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The Future? Luxury.
Jul. 25th, 2014 10:42 amI have a theory. In fact, I've got loads of theories, but fortunately most of them turn out to be right which is fortunate as that means I'm not wasting my time when I come up with them. Anyway, this particular theory is about the future, and in particular about the nature of luxury.
You see, when you talk about luxury most people tend to think of it in terms of physical possessions; an overstuffed white leather armchair, a big telly, a flash car, all that sort of thing. However, as society gets ever wealthier those possessions which were markers of a luxurious lifestyle become devalued and mainstream. Consider the lifestyles from Miami Vice in the mid-1980s. Crockett and Tubbs had incredibly luxurious lifestyles unattainable to all but the very few at the time, but watching episodes now they just look like rather pleasant middle-class aspirations and nothing all that special. As we've got richer, aspirations have changed.
This is perhaps best indicated in advertising for things like mobile phones and cars; once the point of these adverts would be 'look at these cool things you can own'. The act of having the latest phone or car was enough to satisfy the advertisers remit and sell product through aspiration. However, the content has changed over time. Now mobile phones still talk about the contract details and the power of the camera, but they do it whilst showing an attractive young couple running the bulls at Pamplona or taking part in that Indian festival where they all throw paint at each other. The message is no longer your friends will be impressed by your phone. The message is that you can use your phone to show your friends what a cool, aspirational lifestyle you have.
The same goes for cars. Yes, their adverts talk about mileage and emissions and all that stuff, but in the context of people driving round playing hide and seek or storm chasing or whatever. The message is less 'look at this cool car'; instead the car has become a gateway to the experiences it allows you to have. The aspiration once again is not ownership, but doing cool stuff.
And that's my theory about the nature of luxury and how it will change. It won't just be about owneing flashy stuff your friends can't afford,as a lot of formerly flashy stuff is rapidly becoming commoditised and products which a generation or so ago were utterly unattainable are increasingly in the reach of large proportions of the population. As such, luxury will be more and more about exclusivity of experience. Only a certain number of people can run with the bulls, or get tickets for one of Prince's secret gigs, or whatever. Showing off is less and less about what you own and more and more about where you are and what you're doing. Instant pictures on social media are driving this development, but with wealth it'd be coming regardless. Who cares if you have a flash car? Anyone can afford one, the message is. I've got exclusive tickets or my own private island. I'm the only person who has done this. You can't, no matter how much money you have. Marketing is selling this - watch for it and you'll see it.
Entertainment is perhaps the most striking example. Most media is free if you're prepared to be a bit dishonest to get it (and enough people are that it isn't going to stop), meaning that artists have to offer something else to their audiences in order to make aliving; making content doesn't pay for the rock and roll lifestyle by itself any more, so you need a stage show or fan engagement to bring in the bucks. It's why a lot of bands have got back together over the last decade - the royalty payments which once sustained them have dried up, forcing them back onto the road for another go around when a large gas bill comes due.
With that preamble, I went to see Monty Python's last ever performance on Sunday. I was sitting at my desk past week thinking to myself "How often will I get to go and see the Pythons perform for the last time ever?" and the answer came back "Once", so I sourced tickets and off I went.
I suspect they wouldn't have done this last set of shows if the DVD sales were holding up, but John Cleese will insist on getting divorce after divorce and they filled the O2 - 15,000 people a night at an average of about £80-100 a head - for ten nights meaning that none of them will be short of a few coppers as a result.
The audience demographic was precisely what you would expect it to me - middle aged people reliving their schooldays when shouting "Ni!" was enough to pass for a sense of humour, and who now have enough disposable income to indulge in pricey nostalgia. In amongst this group I didn't feel entirely like I fitted in; it was a bit like I am Legend with fat bastards instead of vampires.
The thing about the experiential nature of entertainment is that it means entertainers have to put on a heck of a good show to justify the big venue prices, and the Pythons didn't disappoint. I had expected a 90-minute greatest hits montage and whilst I got the hits, I got the best part of two-and-a-half-hours of them (in O2 seating, which appears to have been fitted for people 4'8" tall) crammed with rewrites, montages, song-and-dance numbers, ad-libs and Cleese and Palin going off-script during the parrot sketch and just trying to make each other crack up and forget their lines. Who knows why they did it? Just for the money? As a farewell? One last run through out of gratitude for the fans? Whatever the reason it felt genuinely warm and heartfelt. Of course there weren't any new punchlines or catchphrases - they knew why people were there - but there was a genuine sense that the group was having fun, and it was infectious. Let's face it, everyone expects the Spanish Inquisition, everyone knows about Spam, and everyone knows it is an ex-parrot and I went not really expecting to laugh much. I was wrong though. I laughed a lot, not because the jokes were still that funny (they stopped being funny about the tenth time I saw them, decades ago), but because there was an exuberance about the show. They captured the joyous anarchy of the early days and translated it to direct performance, and it was a delight. Of course they rounded it off with a great big singalong of Always look on the bright side of life and a standing ovation.
And so thanks to the changed nature of luxury, I got to see off Monty Python - who have been making off-colour surreal jokes since before I was born. When I was at school Python repeats were eagerly awaited - I only saw the Parrot Sketch for the first time on Comic Relief in about 1989, and it cracked me up good and proper - as they were so rare, and so few people owned any Python videos because this was back in the old days when media was expensive.
Of course, if you tell kids today that they won't believe you.
You see, when you talk about luxury most people tend to think of it in terms of physical possessions; an overstuffed white leather armchair, a big telly, a flash car, all that sort of thing. However, as society gets ever wealthier those possessions which were markers of a luxurious lifestyle become devalued and mainstream. Consider the lifestyles from Miami Vice in the mid-1980s. Crockett and Tubbs had incredibly luxurious lifestyles unattainable to all but the very few at the time, but watching episodes now they just look like rather pleasant middle-class aspirations and nothing all that special. As we've got richer, aspirations have changed.
This is perhaps best indicated in advertising for things like mobile phones and cars; once the point of these adverts would be 'look at these cool things you can own'. The act of having the latest phone or car was enough to satisfy the advertisers remit and sell product through aspiration. However, the content has changed over time. Now mobile phones still talk about the contract details and the power of the camera, but they do it whilst showing an attractive young couple running the bulls at Pamplona or taking part in that Indian festival where they all throw paint at each other. The message is no longer your friends will be impressed by your phone. The message is that you can use your phone to show your friends what a cool, aspirational lifestyle you have.
The same goes for cars. Yes, their adverts talk about mileage and emissions and all that stuff, but in the context of people driving round playing hide and seek or storm chasing or whatever. The message is less 'look at this cool car'; instead the car has become a gateway to the experiences it allows you to have. The aspiration once again is not ownership, but doing cool stuff.
And that's my theory about the nature of luxury and how it will change. It won't just be about owneing flashy stuff your friends can't afford,as a lot of formerly flashy stuff is rapidly becoming commoditised and products which a generation or so ago were utterly unattainable are increasingly in the reach of large proportions of the population. As such, luxury will be more and more about exclusivity of experience. Only a certain number of people can run with the bulls, or get tickets for one of Prince's secret gigs, or whatever. Showing off is less and less about what you own and more and more about where you are and what you're doing. Instant pictures on social media are driving this development, but with wealth it'd be coming regardless. Who cares if you have a flash car? Anyone can afford one, the message is. I've got exclusive tickets or my own private island. I'm the only person who has done this. You can't, no matter how much money you have. Marketing is selling this - watch for it and you'll see it.
Entertainment is perhaps the most striking example. Most media is free if you're prepared to be a bit dishonest to get it (and enough people are that it isn't going to stop), meaning that artists have to offer something else to their audiences in order to make aliving; making content doesn't pay for the rock and roll lifestyle by itself any more, so you need a stage show or fan engagement to bring in the bucks. It's why a lot of bands have got back together over the last decade - the royalty payments which once sustained them have dried up, forcing them back onto the road for another go around when a large gas bill comes due.
With that preamble, I went to see Monty Python's last ever performance on Sunday. I was sitting at my desk past week thinking to myself "How often will I get to go and see the Pythons perform for the last time ever?" and the answer came back "Once", so I sourced tickets and off I went.
I suspect they wouldn't have done this last set of shows if the DVD sales were holding up, but John Cleese will insist on getting divorce after divorce and they filled the O2 - 15,000 people a night at an average of about £80-100 a head - for ten nights meaning that none of them will be short of a few coppers as a result.
The audience demographic was precisely what you would expect it to me - middle aged people reliving their schooldays when shouting "Ni!" was enough to pass for a sense of humour, and who now have enough disposable income to indulge in pricey nostalgia. In amongst this group I didn't feel entirely like I fitted in; it was a bit like I am Legend with fat bastards instead of vampires.
The thing about the experiential nature of entertainment is that it means entertainers have to put on a heck of a good show to justify the big venue prices, and the Pythons didn't disappoint. I had expected a 90-minute greatest hits montage and whilst I got the hits, I got the best part of two-and-a-half-hours of them (in O2 seating, which appears to have been fitted for people 4'8" tall) crammed with rewrites, montages, song-and-dance numbers, ad-libs and Cleese and Palin going off-script during the parrot sketch and just trying to make each other crack up and forget their lines. Who knows why they did it? Just for the money? As a farewell? One last run through out of gratitude for the fans? Whatever the reason it felt genuinely warm and heartfelt. Of course there weren't any new punchlines or catchphrases - they knew why people were there - but there was a genuine sense that the group was having fun, and it was infectious. Let's face it, everyone expects the Spanish Inquisition, everyone knows about Spam, and everyone knows it is an ex-parrot and I went not really expecting to laugh much. I was wrong though. I laughed a lot, not because the jokes were still that funny (they stopped being funny about the tenth time I saw them, decades ago), but because there was an exuberance about the show. They captured the joyous anarchy of the early days and translated it to direct performance, and it was a delight. Of course they rounded it off with a great big singalong of Always look on the bright side of life and a standing ovation.
And so thanks to the changed nature of luxury, I got to see off Monty Python - who have been making off-colour surreal jokes since before I was born. When I was at school Python repeats were eagerly awaited - I only saw the Parrot Sketch for the first time on Comic Relief in about 1989, and it cracked me up good and proper - as they were so rare, and so few people owned any Python videos because this was back in the old days when media was expensive.
Of course, if you tell kids today that they won't believe you.
