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Just like retrostyling, retromarketing is more art than science. It's easy to hit a flat note. But can its lessons be spelled out? Is there an ABC for wannabes? They can, and there is. And although arrogant academicians always advocate for acronyms, aphorisms, apothegms, and absurdly affected alliterations—to ensure ever-busy executives get it—retromarketing represents a rare renunciation of this ridiculous rhetorical rule. There are just five basic principles.
The first is that customers crave exclusivity. Retromarketing eschews the "here it is, come and get it, there's plenty for everyone" proposition—the modern marketing proposition—by deliberately holding back supplies and delaying gratification. You want it? Can't have it. Try again later, pal.
Granted, "Get it now while supplies last" is one of the oldest arrows in the marketing quiver. But it is no less effective for all that. First, exclusivity helps you avoid excess inventory—you don't make it until the customer begs for it. Second, it allows buyers to luxuriate in the belief that they are the lucky ones, the select few, the discerning elite. Promoting exclusivity is standard practice in the motor industry, as would-be buyers of Miatas, Harleys, and Honda Odysseys will readily testify. It's employed by De Beers for diamonds and Disney for videos. It's used by everyone from Wall Street brokers, with an IPO to pass off, to the chocolate conspirators at Cadbury, whose creme eggs are strictly rationed and highly seasonal. Indeed, it has launched countless one-day, 13-hour, blue-light, everything-must-go sales in retail stores the world over, and doubtless, will continue to do so.
Ty Warner, impresario of toy maker Ty Incorporated, may well go down in history for his ceaselessly inventive exploitation of exclusivity. To be sure, his velveteen storm troopers—the famous Beanie Babies—looked like undernourished attendees at the teddy bears' picnic. Nevertheless, their retromarketing campaign put Sun Tzu's The Art of War to shame. By coupling limited production runs with ruthless "retirements," Warner ensured that Beanie Babies remained in enormous demand and fostered a now-or-never mind-set among consumers and retailers.
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| As long as kids keep fighting over the products and retailers are angry at us because they can't get enough, I think those are good signs. | |
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| — Ty Warner |
Ostensibly priced at five or six bucks apiece, Beanies fetched upwards of three grand at auction and were known to trigger fistfights among frenzied I-spotted-it-first fans. They were sold through a plethora of small-time gift shops, bypassing major retail chains, whose EDI-driven ethos of regular supplies, no surprises, and guaranteed delivery times was anathema to Warner. Consistently inconsistent, he supplied what he wanted, when he wanted, to whomsoever he wanted, and if the retailers didn't like it, then they simply did without. When added to the constant introductions and retirements of models, the upshot was that Warner's wares were scattered hither and yon. Reason didn't enter into it, let alone rhyme. The tush-tagged creatures could thus be discovered in the most out-of-the-way outlets, which added to rather than detracted from Beanies' pseudonostalgic appeal. Fuelled, furthermore, by a massive word-of-mouse rumor mill, as well as an enormous secondary market in collectibles, Ty Warner turned the ultimate trick of making brand-new, mass-produced toys into semiprecious "antiques."
"Expect the unexpected" was Ty's rallying cry, and most would agree that capricious production, idiosyncratic distribution, eccentric promotion, and haphazard pricing are somewhat unusual in a modern marketing world of Analysis, Planning, Implementation, and Control. However, it is very much in keeping with a premodern milieu of restricted supply, excess demand, and multifarious channels of distribution. As Warner sagely observed, "As long as kids keep fighting over the products and retailers are angry at us because they cannot get enough, I think those are good signs." Indeed, the fighting would have continued had Warner not ultimately betrayed his own best retromarketing instincts. After deciding to terminate Beanie Babies en masse in December 1999, he was persuaded by an on-line plebiscite to grant a soft-toy stay of execution. Collectors were not amused, and Warner's iconic standing suffered irreparable damage.
Happily, right on Ty's heels came another tour de force of customer torment from the master marketers behind today's greatest mania: Harry Potter. Not only is J.K. Rowling's remarkable creation the perfect retro product—a twenty-first-century Tom Brown—but the wonderful wizard of Hogwarts has been marketed in an unashamedly retro manner. Scholastic's campaign for the blockbuster Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is a sterling example of the second principle of retromarketing: secrecy. It consisted of a complete blackout on advance information. The book's title, pagination, and price were kept under wraps until two weeks before publication. Review copies were withheld, no author interviews were allowed, and foreign translations were deferred for fear of injudicious leaks. Juicy plot details, including the death of a key character and Harry's sexual awakening, were drip fed to a slavering press corps prior to the launch. Printers and distributors were required to sign strict confidentially agreements. Booksellers were bound by a ruthlessly policed embargo, though some were allowed to display the tantalizing volume in locked cages for a brief period just before "Harry Potter Day," July 8, 2000. And in a stroke of retro genius, several advance copies were "accidentally" sold from an unnamed Wal-Mart in deepest West Virginia, though one of the "lucky" children was miraculously tracked down by the world's press and splashed across every front page worth its salt.
More sadistic still, Scholastic dropped less-than-subtle hints that there weren't enough copies of the book to go around, thereby exacerbating the gotta-get-it frenzy of fans and distributors alike. In the event, the tome was ubiquitously unavoidable, available everywhere from grocery stores to roadside restaurants. No one complained, of course, because everyone had managed to get their hands on the precious Potter, and by the time they'd finished reading the magical mystery, they'd forgotten its magically mysterious marketing campaign. Now you see it, now you don't.
Whereas modern marketing is upfront, above board, and transparent, retro revels in mystery, intrigue, and covert operations. Consider the classic "secret" recipes that have helped to purvey all sorts of comestibles—Coca-Cola, Heinz Ketchup, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Mrs. Fields Cookies, the list goes on—to say nothing of cosmetics (the secret of youthfulness), proprietary medicines (the secret of good health), and holiday packages (secret hideaways a specialty). If it engages the customer in even just a moment of consideration of the product—"What could it be?" or simply, "Why is it so hush-hush?" —secrecy helps to sell.
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Time for a New Motown Revival
Of all industries the automotive business is most responsible for perfecting the art of retro. It invented the Joe Isuzu-style salesman and has been quick to tap into nostalgic yearnings in its new model designs and advertising. How sad, then, to see the industry suppressing its true nature and embracing customer centricity as its marketing approach.
Just consider its retro credentials. The Mazda Miata, an homage to 1950s roadsters, which comes complete with a carefully pitched tailpipe note, was the first retro auto rollout. Its triumph in the marketplace set the entire motor industry on the road to yesterville. Fast followers include the Chrysler PT Cruiser, a pastiche of the upright sedans of the 1940s; the Jaguar S-Type, an affectionate nod to the style of the immortal Mark II, beloved by British police officers and their criminal counterparts; and, best of all, the New Beetle, which melds the distinctive shape of the old Beetle with the latest automotive technology to produce a modern car with anachronistic styling. Not to be outdone, the retro auto prototype, Mazda's Miata, recently celebrated its decade-long heritage with a tenth anniversary special edition, thus making it a neo retro auto.
Yet despite the success of the retro products, the automobile industry hasn't fully embraced retromarketing. For every old-style publicity stunt, there are dozens of oleaginous allusions to market responsiveness, customer care, and our duty is to serve. Saturn says it all.
Auto marketers are unnecessarily ashamed of their Artful Dodger antecedents. They try to hide inveigling away, to disguise their deceitful DNA, only to suffer from the return of retromarketing repressed. It's time for the madness to end. The return of Joe Isuzu is a start, but the therapy must go deeper. It's time, carmakers, to get in touch with your inner huckster.