time, hurry, doing, did not exist, the accumulating seconds and minutes and hours to which in its well state the body is slave both waking and sleeping, now reversed and time now the lip-server and mendicant to the body’s pleasure instead of the body thrall to time’s headlong course."

Or, according to Hemmingway. "Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited."

Neither is right or wrong. For all that you feel from the words of Faulkner, each thought flowing freely into the next, the brevity of Hemmingway makes for an equally powerful statement, every word loaded with impact. If only brands recruited as many great writers as graphic designers, then maybe the best looking brands wouldn't feel like such a let down as soon as they started to speak.

A few years back, I remember reading an interview with Brett Anderson, lead singer of an English band named Suede who found fame in the 90s. He was talking about how, for better or worse, everything should create an emotional response. Love and hate were always better than an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.

The next week, arch rivals Blur released their latest album and, in another publication, Brett Anderson was asked for his opinion. Two simple words said it all. "It's ok."

I worry that most brands strike a similar note of indifference, to the point that the language they use becomes unnoticeable. Undifferentiated, uninspiring, unimpressive.

As much as humans can be inquisitive – as I wrote at the top of this blog – we are also reputed to use only a small percentage of our brain power. Likewise, brands often fail to take advantage of anything more than the bare minimum when it comes to the breadth of language available to them and the range of emotions that their words can explore.

Brands need to speak to their audiences. But that means more than words.