My advertising heroes. Part 2 in a sporadic series.

Last week, staring into the creative abyss all writers, at times, face, Rob Schwartz, CEO of TBWA\Chiat\Day suggested I write a series of posts about some ad luminaries—who either inspired me, or did work that helped define the industry.

Today’s post is more about inspiration than seminal work, because it features work by my father, Stan Tannenbaum. 

My old man escaped from West Philadelphia’s Jewish ghetto through advertising—a hot profession in the 1950s. He first went to work for his brother, Sid Tannenbaum, who ran an agency in Philly called Weightman Advertising. 

From Weightman my old man worked across river from Philly, in Camden, NJ where the Radio Corporation of America (RCA) was based. Then, in 1954, he moved to the ‘big time.’ To New York, where he joined a top-ten agency called Kenyon & Eckhardt.

My father spent the lion’s share of his career there—and rose from copywriter to Chairman of the Board. His work, to be honest was never as “creative” or award-winning as the best work of the day. Nevertheless, he was my father, and there’s something to be said for that. I think. 

My old man’s first spot is, of course, dated. But a classic side-by-side comparison--and for the time, a dramatic one.

The Brylcreem spot shows a side of my father I happily glommed onto--his glib turn of a phrase. 

In this case Brylcreem's tagline entered the vernacular, "A little dab'll do ya." Which, really, father notwithstanding, ain't bad. 

Finally, an ad for Macleans toothpaste. For years, my father's work for this brand was dull and, yes, insipid. However, this spot, created amid the cultural and creative revolution in the 1960s when its effects had filtered down to even the most "package-goodsy" of agencies, is not without its sex-appeal and wit.

Like my old man himself, it's actually not half bad.
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In Homer’s Odyssey, which I read as painters paint bridges, finishing one end only to start immediately over again at the other, Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom says, “Few sons are the equals of their fathers. Most fall short, all too few surpass them.”

Certainly, when it comes to making money and acquiring lofty titles, I didn’t equal my father. However much I’ve fallen materially short, I’ve been able to surpass the old man in career longevity. This week, I will complete my 60^th circle of the sun and I believe I am doing the best work of my long career—and more of it, more quickly.

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None of that’s important here. Just an observation about fathers and sons.

Some thoughts on Leonardo.

I just finished Friday night, late, Walter Isaacson's new book, "Leonardo Da Vinci."

I never read his previous book, Steve Jobs. Though I did read Isaacson's book before that on Albert Einstein. I have nothing against Jobs, or Isaacson for that matter. I just feel, as a student of history, that we need some time to reflect on an historical figure before we write about him. The Steve Jobs book seemed to come too soon. 

In any event I eagerly awaited Isaacson's 600-pager on Da Vinci. For one thing, there's nothing like a biography to take you away from our current wretched era and discourse. Second, for all my vaunted edu-macation, I know nothing about Da Vinci that I couldn't have learned from Classic Comics in eighth-grade. 

I've seen the "Mona Lisa" twice and I saw the "Last Supper," last time I was in Milan, but what makes those two works of art unsurpassed, I couldn't tell you. I suppose if I were to leave my office now and jet to see those works of art now, I'd come at them with more knowledge than I did the last time I saw them--I'd look at them differently and see things, meaning and technique, I hadn't noticed before, but still, the most interesting thing about Leonard is not these two paintings, his Vitruvian Man, or his fanciful flying machines.

For me, the thing to ponder on is the meaning of the last words he wrote in his mirror script in his voluminous note-books:

“Perche la minesstra si fredda."

"Whatever, the soup is getting cold."

That's all today, on a foggy and global-warming Monday in New York, as it seems like our economy will soon crater and the rich are planning on eating the poor.

Sometimes, the world is unimportant--it will go on spinning out of control, no matter what. Sometimes it's best to let relationships with the wife, the kids, your friends, your co-workers just go chugging along. Sometimes, even when you get in early, you should eschew work, I think, and take care of yourself.

After all, the soup is getting cold.

My advertising heroes. Part 1 in a sporadic series.

Rob Schwartz, CEO of TBWA/Chiat/Day New York suggested I write a series of posts about some ad luminaries whom our younger generation might not know of. When the CEO of "Chiat" suggests something, you listen. So, here goes. A look at three representative ads by a copywriter whose work I admired.

When I started in the business, way back in 1984, the highest-flying of New York agencies was Scali, McCabe, Sloves. If you aspired to be a copywriter, you wanted to work for, learn from, be tortured by the middle of the three names: Ed McCabe. 

I never got lucky enough to land a job at SMS—though I did work across the street from Scali, at an agency where McCabe cut his teeth: Ally & Gargano. During my long apprenticeship—when I was learning the business, and how to write, by pouring over old awards’ annuals, I found myself being stopped by McCabe ads more often than just about anyone else’s.

There was a punch-in-the-face style to McCabe. At a time when there were a lot of cute word-plays in ads, McCabe’s ads, as often as not, got down to an essential and blunt truth.

Take a look at his ad for Horn & Hardart’s, an early “fast-food,” no-frills restaurant. McCabe’s simple line of copy: “It’s not fancy. But it’s good.” Nothing, nothing, nothing in the ad is without purpose and meaning. And wit.

 Now, look at perhaps McCabe’s most famous ad: “Drive it like you hate it.” I’ve retyped the copy—the way some people might try to ape Leonardo.

When Volvo came to the U.S. from Sweden in 1956,

Chevy was the “hot one,” Ford was the “safe one” and

Volkswagen was just catching on as the “funny one.”

            We’d like to say that Volvo immediately caught on as

the “tough one.” It didn’t.

            At first only “car nuts” bought it. They figured if a Volvo

could hold up under Swedish driving (no speed limits), survive

Swedish roads (80% unpaved), withstand Swedish winters

(30° below), that a Volvo would hold up under anything.

            They figured right. Volvos were driven right off showroom

floors onto race tracks where they proceeded to win more

races than any other compact ever made.

            Volvos are still winning races. But that isn’t why they’re

bought today. Volvos are being used and misused as family cars.

They’re safe. And on the highway they run away from other

popular-priced compacts in every speed range, yet get over

25 miles to the gallon like the little economy cars.

            Volvo is now called the “tough one.” And it’s the

biggest-selling imported compact in America today.

            You can drive a Volvo like you hate it for as little as

$2565. Cheaper than psychiatry.

Again, packed with facts, not adjectives. And not a single extraneous word or false note. As I re-typed it, 50 years after it was written, there wasn’t a single word, much less sentence I wanted to change.

In fact, the ad served Volvo not for a few weeks, but rather, a few decades. Their brand became the embodiment of McCabe’s copy. Strong. Honest. Practical. Understanding. I have particular hatred for Volvo’s current lifestyle work—partly because it desecrates the soul and meaning of their brand, at least to people my age, who actually make enough money to buy a Volvo.

The third ad, for Perdue. McCabe built a company, and a category. Chickens weren’t branded before he branded Perdue. And he did it with a tough logic and an avian bit of wit.

“It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken.”

An ethos that survives for Perdue today, even if their current advertising is innocuous and banal.

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