The Tobacco Papers #6: or, how branding got its groove back

Malboro Man. Evocative of every Wild West stereotype you can shove a Stetson on and send off into the mythical countryside to take pots shots at – righteously – pissed off indigents. Sun-roasted, lithe muscles dipped in tungsten-like spaghetti and more than the merest hint of bandy leg make this figure (reincarnated over two decades and finally consigned to print) more a triumph of the emergent branding machine than the superblueprint of American masculinity.

His message? Be like the films (of the time). Ride the horse. Triumph over the evils of otherness; mainly cowboys who don’t wear check, they wear black (and thus commit the crime of turning up to desert scuffles in unsuitable, impractical dress code than violate ideologies). Get the girl. Have a fag.

But salvaging the Malboro brand from the cacawing clutches of – no, no, don’t let it be – a feminine taste, and stamping a sweaty, chap-clad leg on (what became) the number 1 US cigarette brand is tough work. With an – imagined – schedule that action-based, you subconsciously build in some sort of rest break for his rootin’, tootin’ cardboard-cut out efforts. And you can’t have the hero shovelling chocolate down his stubble-adorned, chiselled chops, can you? No – because FAILblog hadn’t been invented yet, the internet wasn’t around to snigger at admen and regardless of how tasty their tobacco blend is, people aren’t born wanting to smoke; they need an initial reason before compulsion sets in.

The admen at Marlboro had clearly taken lessons from previous misadventures in smokespiration. Saying ‘You’re never alone with a Strand’ in 1959 was helpful for Cliff Adams and ‘The Lonely Man Theme’. Not so much for the company itself, who, with their evocation of a quasi-Victorian ripper-reigning rainy cityscape, complete with rain-coated loner, broadcasted to potential puffers; got no friends? Well, smoke these then.

I don’t know many market segmentation wet dreams that include solitude, raincoats and addiction. “Well, we thought we’d go a bit noir for this one. Sod trying to compete with a burgeoning Hollywood film system. We’re five years too late to jump on the mythical man bandwagon. ’59 is all about the lurking: friendless adulthood with a predisposition towards addiction and being in damp places. It’s sooooo Hitchcock.” Clumsy, botched and badly done Imperial Tobacco. Similar reproach has to be extended to any company that’s tried to tout the torches you toke via preposterous health claims, knowledge of the real consequences of smoking or not.

Admittedly it must be tricky for those poor (not quantatively) tobacco companies, what with all the make-everything-fair-macrobiotic-not-gonna-do-that-it’s-cancerous-mood that follows the objective knowledge that smoking can in no way be beneficial.

It’s not like fashion. You can’t fish out the wet-look leggings that fell down the back of your parents’ radiator in 1985 and solve both the conundrum of why that room has smelled of burning nylon without accompanying acrid smoke ever since, as well as what every Grazia reader should have purchased this Spring to spruce up the $40,000 Tribute bag that’s depreciating faster than an i-touch. After all, a pack of twenty smokes is a costly trinket to purchase regularly and the money’s better spent on Botox (especially if you used to buy cigarettes before it was invented). There’s also the small matter of legislation in 77 countries and counting against smoking in public places. Selling smoking has to be one the largest challenges in the ad industry right now.
Where do you go when the original icons die of your product? After cancer, legislation and the advent of viral marketing on Youtube which has ten times the addictive hit of your product without the pesky drag of price and having to nick your brother’s driving licence to get it in the first place. It’s okay, advertising industry, take a deep breath. I’ve figured out a postmodern brand identity for the cigarette and repackaged it as a – realistic – lifestyle option. Feel free to use my suggestions, just cite that I’m the genius behind them, yeah?

So, the smouldering solace thing didn’t work for Strand. You know, the ‘I’m alone but, look, it’s okay because I’ve got this lit stick to bounce witticisms off in the rain’ thing. That’s fine. Because actually what Strands and Imperial missed first time can be advertising’s gain in the naughties.

Let me introduce you instead to: the Friend Fatale. A bit like the toxic best female friend who looks great, insists you look better than great but ultimately, is having a torrid passionfest with the love of your life (it’s better that than posting pictures of you hugging the porcelain followed by hitting on your own uncle, surely). Or the romantic interest who despite being housebroken and possessing mildly symmetrical features, is only destined to hook up with your toxic friend OR lure you into some opiate-derived degeneration à la Sid and Nancy. Except with the friend fatale, you know what you’re getting. 20 hits in a box which will leave you briefly sated, mainly unfulfilled and ultimately ill if not dead.

Don’t like the noir undertones of the rapacious, curvaceous doom diva that is the ‘Friend’? Fine. You clearly need the Dioxide of Dimension. Believe it or no, there are people in existence who smoke at parties ONLY because they perceive it to be an icebreaker. Yes, that’s right. They keep their lungs squeaky pinky until a stranger who may or may not want to engage them in superficial discourse whips out the rolling baccie and then – it’s their chance to shine. By that logic then, smoking makes you an interesting person capable of initiating time-of-day banter. Or at least equips you with the capacity to ask basic questions.

Maybe you’re too busy to bother with this interaction nonsense to notice people as you flash from appointment to social engagement to the gym to the grave. This is an applause-worthy – and most post-modern – state of being. But I’ll bet you get to places earlier than everyone else. There’s nothing worse than being stuck in a Travelodge in Milton Keynes waiting for the other grey-suited amoeba to haul carcass out of their mid-range saloons and into the conference room to chow down some soggy bourbons. So spare yourself. Have a Stopgap Smoke.

Not convinced? Try the truth. Wear Eau d’ashtray.

You can see some behemouths of the classic/catastrophic variety at Well Medicated