by Oren Klaff
The lobby of 12 Kings was like nothing else out there, with furniture in a retro-tech color palette of sky blue, sea-foam green, and Navajo white. At the center of the whole Bauhaus-inspired bête noire was an exposed plywood interior tunnel, offset and tilted 20 degrees, like some kind of interactive metaphor for the path less taken.
“The mood board that inspired this space was about gravity, vortex, action, and illusion,” a junior account executive told me as she led me into the tunnel, heading toward the conference room where Simon and his team were in session.
“Mission accomplished,” I said, and then had to fight my way through some high-concept plastic entry flaps (like they have at ice hockey rinks) to greet Simon, who grimly welcomed me on the other side. He wasted no time, and thrust me straight into the staff meeting.
“I’d like to introduce you all to Oren Klaff,” Simon said, putting a welcoming hand on my shoulder. “Oren is American.” He paused, as if my American-ness implied a whole host of positives and negatives and his listeners needed a few seconds to absorb them all. “I’ve asked Oren here today to give us his thoughts on how we lost Volka. Oren?” And just like that, the spotlight was on me.
“Thanks, Simon.” I glanced around the room. It was a midsize conference room. Like the lobby, it was the pinnacle of creative effort, complete with metal sculptures for chairs and a table made from the door of an actual castle. There were thirty-five executives in the room, some still damp from the morning rainstorm, all looking glum. “I’m glad we could get together this morning,” I said, smiling. “I love London. One of my favorite cities, except when it’s raining.” I waited for a laugh from the crowd of soggy people in front of me, but nobody cracked a smile. Tough room. They had just lost a huge account, which meant no bragging rights at the annual awards and no annual bonus. These people thought they were attending a funeral, but I was about to tell them the patient lived.
“To get started,” I said calmly, “let’s flip the script, and not call this a lost account. You haven’t completely lost it. At least, not yet.”
“Terrific, that’s terrific,” Simon stated, struggling to sit upright on a polished metal bench. He needed the staff to hear this, and understand that all hope was not lost.
“Seriously,” I said. “I think we can convince Volka Motors UK to take another look at the decision, and I think the outcome might be different this time, if you’re willing to listen to me and act on what I say. But, fair warning: You’re going to hear some things you might not like. And I’m going to ask you to do some things that might seem counterintuitive. It can be an uncomfortable process.” Now we were going to see just how disruptive this agency really was. Could they truly embrace change?
A murmur of skepticism spread throughout the room, rising to an anticlimactic but distinctly English group grumble. It was still a glum party, but I also heard something else: attention. I had given them hope.
“Please, enlighten us,” said Simon. I recognized a bit of pessimism in his voice.
“Let’s begin. First and foremost,” I said, “you guys are way too creative. Creatives are the guys always making mood boards and talking about how to ‘take it to the next level,’ about ‘blue-sky thinking,’ ‘tentpole ideas,’ and how ‘data is the new oil.’ We can’t get caught in those creative clichés. Yes, I know it’s hard to hear, but if we want to win this account back, we’re going to be all about the money.”
“Forgive me, Oren,” said Brian, the director of emerging media, uncomprehendingly, “but we have to worry about creative. We’re up against Bradford. They have us beat on every other front. Creativity is the ground we stand on. We have to be defined by a restlessness where the creative process never stops.”
“We’re not here for that. If Volka wanted an ad agency to create mood boards and name custom colors and quote dead poets, they would have hired us already. Volka doesn’t want poetry; they want profit.”
That got through.
“You think Bradford tried to impress them with a radically innovative marketing campaign idea?” I continued. “No, they probably came up with a pitch that sounded like this: ‘We’re the car advertising experts and we’re going to deliver five hundred million euros in new global sales to your brand.’ . . . Five hundred million. Notice anything about that number? First of all, it’s a number, not a color. Second, it’s a big number, but also conveniently a five percent increase in revenue for Volka. It’s huge, but still feels doable. That would be a massive win for a Volka UK campaign. So, of course, Volka skipped over you and went with the other guys.”
I could see from the looks on their faces that I was speaking a different and mysterious language in this space devoted to design and illusion. I was speaking the language of money, and as they were finding, money doesn’t need colorful metaphors. At least one person seemed to be hearing me, though: Simon was taking mad notes in his Moleskine.
“But we already have a big idea,” said Ian, the director of lightbulb moments (his actual title). Obviously, the original pitch concepts had been his.
“Oh yeah,” I said, waving the packet of information I was holding. “You mean this big idea that said, ‘We’re the coolest agency in the world and we’ve won a thousand prestigious French awards and we invented Pantomime Blue’? This is the worst thing ever. Let me explain something to you about ad agencies. To regular people, nobody really can tell the difference between any of you guys. ‘We are a full-service integrated marketing agency,’” I read, hurling their own meaningless selling points back at them. “‘We collaborate with our clients.’ ‘We’ve been in business for ten years and have more than a hundred and fifty years of combined management experience.’”
I tossed the materials down on the table.
“These are forgettable statements that anyone could make. These kinds of claims make it more difficult to figure out whether one agency is better than another. And so it just boils down to the money. So please, guys, put away your charcoal pencils. Put away the mood board too. If you love creativity that much, go write a graphic novel. Our job here is not that hard. All we need to do is find clear, persuasive concepts for the client, win back the account and get a ten-million-dollar budget approved.”
“So what can we say to get them to reconsider our bid?” Simon asked, breaking the nervous silence. It takes a strong leader to ask a question that vulnerable in front of his team. I was impressed.
“You need to show Volka a formula for how to hire the right ad agency,” I explained. “Help them understand Bradford-McCoy was the easy choice and most obvious decision, but it was still the wrong one. And then show them what to do about it. So how about starting a conversation like this: ‘Volka, everyone agrees you need a new agency, and if you want to play it safe and feel like you did the ‘right thing for the shareholders,’ then don’t overthink this decision. Just hire Bradford-McCoy, Ogilvy, Interpublic or BBDO, because any of those is a pretty good choice. Ogilvy has been around since 1948, and Interpublic about the same—and has fifty-one thousand employees. Those are huge companies with billions in revenue—Interpublic did eighteen billion last year. You hire one of those firms for the same reason you hire IBM or Boston Consulting or Goldman Sachs or Skadden Arps. They are good firms. They’re convenient. No one is going to blame you if something goes wrong with that choice. You’re safe.
“‘But for a moment consider this: At Bradford your account will be small. They want Nestlé or Exxon or Coca-Cola. Those are the big-boy accounts. Who at a Big Five ad agency actually wants the Volka UK account? No one really. So if you hire Bradford, the team assigned to you will be getting your account as a punishment. The boss would say, “Hey Smith, Hey Johnson, get over here. You idiots screwed up big on the Ford-China account, so now I’m sticking you with Volka UK.”
“‘So that’s it. You are now working with Smith and Johnson, the guys who screwed up on Ford-China or are fresh out of school and have
never done a big campaign before. That’s who you get from Bradford or BBDO or Interpublic. People working on your account as a punishment or a rookie assignment.
“‘But for us, you’re not some small-market account to be mistreated. Not at all. We’d give Volka to our most senior people, and these are people who all turned down jobs at the Big 5. Our people don’t want to work on Coke or Nestlé or Exxon, because those are big, boring accounts where careers go to die. Our people want to do real ad work—they want to make advertising to sell your cars in the UK to tens of thousands of new buyers. In other words, our most senior people live and breathe and will practically die to get onto a Volka account, and they will stake their careers on doing it right.’”
I shrugged and smiled.
“Anyway,” I said, “that’s what I’d tell Volka.”
Simon and his team were scrambling to write down every word, because I was talking fast. In reality, this was a simple Flash Roll I’d delivered a thousand times. The same script works in virtually every industry. But to Simon it was all new and fresh and exciting, and his team was eating up every word.
“Bollocks, then, let’s do it,” Simon said finally. “Whatever it costs. We want to hire you to win the deal back.”
“OK, good,” I said, just beginning to realize what I was getting myself into. “Here is what we’re going to do. Simon and I are going to give the people at Volka a call and talk them into giving us another shot at the pitch. Then we are all getting on a plane, and going to spend two weeks on the ground in beautiful downtown Brinz-Prisk, near Volka headquarters, so we have a much better understanding of just what the hell it is we’re trying to sell.”
A SECOND BITE AT THE APPLE
In my business, usually no means no. So the first thing I was worried about was that maybe I’d been a bit too confident about how easy it would be to get a second pitch lined up. And while I was giving that “go get ’em tiger” speech, I didn’t realize I was the poor SOB who was going to have to make all this actually happen. Before, I’d been talking more in the abstract. Now I would have to get to work.
I dialed the number Simon had given me, and slipped on the oversize noise-canceling Bluetooth headset with boom-mic I always wear for important calls. “Hi, Josef,” I said when I got their director of marketing on the line. “This is Oren Klaff calling from 12 Kings. Listen, Simon asked me to come on board specifically to take a look at your account, because we feel we could have done better. Truth is, the first pitch meeting was rushed, and we’d like another bite at the apple.”
“Didn’t Simon tell you?” Josef asked in a thick Eastern European accent. “We already went in another direction. We’re announcing next week.”
“Yes, I understand you’ve decided on Bradford. But I think you ought to give us another look. We feel strongly about it. I think it’s worth your while to do a quick second round meeting with us.” I paused and lowered my voice slightly. “And it would be a shame if word got out in the agency world that you only give your biggest accounts to your buddies at Bradford-McCoy. Why would anybody want to waste time bidding on Volka proposals after that? I mean, why should the best new agencies bid on an account that is just going to end up at Bradford anyway? Look, I understand—if they are the only firm you ever want to use, then go ahead. . . . But think about it this way for a moment . . .”
Then I started speaking at a faster pace and used the same Flash Roll I’d given Simon. “At Bradford, your account would be small . . .”
From there I went into the full pitch, giving all the necessary details and industry jargon and then my suggested solution.
There were a tense few moments of silence. Surprisingly, Josef made only light-duty protests before he agreed with me. “OK, we can accept a second review; that’s a reasonable request. On our end, all the key decision makers will be together in six days for a quarterly meeting at the factory headquarters,” he told me. “If you have prepared a better pitch, this will be the time to present it.”
“Thank you, Josef,” I said. “That would be perfect.” I hung up the phone and immediately called Simon over. “We’re on. But we only have six days to prepare, not a few weeks. Let’s take our team to Prague, ASAP—and book the economy seats, please.”
“The cheap seats are pure torture,” Simon said irritably.
“Yes, I know,” I said. “But we’re trying to win Volka, not Rolls-Royce, so we go economy all the way.”
WELCOME TO BOHEMIA
The picturesque city of Brinz-Prisk, nestled along the lush banks of the Jizera River, is located in the heart of Bohemia, about eighty miles from Prague. It’s hard to find any aspect of the city that hasn’t been heavily influenced by Volka, and it’s hard to miss the Volka factory when you arrive in the city. The auto manufacturer had a major hand in the development of the Czech Republic’s economy and culture over the past hundred years.
In the nineteenth century, the town was known as Jerusalem on the Jizera, and there is a sixteenth-century Jewish cemetery that still exists inside the city limits. The town itself was named for the ancient castle Brinz-Prisk, which still towers over the city from atop the ghostly Rhube Rocks. You’ll also find Catholic monuments, Roman architecture, plenty of bars and beer by the barrelful, and a peculiar local penchant for modern-day jousting, which I don’t understand at all.
Of the top ten things to do in the city, five involve the Volka factory, three involve church, and the remaining two are bars. And then, of course, there is jousting. They also have a leaning tower, which isn’t as famous as the one in Pisa, even though it’s about to topple over. Basically, Brinz-Prisk is a manufacturing town in a romantic, old European setting.
Simon, three of the 12 Kings “disruptive geniuses,” and I landed at Václav Havel Airport Prague. We were two and a half hours behind schedule, and they were out of cars at the airport, so we hailed a couple of Liftago’s and hit the road. We toured the Volka museum, the factory, and even the gift shops. Everywhere we went, we learned more about the company’s backstory.
We learned Volka is a proud brand, with deep roots that represent the history and aspirations of the Czech Republic. In the past, Volka had made all the “world’s worst cars” lists, yet it’s one of motoring’s most unkillable companies. The Czech-based marque has been making cars for a hundred years, a feat equaled by only a handful of automotive firms. Anyone familiar with the design and quality of Eastern Bloc cars might wonder how Volka, of all brands, managed to stay in business while hundreds of “better” automotive companies bought the farm. And Volka hasn’t just survived, but has thrived over the years, selling more than twenty-five million cars.
Volka’s founders were a welder and a gunmaker. They started off manufacturing bicycles and guns in 1895, and switched to their first automobiles a decade later. The Volka 200 looked like a cross between a lawn mower and wheelbarrow and topped out at a dizzying 40 mph—so these were not cars that you bought for speed or looks. But it was beautifully constructed and, man, was it tough. From the beginning Volka vehicles were defined by economy, efficiency, and sturdiness. They were not the fanciest car in town, but they were the most sensible and the most reliable, much like Czechs themselves.
From 1948 to 1991, when the Soviet Union’s Iron Curtain was draped around Czechoslovakia, Volka came under government control. During that period, the brand quality and creativity fell far behind Western automotive standards.
Then, in 2012, Wolfgang Schmidt took over as Volka’s CEO. Schmidt, a former mechanic, was the sales and marketing director at Porsche. This was the guy we would have to convince if we wanted to pull this account away from Bradford-McCoy. He was dedicated to making Volka a dynamic global company, a shining representative of the Czech Republic—and establishing Bohemia as one of the cradles of European automobile manufacturing innovation. He could achieve his vision only by making a breakthrough in the consumer’s mind about Volka, which led him to se
arch for a brilliant ad agency to pull it off. Convince Schmidt, and all other decision makers would fall in line. He was our target.
That night, in what was considered the third-nicest hotel in the city but was really more reminiscent of a college dorm, our team was lying around the living room drinking beer, exhausted from a long day of traveling but in good spirits.
I had my laptop open and was starting to write down some ideas for the new pitch. “I’m tougher than I look,” I said, typing as I spoke. “Volka is a way of telling people that I’m practical, not cheap. I’m tough, and in this world, I either find a way, or make one.” Then I paused and looked up. A very bad thought had entered my mind. “All these guys speak English, right?” I asked. “What level of vocabulary can I use during this pitch—third grade, college, MBA?”
Silence. Nobody answered me.
“Hello?” I prodded.
Finally, Jonathan, 12 Kings’ top copywriter, spoke up. “Oren, this is a Czech client. Has to be done in Czech.”
My heart sank. This was certainly bad news. “So who gave the pitch last time?” I asked.
Trevor raised his hand. As the head of finance and accounting, he hadn’t spoken much until now. “I speak German, Czech, all that stuff,” he stated proudly. “I can do it, no problem.”
The accountant? “No offense,” I said. “You seem like a nice guy, but I’m not sure you’re our best option here.”
Trevor had a nervous demeanor, wrung his hands while talking, and said “umm” a lot. Could I train him to deliver our master presentation? Sure I could. But it would take three weeks—not three days.