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Monday Morning Memo

Those Glorious Creative Handcuffs!

February 1, 2021

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https://podcasts.captivate.fm/media/d0749d24-8eb9-4644-9124-09ad575fd41b/MMM20210201-GloriousCreativeHandcuffs.mp3

If one were to assume that a blank sheet of paper – complete freedom – is the best way to coax maximum creativity from the human mind, one would be wrong.

The highest levels of creativity are launched from the tightest constraints.

Consider this request made a couple of weeks ago by a student in our monthly webcast.

Hi Roy, I work with a micro-distillery in our province who recently developed a lower-priced brand of affordable liquor. It is called: lōk(ə)l and they spell it phonetically, with a k and a schwa. (ə)

They make vodka, gin and schnapps packaged in plastic bottles. How can we advertise this on the radio to get people to look for the right product?   Not to mention there is some muddiness marketing “local” when everyone is jumping on the “shop local” train… there is even another alcohol beverage called Local with a similar style.

Thanks for all your help.

Let’s examine our creative restraints and limitations:

  1. Plastic bottles shout “cheap.”
  2. “Locally-produced vodka” is not a strong selling proposition.
  3. “Local” is an overused generic descriptive, but we’re stuck with it as a name.
  4. A competing product has the same name, but with the correct spelling.
  5. If we cannot differentiate our brand, our radio ads are likely to sell the products of companies other than our own.

Bottom line: lōk(ə)l vodka is memorable only because it is spelled with a k.

These are the creative handcuffs we wear as we write a series of 30-second radio ads in an effort to give this brand a personality that says something other than “cheap generic vodka.”

Are you ready to ride?

Lokal vodka is NOT low-cal, low calorie, lightweight vodka. You’re thinking of a different brand. Lokal-with-a-K is full-bodied, genuine, authentic vodka made right here in Saskatchewan. Vodka is spelled with a K, not a C.  Lokal-with-a-K is old-school vodka, the kind that will kick your ass if you drink too much of it. We also make gin and schnapps. This stuff is fabulous, but to make it affordable we put it in plastic bottles, ’kay? Lokal-with-a-K is available in every store that has good taste.

AD 2:

Lokal-with-a-K vodka is made right here in Saskatchewan, which also has a K. And Vodka is spelled with a K, so we spell Lokal with a K. You say, “Hey, you also make gin and schnapps and they don’t have a K.” But in THIS deck of cards, Vodka is KING, Schnapps is QUEEN, Gin is the JOKER and the joker is wild. Drink has a K.  Kick has TWO K’s, but Compromise is spelled with a “C.” Lokal-with-a-K is fabulous, but to make it affordable we put it in plastic bottles, ’kay? Lokal-with-a-K is available in every store that has good taste.

AD 3:

Lokal-with-a-K vodka is made right here in Saskatchewan, and because you love it, we’re now making it with extra K. We also put extra K in our gin and schnapps. Vodka is KING, Schnapps is QUEEN, Gin is the JOKER and the joker is wild. With these three in your hand, you’re on your way to a Full House. Drink has a K.  Kick has TWO K’s, but Compromise is spelled with a “C.” We don’t compromise. Neither should you. Lokal-with-a-K is available in every store that has good taste.

By the time we get to the third ad, this campaign is promising wild parties in a full house of people where everyone gets their kicks. Did you notice?

Incongruities, anomalies, gaps and disturbances naturally attract attention. Learn to leverage them as memory hooks.

What if we were asked to differentiate that other brand of vodka, LoCal?

Let’s ride again, shall we?

Vodka is clean, pure, and colorless… Like diamonds… And sunlight… And the music of angels. But it will also make you FAT and we don’t want THAT. My vodka is Local vodka. At least that’s how most people pronounce it. Look closely and you’ll see that it actually says Low-CAL… Low-CAL.  Lo-Cal vodka won’t give you a fat ass. Lo-Cal vodka is diamonds, and sunlight, and the music of angels. [pause] It comes in a small, tight can. Because isn’t that really what we’re after?

AD 2:

I don’t want to drink wide-bottom vodka. You don’t want to drink wide-bottom vodka. We want the low-CAL vodka that tastes like diamonds… and sunlight… and the music of angels… all of which, by the way, are also low in calories! This heavenly designer vodka is cleverly disguised as, quote, “local” vodka. But look closely and you’ll see it says, Lo-CAL. You’ll spot it immediately. [pause] It comes in a small, tight can. Because isn’t that really what we’re after?

AD 3:

Pour it into a glass and you’ll see diamonds, and sunlight, and the music of angels. Lift that glass to your lips and you’ll taste diamonds and sunlight and the music of angels. Share it with your boyfriend and he’ll see diamonds and sunlight surrounding an angel. And that angel will be you. Some people call it Local vodka, but look closely and you’ll see that it actually says Low-CAL… Low-CAL. [pause] It comes in a small, tight can. Because isn’t that really what we’re after?

When writing ads, don’t worry about what you don’t have. Work with what you do have. And remember: incongruities, anomalies, gaps and disturbances naturally attract attention. Learn to leverage them as memory hooks.

Indy Beagle told me to say he’ll meet you in the rabbit hole.

Roy H. Williams

Three college friends holed up in a yurt in Santa Barbara, California, 15 years ago. Their crazy dream was to engineer a new sales and marketing software that would help small businesses succeed. (Sound interesting? They had me at “yurt.”) The company that emerged from that yurt is Ontraport and today its 120 employees energize thousands of businesses around the world and the company serves as a role model for how to attract and keep high-quality, happy employees. Flash back with us 7 years to 2014 as Landon Ray, one of the original 3-guys-in-a-yurt, shares his blueprint for building corporate culture with roving reporter Rotbart. In this humble dog’s opinion, Landon’s guidance is more relevant today than ever. It’s MondayMorningRadio.com – Aroo, Indy Beagle

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Random Quote:

“

Far out in the lake there was moored a large wooden platform on which stood an improbably high diving board—a kind of wooden Eiffel Tower. It was, I’m sure, the tallest wooden structure in Iowa, if not the Midwest. The platform was so far out from shore that hardly anyone ever visited it. Just occasionally some teenaged daredevils would swim out to have a look around. Sometimes they would climb the many ladders to the high board, and cautiously creep out onto it, but they always retreated when they saw just how suicidally far the water was below them.

No human being had ever been known to jump from it. So it was quite a surprise when Mr. Milton jumped up and began doing neck rolls and arm stretches and announced that he intended to have a dive off the high board.

Word of the insane intention of the man who looked like Goofy was already spreading along the beach when Mr. Milton jogged into the water and swam with even strokes out to the platform. He was just a tiny, distant stick figure when he got there but even from such a distance the high board seemed to loom hundreds of feet above him—indeed, seemed almost to scrape the clouds.

It took him at least twenty minutes to make his way up the zigzag of ladders to the top. Once at the summit, he strode up and down the board, which was enormously long—it had to be to extend beyond the edge of the platform far below—bounced on it experimentally two or three times, then took some deep breaths and finally assumed a position at the fixed end of the board with his arms at his sides. It was clear from his posture and poised manner that he was going to go for it. By now all the people on the beach and in the water—several hundred altogether—had stopped whatever they were doing and were silently watching.

Mr. Milton stood for quite a long time, then with a nice touch of theatricality he raised his arms, ran like hell down the long board—imagine an Olympic gymnast sprinting at full tilt toward a distant springboard and you’ve got something of the spirit of it—took one enormous bounce and launched himself high and outward in a perfect swan dive. It was a beautiful thing to behold, I must say. He fell with flawless grace for what seemed whole minutes. Such was the beauty of the moment, and the breathless silence of the watching multitudes, that the only sound to be heard across the lake was the faint whistle of his body tearing through the air toward the water far, far below. It may only be my imagination, but he seemed after a time to start to glow red, like an incoming meteor. He was really moving.

I don’t know what happened—whether he lost his nerve or realized that he was approaching the water at a murderous velocity or what—but about three-quarters of the way down he seemed to have second thoughts about the whole business and began suddenly to flail, like someone entangled in bedding in a bad dream, or whose chute hasn’t opened. When he was perhaps thirty feet above the water, he gave up on flailing and tried a new tack. He spread his arms and legs wide, in the shape of an X, evidently hoping that exposing a maximum amount of surface area would somehow slow his fall.

It didn’t. He hit the water—impacted really is the word for it—at over six hundred miles an hour, with a report so loud that it made birds fly out of trees up to three miles away. At such a speed water effectively becomes a solid. I don’t believe Mr. Milton penetrated it at all, but just bounced off it about fifteen feet, limbs suddenly very loose, and then lay on top of it, still, like an autumn leaf, spinning gently. He was towed to shore by two passing fishermen in a rowboat, and carried to a grassy area by half a dozen onlookers who carefully set him down on an old blanket. There he spent the rest of the afternoon on his back, arms and legs bent slightly and elevated. Every bit of frontal surface area, from his thinning hairline to his toenails, had a raw, abraded look, as if he had suffered some unimaginable misfortune involving an industrial sander. Occasionally he accepted small sips of water, but otherwise was too traumatized to speak.

Later that same afternoon Milton Junior cut himself with a hatchet that he had been told on no account to touch, so that he ended up bleeding, in pain, and in trouble all at the same time.

It was the best day of my life.

“

- Bill Bryson, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, ch. 5

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