a
The secret of my success
From the House Of Margiela to the secret club of Jarvis Cocker: as today's pop cult reaches saturation point, the best PR is no PR at all.
i-D offered a rare glimpse into the mind of Margiela in 1997, via a faxed interview. In this he (or, rather, his 'House') explained a reluctance to join the designer-as-celebrity merry-go-round: "We do not use my physical image to promote our work. If people are touched and like to wear what we propose, they are free to buy and wear it. What I look like has, for me, little or nothing to do with this process. We prefer that people react to a garment through their taste and own personal style and not their impression of the individual and group of people who created it as translated and hyped by the press..." But Margiela is not a lone aloofer in the fashion industry: Helmut Lang is also considered something of a mystery man, exercising a cautiousness which, even as far back as 1994, saw him (despite having just undertaken an interview) declining to pose for a photograph for this very magazine. Even Alexander McQueen - these days as comfy on the couch of a chat show as at the opening of an envelope - in his early days as 'enfant terrible' refrained from showing his face in the press. Belgian womenswear star Veronique Branquinho cultivates a delicious air of mystery, while another seemingly camera-shy designer is Raf Simons, who despite being pretty handy in the looks department, opts for being shot from behind, rather than face-on. Rei Kawakubo, the not-very public face of Comme des Garçons, enjoys a notoriously guarded personae also. ("She's Japanese...er, think she wears glasses, doesn't she?" remarks one furrow-browed fashion stylist when probed).
So are they all chronically shy? Perhaps living up to their reputations as part of fashion's intellectual elite? Or are they actually just as media savvy as those designers who embrace the publicity machine - ranging from the latest hot-shot St Martins graduate to Donatella Versace herself - who, probably, collect their press clippings like they're going out of, er, fashion? The latter option seems the most plausible. Giving less of themselves creates a more slow-burning fascination and devotion among consumers... treat them mean and keep them keen. And this tactic - allowing the punter to scratch away at the surface gradually, rather than showing them your soiled drawers in each and every magazine and newspaper from day one - has, in recent times, become known as 'enigma marketing'.
Now contrast such an approach, utilised to great effect over the years by everyone from Howard Hughes to Prince in the 1980s, with the state of most celebrity play today: Geri Halliwell whining 'scream if you want to go faster' between blathering about her battle of the bulge with the odd cream bun (if everyone agrees to ignore her, might she just go away?); a coffee percolator - percolating - on the internet, becoming a star and then being auctioned to its 'fans'; Tracey Emin ever-mewling about Margate and foisting upon us her spunky-sheets; Jordan, whom even Daily Mirror editor Piers Morgan acknowledges "has no talent for anything at all in the entire universe other than getting publicity", stumbling about with her hot air-filled big tits; The Strokes, nice enough boys (well-connected ones at that), loved by the fashion pack (until next week), hailed as 'the future of rock'n'roll' (snigger) and blanket press coverage before you've even heard them (yawn). This is all, of course, the total opposite of enigma marketing: confessional, desperate, in way too much of a hurry... ultimately tedious and toss away-able. Indeed Pete Clark, in the London Evening Standard, recently wrote of this cheap thrill of fame: 'I was under the impression that real fame had some mysterious quality to it, some hint of glamour that took it away from the everyday and installed it in some unreachable place. I stand corrected. Fame in these modern times is having your backside projected hugely on to the side of the Houses of Parliament.'
Is being famous - in the above-described manner - becoming boring, then? Judging by the massive boost in sales that Heat magazine has recently enjoyed (up by 147 percent, year on year - now selling an average of 235,000 copies per week, according to the latest ABC figures), the public's appetite for 'this week's hottest celebrity news', as their cover motto goes, is far from waning. Editor Mark Frith believes a large section of the public are interested in celebrities, be they deemed A, B, C or D list, because: "There are more of them around, of a better quality, and for every star that demands copy approval there are ten others who are happy to fall over drunk or have inappropriate relationships, which is more interesting." But is it? "Yes," he insists, "because on a week by week basis their lives become almost like soap operas.'"
But aren't the people we hail as leaders in their fields, be they Madonna or Calvin Klein, really just those with the canniest grasp of bullish marketing and a fairly nifty way with the odd soundbite? And if any old band/frocksmith/grinning fool off the telly - not to mention book/eatery/holiday destination - can have 15 minutes for pretty much fuck-all (and even your granny can see the ease with which a group of starry-eyed karaoke kids can be trumped-up into pop stars by some Nasty Nigel or other), then where to next? Mark Frith firstly scoffs: "Popstars did the opposite of making it all seem easy - the fascinating thing about it was that it made it all seem like damn hard work. Teen bands have long had bad press, people say they can't sing or dance and it's bollocks! They need to have a lot of talent in the first place to make them stand out from the other 40 people who can sing Mariah Carey songs." He concludes, however, with a fearsome glimpse into the future of fame: "People don't need to have creative talent now to become famous - they need to have a talent for self-promotion. The ones who are successful are the ones who understand their game. People won't get bored of a core of celebrities - though they will get bored of someone like Jordan, who has a limited shelf life. But others with a Unique Selling Point will just come along and replace them." (Some girl who's liposuctioned her tits into novelty ironing board-type non-existence, perhaps?)
Still, it can't be denied that there is some sort of reaction to all this a-blowing in the wind. Call it enigma marketing, call it anything you like, but certain pockets of People Who Do Things (music / publishing / clubs and so on) are definitely shying away from saying too much and visually ramming themselves down your gullet 24/7. Not because they are saints, or any less self-obsessed, but because they have tapped into the allure of allure. By not giving all of your 'game' away, you can seem different, more worthy or - in the case of Damon Albarn, now a cartoon as part of the fairly tune-free Gorillaz - even a bit underground, like.
Nip back to the early 1990s, and see how well this tactic worked for George Michael in his Listen Without Prejudice period. By virtually removing himself from the cover of said album, and the supermodel-packed video for the single Too Funky, he managed to part-banish memories of his previous poofy hairdos and mum-at-a-wedding-party mode of dancing - in the process actually gaining recognition as a'serious' songwriter (more than merely someone who shoves shuttlecocks down his shorts in the name of pop-sex appeal). Since the middle of the last decade Daft Punk have rigidly - and with great panache - presented themselves to the public as an array of mysteriously masked/animated characters, managing to completely avoid appearing in their consistently inventive videos. Cynics might claim that New Order - enjoying a 'comeback' with new single Crystal - refrained from starring in its accompanying video as they are simply too 'mature' (ie, too wrinkly) to woo today's new generation of CD-buying, eye candy-obsessed nippers. To be fair, though, they were adopting such ruses as far back as the 1980s with the ground-breaking videos for True Faith and Bizarre Love Triangle, which starred strangely-attired dancers and props, or folks falling from windows, but not the band members themselves.
Anonymity and contrived obscurity do possess a certain appeal once more, one that allows you to at least feel that you are gradually peeling back the layers of a person or product. If you are wont to wade through the endless reports on what is 'cool' and what is not - and you are increasingly finding that, well, all the magazines, newspaper supplements and TV shows are cool-ifying the exact same things at the exact same time - then enigma marketing is both necessary and preferable, as it allows the illusion of elitism. The lack of typical pre-publicity for recent London parties such as Desperate (at which Jarvis Cocker plays records in a grubby film studio), Rooty (Basement Jaxx's furtive knees-up in a manky pub south of the river) and Fromage (with their no 'name' DJ policy and low-key website) initially created a distinction between finding something for yourself and going there because you know exactly what it will be like thanks to gurners' bibles like Mixmag. (Even though these nights have subsequently been written about in various style magazines, albeit in slightly irritating 'Shhhhh, let's keep it a secret...' terms).
But nowhere has the power of enigma and anonymity been used to better effect of late than by Popbitch. When this celebrity gossip website/email newsletter/message board launched last year, there was no promotional campaign to announce its arrival. Instead, the site (which is free to access and contains no advertising) quickly grew by word-of-mouth - mouths delighted by its salacious, near libelous take on current celebrity news and behind-the-scenes showbiz vileness. Before long, Popbitch had thousands of subscribers overloading its server, in part because of the witty quality of its writing and non PR-friendly anecdotes, but also due to its curiosity factor: who the hell are Popbitch? A few industry insiders know the identity of its creators but no one is telling, despite rumours of tabloids offering a small fortune for anyone willing to snitch. When probed (by email) to comment on their success, Popbitch now wisely declares: 'We've taken the decision not to do any more press interviews for the time being. We're thinking about some new directions in which we want to take Popbitch and so think it's best to keep quiet.' Their silence will ensure further success, meaning they can still pose a bit of a threat to the slyly constructed images of those who believe a skill for 'playing' the media is on a par with having some tangible talent.
Talking of which, let's conclude with a word of warning. Gasps of shock and disbelief have greeted the very possibility that Big Brother winner Brian might - as has been rumoured - decide to return to his humdrum job with Ryan Air. After all, how could he not want to take up those lovely lucrative offers of presenting daytime telly? See 'exclusive' snaps of himself - pissed and blotchy at a 'glitzy' showbiz bash - splattered across the pages of Heat? Become on hob-nobbing terms with the prestigious likes of Steps, or Lady Victoria Scurvy, godammit? He must be mad! Well, if you have any sense, young Brian, you will party hard, enjoy the cash, then vanish back into a life of relative obscurity, up-up in the air. For that would be infinitely more intriguing.
If you were to look for a fashion designer who, over the past ten years or so, had managed to stick to their own hardcore aesthetic, felt no need to bother advertising their wares in magazines, always refused to be photographed, only ever conducted interviews by fax (and even then rejected ego or self but instead referred to the joint efforts of a dedicated team) then Martin Margiela would be that designer. One might imagine that such a restrained approach in these PR-led, publicity-hungry times would equal commercial suicide. Think again. The Margiela 'brand' can be purchased in the finest clothing stores in the biggest cities across the globe. He is frequently referred to as 'the designer's designer'; Hermes continue to utilise his skills in revamping themselves for the modern age. And Margiela - as in, the House Of - is doing very nicely, thank you. Yet precious little is known about the man himself. He could justifiably be hailed as an 'underground' phenomenon - mysterious, incongruous - yet he is one that sits stubbornly alongside other, more aggressively hyped fashion designers. So while Margiela's apparent invisibility has hardly fuelled the type of frightening intrusiveness which ageing Hollywood recluse Greta 'I want to be alone' Garbo once commanded (photographers scaled the walls of her Paris apartment block, poking probing lenses through the crack in her heavy velvet curtains to catch a mocking glimpse of her time-ravaged beauty), it has prompted much fashion tittle tattle and speculation about his looks, his voice, what he wears, where he lives and even with whom he might tangle tonsils.
i-D offered a rare glimpse into the mind of Margiela in 1997, via a faxed interview. In this he (or, rather, his 'House') explained a reluctance to join the designer-as-celebrity merry-go-round: "We do not use my physical image to promote our work. If people are touched and like to wear what we propose, they are free to buy and wear it. What I look like has, for me, little or nothing to do with this process. We prefer that people react to a garment through their taste and own personal style and not their impression of the individual and group of people who created it as translated and hyped by the press..." But Margiela is not a lone aloofer in the fashion industry: Helmut Lang is also considered something of a mystery man, exercising a cautiousness which, even as far back as 1994, saw him (despite having just undertaken an interview) declining to pose for a photograph for this very magazine. Even Alexander McQueen - these days as comfy on the couch of a chat show as at the opening of an envelope - in his early days as 'enfant terrible' refrained from showing his face in the press. Belgian womenswear star Veronique Branquinho cultivates a delicious air of mystery, while another seemingly camera-shy designer is Raf Simons, who despite being pretty handy in the looks department, opts for being shot from behind, rather than face-on. Rei Kawakubo, the not-very public face of Comme des Garçons, enjoys a notoriously guarded personae also. ("She's Japanese...er, think she wears glasses, doesn't she?" remarks one furrow-browed fashion stylist when probed).
So are they all chronically shy? Perhaps living up to their reputations as part of fashion's intellectual elite? Or are they actually just as media savvy as those designers who embrace the publicity machine - ranging from the latest hot-shot St Martins graduate to Donatella Versace herself - who, probably, collect their press clippings like they're going out of, er, fashion? The latter option seems the most plausible. Giving less of themselves creates a more slow-burning fascination and devotion among consumers... treat them mean and keep them keen. And this tactic - allowing the punter to scratch away at the surface gradually, rather than showing them your soiled drawers in each and every magazine and newspaper from day one - has, in recent times, become known as 'enigma marketing'.
Now contrast such an approach, utilised to great effect over the years by everyone from Howard Hughes to Prince in the 1980s, with the state of most celebrity play today: Geri Halliwell whining 'scream if you want to go faster' between blathering about her battle of the bulge with the odd cream bun (if everyone agrees to ignore her, might she just go away?); a coffee percolator - percolating - on the internet, becoming a star and then being auctioned to its 'fans'; Tracey Emin ever-mewling about Margate and foisting upon us her spunky-sheets; Jordan, whom even Daily Mirror editor Piers Morgan acknowledges "has no talent for anything at all in the entire universe other than getting publicity", stumbling about with her hot air-filled big tits; The Strokes, nice enough boys (well-connected ones at that), loved by the fashion pack (until next week), hailed as 'the future of rock'n'roll' (snigger) and blanket press coverage before you've even heard them (yawn). This is all, of course, the total opposite of enigma marketing: confessional, desperate, in way too much of a hurry... ultimately tedious and toss away-able. Indeed Pete Clark, in the London Evening Standard, recently wrote of this cheap thrill of fame: 'I was under the impression that real fame had some mysterious quality to it, some hint of glamour that took it away from the everyday and installed it in some unreachable place. I stand corrected. Fame in these modern times is having your backside projected hugely on to the side of the Houses of Parliament.'
Is being famous - in the above-described manner - becoming boring, then? Judging by the massive boost in sales that Heat magazine has recently enjoyed (up by 147 percent, year on year - now selling an average of 235,000 copies per week, according to the latest ABC figures), the public's appetite for 'this week's hottest celebrity news', as their cover motto goes, is far from waning. Editor Mark Frith believes a large section of the public are interested in celebrities, be they deemed A, B, C or D list, because: "There are more of them around, of a better quality, and for every star that demands copy approval there are ten others who are happy to fall over drunk or have inappropriate relationships, which is more interesting." But is it? "Yes," he insists, "because on a week by week basis their lives become almost like soap operas.'"
But aren't the people we hail as leaders in their fields, be they Madonna or Calvin Klein, really just those with the canniest grasp of bullish marketing and a fairly nifty way with the odd soundbite? And if any old band/frocksmith/grinning fool off the telly - not to mention book/eatery/holiday destination - can have 15 minutes for pretty much fuck-all (and even your granny can see the ease with which a group of starry-eyed karaoke kids can be trumped-up into pop stars by some Nasty Nigel or other), then where to next? Mark Frith firstly scoffs: "Popstars did the opposite of making it all seem easy - the fascinating thing about it was that it made it all seem like damn hard work. Teen bands have long had bad press, people say they can't sing or dance and it's bollocks! They need to have a lot of talent in the first place to make them stand out from the other 40 people who can sing Mariah Carey songs." He concludes, however, with a fearsome glimpse into the future of fame: "People don't need to have creative talent now to become famous - they need to have a talent for self-promotion. The ones who are successful are the ones who understand their game. People won't get bored of a core of celebrities - though they will get bored of someone like Jordan, who has a limited shelf life. But others with a Unique Selling Point will just come along and replace them." (Some girl who's liposuctioned her tits into novelty ironing board-type non-existence, perhaps?)
Still, it can't be denied that there is some sort of reaction to all this a-blowing in the wind. Call it enigma marketing, call it anything you like, but certain pockets of People Who Do Things (music / publishing / clubs and so on) are definitely shying away from saying too much and visually ramming themselves down your gullet 24/7. Not because they are saints, or any less self-obsessed, but because they have tapped into the allure of allure. By not giving all of your 'game' away, you can seem different, more worthy or - in the case of Damon Albarn, now a cartoon as part of the fairly tune-free Gorillaz - even a bit underground, like.
Nip back to the early 1990s, and see how well this tactic worked for George Michael in his Listen Without Prejudice period. By virtually removing himself from the cover of said album, and the supermodel-packed video for the single Too Funky, he managed to part-banish memories of his previous poofy hairdos and mum-at-a-wedding-party mode of dancing - in the process actually gaining recognition as a'serious' songwriter (more than merely someone who shoves shuttlecocks down his shorts in the name of pop-sex appeal). Since the middle of the last decade Daft Punk have rigidly - and with great panache - presented themselves to the public as an array of mysteriously masked/animated characters, managing to completely avoid appearing in their consistently inventive videos. Cynics might claim that New Order - enjoying a 'comeback' with new single Crystal - refrained from starring in its accompanying video as they are simply too 'mature' (ie, too wrinkly) to woo today's new generation of CD-buying, eye candy-obsessed nippers. To be fair, though, they were adopting such ruses as far back as the 1980s with the ground-breaking videos for True Faith and Bizarre Love Triangle, which starred strangely-attired dancers and props, or folks falling from windows, but not the band members themselves.
Anonymity and contrived obscurity do possess a certain appeal once more, one that allows you to at least feel that you are gradually peeling back the layers of a person or product. If you are wont to wade through the endless reports on what is 'cool' and what is not - and you are increasingly finding that, well, all the magazines, newspaper supplements and TV shows are cool-ifying the exact same things at the exact same time - then enigma marketing is both necessary and preferable, as it allows the illusion of elitism. The lack of typical pre-publicity for recent London parties such as Desperate (at which Jarvis Cocker plays records in a grubby film studio), Rooty (Basement Jaxx's furtive knees-up in a manky pub south of the river) and Fromage (with their no 'name' DJ policy and low-key website) initially created a distinction between finding something for yourself and going there because you know exactly what it will be like thanks to gurners' bibles like Mixmag. (Even though these nights have subsequently been written about in various style magazines, albeit in slightly irritating 'Shhhhh, let's keep it a secret...' terms).
But nowhere has the power of enigma and anonymity been used to better effect of late than by Popbitch. When this celebrity gossip website/email newsletter/message board launched last year, there was no promotional campaign to announce its arrival. Instead, the site (which is free to access and contains no advertising) quickly grew by word-of-mouth - mouths delighted by its salacious, near libelous take on current celebrity news and behind-the-scenes showbiz vileness. Before long, Popbitch had thousands of subscribers overloading its server, in part because of the witty quality of its writing and non PR-friendly anecdotes, but also due to its curiosity factor: who the hell are Popbitch? A few industry insiders know the identity of its creators but no one is telling, despite rumours of tabloids offering a small fortune for anyone willing to snitch. When probed (by email) to comment on their success, Popbitch now wisely declares: 'We've taken the decision not to do any more press interviews for the time being. We're thinking about some new directions in which we want to take Popbitch and so think it's best to keep quiet.' Their silence will ensure further success, meaning they can still pose a bit of a threat to the slyly constructed images of those who believe a skill for 'playing' the media is on a par with having some tangible talent.
Talking of which, let's conclude with a word of warning. Gasps of shock and disbelief have greeted the very possibility that Big Brother winner Brian might - as has been rumoured - decide to return to his humdrum job with Ryan Air. After all, how could he not want to take up those lovely lucrative offers of presenting daytime telly? See 'exclusive' snaps of himself - pissed and blotchy at a 'glitzy' showbiz bash - splattered across the pages of Heat? Become on hob-nobbing terms with the prestigious likes of Steps, or Lady Victoria Scurvy, godammit? He must be mad! Well, if you have any sense, young Brian, you will party hard, enjoy the cash, then vanish back into a life of relative obscurity, up-up in the air. For that would be infinitely more intriguing.