South-West Blues
As we drive along the smoldering red rocks of Arizona, the radio is blasting the latest country sensation, Colt Ford – “ I got no trash in my tra-ah-iler , not since I kicked you out of here…”
Life is good. The office is nine hours of jetlag away, and closed for the day by the time I get up. The August heat has melted my brains. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and not a thought on my mind.
Suddenly, a nervous female voice takes over the radio: “Are anxiety and depression filling your days? Do you have trouble falling asleep? Is your mind constantly humming away with frightening thoughts? Are you worried about your job, your family, your credit, your future? Act now: ask your doctor about Zentax – the brand new drug that will bring peace and happiness back in your life. To find out more, call us at 1-800 ….”
As the voice repeats the 1-800 number five times over, I wonder about the agency that came up with this ad. I imagine a tousle-haired writer, holed up in his cubicle, scribbling the words while wondering if he too will soon be part of the layoffs. I imagine the head of the agency, browsing through reports of the ever more uncertain ad revenues, fending off dark thoughts while approving the spot for the Zentax account.
Would they consider popping this pill to send their worries away? Probably not. The ad is meant for the masses, overwhelmed by imploded mortgages, broken credit and lost jobs. The ad is for the girl Colt Ford kicked out of his trailer. The clean-cut boy on Madison Avenue might take a happy drug to calm his woes, but he will not call the 1-800 hundred number to reach the state of Zen. He’s smarter than that – he creates these lies for a living.
I don’t know much about advertising, but I have a hunch it’s not that different from the TV or music industries. I see them gather in Cannes every year, for their respective conventions – the well-suited executives and well-greased salesmen suddenly acting as if they owned a piece of the ultimate fabric of dreams. While Cannes Film Festivals brings the real stars, the other industries are happy enough to bask in whatever is left of that light . The common denominator between these media execs is a certain sense of glib superiority: over their clients – be that a company in need of a spin or a musician in need of promotion, and over their final customer – the guy on the street who will buy their spots, their channels or their disks.
Except that something changed this year – the guy on the street has wizened up, decided to save his money or maybe just figured out how to use Bittorrent. 2009 Cannes conventions were semi-deserted, and shades of gloom sparkled in the glasses of decidedly cheaper champagne. I don’t presume to explain this change in one column, but here’s where I’d start: lies no longer sell. The pre-fabricated teen bands can’t fill up the stadiums, while real music giants are aging – or dying – on us. The TV shows no longer draw an audience that finds more appealing stuff on YouTube. The executive might be loosing sleep in his 2,000€/ night Majestic suite, but he won’t find a solution because for a long time he has not been even seen the guy on the street. He sells to other execs at these very conventions, which sell to someone else and then somehow it all trickles down to the consumer who will pay for everyone’s margins. Except that he no longer feels like it.
Just before taking off to the US, I went to the Paleo festival with a crew to shoot interviews. Nostalgic of my film school days I picked up the camera and climbed inside the crowd, to get some close-ups. I was wary of not getting trampled in the mud by a bunch of half-sober fans fighting for a spot closer to the stage. Instead, something magical happened. The crowd spread out letting me step inside it. Through the viewfinder I saw smiling faces, illuminated by the music, reaching out to the stage, reaching out to each other, reaching out to me. Here was the guy on the street, the person who buys the music, watches TV or listens to an ad. He might have never been to the Croisette, or tasted Krug , but he deserves more respect than the media industry has given him so far. Because at the end all that matters is this person, and the message that moves him – on stage, or on screen. Everything – and everyone – in between is just noise.
