The Tanning of America (32 page)

Back in 2004, Larry Light—the marketing visionary who had come to McDonald's and helped turn it around when it was losing consumer share—began to talk about that fluidity as a change in storytelling. Instead of having one catchy message or one simple idea to be hammered home like nails in the sensibilities of consumers, he argued that the time had come for a broader chronicle of many stories that spoke to why the brand mattered in the context of the times. He calls this approach “brand journalism.”

As I would have the good fortune to get to know him and work with the talented team at McDonald's on launching their turnaround, I saw Larry's approach in action and became a fan of this philosophy and the strategies it inspires. Brand journalism suggests that there is a continual flow of news and information that is consumer generated and needs to be followed. In 2004, Larry's cautionary advice at a conference called AdWatch was that the timing marked the “end of brand positioning as we know it” and that “no single ad tells the whole story.” Introducing the concept of brand journalism was his way of ringing the bell for new rules that mind the millennials. By using many stories to create a brand narrative, rather than looking for that clever hook to reach everyone, he wasn't trying to say that niche marketing needed to go further than it already had. That kind of thinking still ran the risk of overdoing trends instead of embodying cool and of overusing the demographic boxes. Larry Light's explanation was, “We don't need one big execution of a big idea. We need one big idea that can be used in a multidimensional, multilayered, and multifaceted way.”

At AdWatch, he encouraged marketers to see these series of stories as context for authentically showing “what happens to a brand in the world” and to develop communications that follow the news of what culture cares about. During future shock remix, with increasing media fragmentation—providing opportunities and challenges—the narrative for the brand, not summarized in a single slogan or one ad, can be the mother ship of cool from which daring departures into new territory can be taken.

Clearly, survival of the fittest in our marketplace means you have to be ever evolving and always paying attention to cues. Branding and brand building, I often say, are like raising a child. You shouldn't do it if you don't have love to give. But once it grows up and learns to embody cool on its own, that brand—like hip-hop and the effect tanning—can have true, positive impact and make a real difference in the lives of human beings on this planet.

T
he phenomenon of tanning as it emerged in the 2000s resulted in certain unexpected consequences. They seemed to come about in both natural and perverse (and hilarious) ways as people were melding, sharing values, and exchanging aspects of their respective cultures.

What really caught me by surprise was how much had changed from when I attended a mostly all-white high school in the mid to late 1980s—when big lips and a defined booty weren't traits necessarily viewed as attractive. There was a lot of joking that went on based on racial stereotypes; we all played into them in a fairly inoffensive way. The jokes about black people having big lips and black girls having big butts were pretty much standard fare. It never actually made sense that a female who had a flat stomach and small waist yet did have a plump derriere was considered fat. Even if she was a size 4, trim and in shape, how was it that having a body part bigger than her Caucasian peers' was not aesthetically pleasing?

As time passed, the tables turned in such dramatic fashion that several industries came along that were devoted to the cultivation of big lips and bigger butts for women not naturally endowed! True, bigger lips were seen as part of women's general pursuit of a more youthful appearance—with collagen injections to make them look more plump and voluptuous—but this was a trait that women of color already embodied. As for the enhancement of the derriere, I thought that I'd heard of everything—from infomercials selling exercise techniques to tapes and manuals, as well as injections and cosmetic surgery—until not long ago when I saw a commercial for Booty Pops. For girls and ladies with flat or skinny bottoms, the claim with this product, like a padded bra for the bosom, is that it offers the lift and definition described as a “pop.” And then there are the two sneakers in 2010 vying for the number one bestselling spot in America—Reebok's EasyTones and Sketchers' Shape-ups. With the claim that wearing the sneakers can help tone the entire body, where the real firming happens is with women's hamstrings, with a motion that has been proven to develop the muscle that goes up to the butt. What a switch for an aspect of the body to become redefined and seen as more desirable, when twenty years ago it was regarded as fat and a source of embarrassment.

Certainly tanning has happened in reverse too. We also see more black and Latina women putting golden and platinum weaves in their hair—going for the unapologetic “blonde hair” look. Since the 1970s, skin lighteners have been widely used by consumers with darker skin—revealing the fact that in the minds of many, black wasn't necessarily beautiful yet. However, as the journey of cultural tanning has taken off and the beauty image of appearing more ethnic and exotic has spread, the fade creams and skin lighteners have increasingly been rejected as inauthentic and harmful.

With these trends reflecting the simultaneous darkening and lightening, the tanning and coming together, of the mental complexion of America, I think they also include, by the way, an acceptance of the right to feel and look sexy. By 2003, the bathing beauty on the cover of
Sports Illustrated,
deemed by many the most beautiful woman in the world (the same artist who would rank as the top-earning music entrepreneur of the first decade of the new millennium), was Beyoncé Knowles. The very singer who delivered the term “bootylicious” epitomizes the new definition of beauty—and is coming at you with hips, butt, lips, and an attitude of cool, sexy, and confident that other women are empowered to adopt too.

The next thing we all knew, J. Lo's butt and body became cultural news. When Fergie of the Black-eyed Peas performed the song “My Humps,” which praised the power of her derriere and her breasts (“lovely lady lumps”) to draw luxury-brand gifts and attention galore, the code implied that it was a shared value, no color line dividing it. Today it's Kim Kardashian and Jessica Biel as prime examples.

This aspect of tanning, I believe, has been a healthy change allowing women from diverse cultures to come to a place where they can meet and match and have common aesthetics. What I hear while listening to female consumers is that whatever makes you feel good about yourself is optimal and truly freeing as long as you can choose for yourself—
Oh, that's the hair I want, that's the body, I want some meat on my bones and hips and lips.
Or not
.
Those borrowed and then shared traits of women who are African-American, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, Indian, you name it—and from cultural beauty standards and style borrowed from other countries—all come together to create a very feminine, womanly, self-loving aesthetic.

It has been a source of pride for me to know that urban culture has been one of the prime movers and carriers of these tanning changes that have taken place over the last twenty years. Likewise, it has been affirming to watch the far-reaching influence of the urban mind-set when it comes to defining what makes a man attractive, stylishly groomed, and well presented.

At first glance, the uninformed marketer might assume that these aesthetics were and are being adopted on an anything-goes, “whatever hip-hop says is cool today” basis. But in fact, as per the belief system that spread tanning, there are attitudes and reasons behind why a look or a trend is endowed with the power of cool—and why it isn't. Understanding those reasons and the stories behind them, as we now know, is critical.

In early 2003, the Associated Press put out a release that captured headlines in sports and business pages all across the nation. “Retro jerseys all the rage” was a snapshot in time of how forcefully hip-hop-fueled tastes were driving consumption of an item known for its dated popularity: throwback jerseys.

Though the trend extended to various sports, the main action was in basketball—where a retro jersey might run anywhere from $250 to $400. The press release noted, “Some of the retro buffs couldn't care less about the history on their shoulders: they just want to look old school—or keep up with their friend down the block.” Stories of kids picking up, for example, a Celtics jersey and not recognizing Larry Bird's name were all over the place. Because of throwbacks, one apparel company reported annual revenues jumping from $2.8 million to $23 million in just two years (even in what was then considered a down economy); another sports clothing manufacturer had seen a 300 percent rise in its fortunes in half that time. An explanation for the craze came from Isiah Thomas when he observed, “It goes back to the first principle of fashion—what's old is new.” Others suggested that maybe it was the longing for a different era of sports—when legends like Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar were in their prime.

Sports jerseys in general had been in high demand for years and the throwbacks added a new element of scarcity. Just as in the days when we had to befriend the manager at Foot Locker to get our Air Force 1s, in Philly at a store called Mitchell and Ness that had the best collection of the rarest vintage throwbacks there was a guy named Reuben whom you had to know and who would alert you when goods came in. When that happened, insiders would race from NYC to Philly hoping to be the first to pay the four to five hundred dollars for the obscure Brett Favre numbered jersey that nobody else had.

In hindsight, I would say that rather than being about a longing for another era, the throwbacks were a last act of the sports jersey heyday that had begun in the late eighties and was now finally coming full circle with a grand finale. Why do I say that? Because eight months after that press release proclaimed athletic retro as the new cool, pumping the sales of throwbacks even more and further enriching league coffers (like the NBA's annual $3 billion in receipts), Jay-Z released a record that signaled it was time for a new look. Simply entitled “Change Clothes,” Jay-Z (featuring Pharrell) talked about the need not to get stuck in a rut, not to become a prisoner of the trappings of success or the uniform of cool, not to forget where you started, and never to lose the aspiration to keep on moving. Literally what he said was “
but y'all n***as acting way too tough / throw on a suit get it tapered up and let's just change clothes and go.”
In the story of a guy telling his girl that's all they needed to do to stay fresh and go to the “top of the globe” the song was also empowering. Wow.

Just when you thought that urban style had gone as far as possibilities allowed, so much so that it had to go get something old from the closet and call it new again with throwbacks, the time for a reinvention had been announced. Because of the millions who were now part of urban culture, the minute Jay-Z said it and replaced his old look with a button-down collared and tailored shirt in the video, the legions followed suit.

The funniest thing happened next, something that opened my eyes to the ambivalence toward hip-hop still felt by many brands and organizations representing the status quo. It came up for me when NBA commissioner David Stern—noticing the steep decline in sales of licensed sports apparel—asked me, “Maybe you could ask Jay-Z if he would change clothes back again?” He was serious. And it's hard not to love David Stern, who really does want the best for all the teams. However, Stern had been the one to first institute a dress code for players when not in uniform and to strongly discourage cornrows and tattoos, until he couldn't do anything about them anymore, and to openly admit to feeling that the rap thing was always in danger of getting out of hand. All of a sudden, he's asking me to tell Jay-Z to change clothes back again!

At that point in my career in marketing, it highlighted a generation gap that certainly could be expected. But it also prepared me to deal with brands and corporate executives who wanted the profitability of urban culture but didn't always have the understanding of why it was bringing (or could be bringing) them in money hand over fist—and didn't understand the motivations of the army of consumers who were paying the money.

What was getting lost in translation (phrase intended) was that defining what's cool is less about the specific style of shirt and more about how wearing the style of shirt makes you feel. When hip-hop changed from a saggy-baggy, antiestablishment attitude to a more cultivated hipster haberdashery kind of feeling, it was very much like an overdue celebration of having done well and having earned the right to party. And as much as Jay-Z was the guy who put out the invitation to go there, the person throwing the party—literally, as an individual and an entrepreneur and as a brand unto himself—was Sean “Puffy” and/or “P. Diddy” Combs.

There's no doubt as to what an important global driver of culture Puffy had been over the years. How about keeping everyone on their toes by taking over Broadway as an actor in the Sidney Poitier role in a revival of
A Raisin in the Sun
and, in spite of mixed reviews for his acting, helping rake in more money than any nonmusical production in years? How about then going off to Paris and suddenly becoming the toast of that town? Even knowing all that and remembering the days when P. Diddy had climbed all the mountains first—the first young African-American entrepreneur who could walk into a club and happen to mention he had just gotten a check for $40 million—the moment when I really saw how far he had taken tanning was during Estée Lauder's launch of the Sean John fragrance line.