The Old Ad Guy is Still There

Ed is a guy I used to work with at the ad agency. He kept popping up in my mind the past couple of weeks. No reason, as far as I know. Although it could have been some metaphysical thing. Usually when this happens, especially in recent years. I find I'm too late. The person has been "gone" for awhile.

I called one of his sons and told him I had been thinking about his dad. Hesitantly I asked, "Is he still.... alive? And the other question, "How is he doing?" I knew he was in an assisted living facility, aka a nursing home. I held my breath. "Dad's doing fine," came the reply. A nice surprise, to say the least. He told me Ed was holding his own, had some problems, but for the most part was still part of this world, at least most of the time. He encouraged me to stop by to see him. "I'll do that," I said. "And thanks for the good news."

Yesterday I got a letter from the other son, a beautifully written description of his dad and the situation he currently finds himself in. I quote: 

     "Thank you for your past and present concern for his welfare. He always knows us when we go by to see him - although he usually doesn't remember what he had for lunch. I suppose that this is proof that he has always had his priorities straight - his family and friends are of the most importance to him.... He is always in good appetite and we usually take him a milk-shake when we go by. Sometimes we get him a scotch and soda or a beer."

Talk about the right priorities. The letter continues with what I believe is one of the most insightful and uplifting commentaries I've read about aging. 

     "Although he can't carry on a conversation like he used to - he can't recall a lot of the knowledge we all spend a lifetime collecting - he's still Dad. Only more so. After all, it's not knowledge and memory that makes us what we are - those are only tools and clothes for the spirit that makes use of them. Now that he has lost so many of them, it's easy to see and enjoy the core that's always been there and remains. Everyone at Laclede Groves loves him. He is serene."

Ed was a talented art director. He was a gentleman to work with. He was a joy to be around. It's people like Ed who made my time in advertising enjoyable to live through and a pleasure to remember. I will visit Ed this week. Since I'm not sure whether he prefers chocolate or vanilla milk shakes, I'll have to bring him a scotch and soda. Make that a double, bartender. See you soon, Ed.

Immortality on the Can

The bright blue can sits in front of me, next to my plate of BBQ ribs, slaw and 3-bean salad. The occasion is a group of friends who have gathered at our house for a last-minute pre-July 4th celebration. Which means eat and drink, with only verbal fireworks. 

I’m a black belt master of BBQ, which is evidenced by my rub, my sauce, and my backhanded basting technique. All I will tell you about the rub is that I use garlic powder, paprika, ground black pepper, chili powder, and a couple of secret ingredients from the lower shelves at Schnucks. My sauce is classified, right next to the government file on time-travel experiments.

But I digress.

I pick up the blue can with the red and blue letters and a picture of a glass of beer. Large beads of sweat trickle down the can. St. Louis humidity makes for an appetizing product shot. I read the label while someone at the table tells a story about being questioned by the FBI in some sort of real estate scam. The financial concepts are beyond me. So I stare at the can and four words capture my attention. Four simple words. Two separate thoughts. One immortal marketing campaign.

And my imagination takes off. 

Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. But don’t cue the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver. This is a different yesteryear.

Once upon a time, in an office far away, a young copywriter - at least I picture him as young - and as a “him” - sat at his desk and pondered his assignment. Ideas were due the following day. Lines, themes, concepts. Anything that might sell the product.

In front of him, next to his note book and index cards and layout pad and felt tip pen, sat a can and a bottle of Miller Lite Beer.

The year was 1972. The agency was McCann-Erickson. And the category of “light beer” was an invisible blip on brewery radars. Guys drank real beer, like Bud and Schlitz and Pabst and Miller High Life. Light beer was for wusses and women.

The copywriter stared out the window at the fading day. The question nagged at him: How do you get real guys to drink light beer? Specifically, Lite Beer from Miller? Well, he thought, what if you had real guys with the beer? Like athletes. But pro athletes couldn’t appear in beer ads. So... maybe retired athletes. Famous guys connected with sports or some facet of masculinity. 

Add some conflict. The guys argue. About the product. About two differing points of view of what’s so good about Lite beer. Put ‘em in a bar. Maybe some chicks hanging around.

Yeah, that’s it. He feels the surge of breakthrough. He stands on the precipice of beer history. The view is glorious. He writes down four words on the layout pad. Four words in bold, black felt tip.

“Great taste. Less Filling.”

And a category is born.

At least that’s how I picture the birth of this great campaign.

I have but one wish for that copywriter. That he’s alive today, in good health, and surrounds himself with the comforts and joys the world has to offer, including a winter home on St. Bart’s, a summer home in Boulder, and a vintage 1972 Corvette in cherry condition. I hope he was paid well, had a sizable stake in profit sharing, and made a killing when the agency merged. And that he got out with his nerves and digestive system intact. 

Before I return to the ribs and slaw and get ready for the watermelon and peach cobbler, I have one more really deep thought. It’s this: Copywriters are the Shakespeares of our culture. They create the words that can live forever. Maybe not as lofty as the Bard’s, but certainly more pervasive. “Just do it.” “This Bud’s for you.” “Think small.” “Finger lickin’ good.” 

And “Great Taste. Less Filling.” Maybe those words will still be on the can a hundred years from now. And someone else will ponder the state of our culture. 

A Girl Named Bud

I saw a familiar name on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch yesterday. A name that consumed a big part of my life for six years. I knew at the time this affair would end with me crying in my beer, thinking of all I had put into the relationship. But I knew at the time my love would be unrequited.

That name was Budweiser. The headline said, "Rebuilding Bud bandwagon." Actually the headline had put a positive spin on a rather devastating situation. A telling figure: 4 out of 10 people in their mid-20's have never even tried a Bud. Sorry to say, Budweiser is no longer the King of Beers. Barely a Prince. It fell from its throne some time ago. Actually overthrown by a mob of young drinkers who felt no connection with the brand. Done in by misdirection and myopia. Bud's share of market has declined from 26% in 1988 to just over 9% last year. That's a worse record than Bernie Madoff.

Okay, enough marketing data. I don't like it any more than you do.

Why do I care? I don't drink Bud anymore, don't own AB/InBev stock, my son isn't a beer distributor. I care because I was Creative Director on Bud for 6 years, back when D'Arcy Advertising was a big name in the business, not only in St. Louis but nationally. Today D'Arcy doesn't exist, except in distant echoes and dusty images conjured by aging Mad Men and Women who remember "back when we had fun." And we did.

As I read the article, I felt as though I had just run into an old girl friend. Once she was the stunning, vibrant object of my desire. Now before me stood a stooped, frail woman, chain smoking Camels, her face deeply lined, her arms and neck covered with a swirl of tattoos in an effort to appear young and hip. One of the tattoos said, "Whassup?" Whatever that meant.

"What happened to you?" I said.

"They did it to me,": she replied in a voice that still carried faint promise. "They sacrificed my honor, my soul, to the gods of easy fame and hearty guffaws."

"You poor thing," I said, still unwilling to touch her.

I worked on the Bud brand from 1982 through 1988. Good years. Advertising well thought out and beautifully crafted. Commercials that still move me. Then came The Frogs. I still tremble at the thought of them. Talking Frogs. Lizards named Louie. Even ants carrying a bottle of Bud. Ants!!! Yes, people talked how funny and clever they were. But, like termites, they bored from within.

And that was just the beginning. Throw the desecration of the Clydesdales in there while you're at it. Once they were a symbol of Bud's heritage. Unhitched, they became a circus act frolicking in the snow.

So now AB/InBev thinks it can resurrect Bud in the U.S., bring it back to its former glory, make it "relevant" again. Sure, and Burger Chef will sell hamburgers again and TWA will fly again and my next car will be a Pontiac.

You can check out this site to see what it used to be about. 2OldGuysTalkBeer.com