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We’re back with another Scenes episode, this time with food & travel filmmakers, TOPJAW!

TOPJAW has taken social media by storm in the last few years, although they were growing steadily for many more.

With over 1.3 MILLION followers over social platforms, they seemed like the best people possible to answer some of our burning questions:

1. How do they keep their partnerships as authentic and mutually beneficial as possible.

2. What does the Instagram algorithm really want?

3. How did they find their niche on social media and how can others find theirs?

4. What are celebs like Jamie Oliver really like in person?

We had an amazing time speaking to Will Warr, one half of the iconic duo, so thanks again Will and we hope you all enjoy the listen here, or wherever you get your podcasts!

Truant x

Amid a sea of ‘permanently closed’ signs and newspapered windows, London's live music scene is struggling. You might have felt this through seeing fewer buskers when walking down Southbank, or you when your ears aren't met the muffled tones of a saxophone as you glide down Brick Lane on a Friday night. As a country, when we're hurting economically, the music industry is normally one of the first places we feel it. In 2023, 31% of the UK's grassroots music venues were unable to cope with soaring rental prices, and were forced to shut down. Small venues can't afford to be in the big city anymore, and so are squeezed out, leaving only the monoliths left with skin in the game. Small music venues don't just act as spaces for creativity, they're also social hubs to meet new faces. Without these third spaces, people have fewer areas to make new connections, leading to a butterfly effect of reduced collaboration, furthering isolation and stifling creativity.

However, with every suffocating action, there is a resistant reaction. This can specifically be found in London’s jam scene. A jam is a collection of live musicians, coming together to play with no plan, no creative barriers and often no knowledge of the people they’re playing with. It is experimentation in its purest form. A concept as old as music itself, London is rediscovering and utilising jam nights as a way to meet people with a likeminded interest for the spontaneous.

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“Whenever I come here, I just get to see some lovely people, jam with some lovely people and meet some new people as well, it’s family.” - Francis, 2024

Here, musician and audience member, Francis, is speaking about one jam in particular, hosted by The Five Points Project. A live music promoter and artist incubator in London, run by Max Riby-Williams, James Lear and Madu Gadzama, their jam takes place every month in the heart of Brick Lane. Accompanied by other jam promoters like Audio Sync, Donut Jam, Orii Jam and many others, London is working hard to ensure the foundation of the music industry is held up.

“There is no such thing as a mistake when you’re jamming. Every off beat is just a new avenue to explore and dive into. You can also see this energy is reciprocated by the crowd, who use this sentiment to ease their anxieties and connect with new faces. Audience members return monthly, building those acquaintances into blossoming friendships.” says Max.

Unlike the crowd at the headline show for your favourite artist, where the line between audience and stage is very clear, this line is blurred at a jam, where musicians in the audience are jumping on stage mid-song to swap with the incumbent keys player in a flurry of creative chaos. There’s a certain message of equality that warms the space for this reason; no single person is heralded over another.

***Sidenote*** This article is part of Truant’s new magazine! Want to see our 2025 cultural predictions? Sign up here to pick up a digital copy of ‘Conversations on Culture’!

The problem lies in the fact that in 2024, a grassroots music venue closed every fortnight (Mixmag). Typically the spaces where jam sessions are held, when these venues are forced to shut, the butterfly effect is significant. New musicians don't have a place to cut their teeth, inequality increases and our music scene becomes more homogenous as we don't have fresh talent pushing the sonic boundaries. Artists like Ed Sheeran, Nubya Garcia, Ezra Collective and Kokoroko, who were born out of this scene, contributed to the £7.6 billion the music industry fed into the economy in 2023. Although this number increased by 7.4% from 2023 to 2024, inequality has only become more extreme.

Some brands have taken matters into their own hands, looking to do their collective bit to aid a struggling scene. In 2024, Studio Monkey Shoulder & Worldwide FM announced they will be offering £10,000 to five music communities across the globe. Similarly, Pirate Studios have their 'Studios For All Fund'. Developed in collaboration with Small Green Shoots and backed by The National Lottery, they provide free studio time to charities and organisations that support disadvantaged individuals through music. We Out Here Festival is also doing their bit, setting up their Future Foundations programme in 2024, an incubator scheme for the next generation of grassroots music event promoters.

In 2024, a grassroots music venue closed every single fortnight (Mixmag).

Brands like these have spotted a real opportunity for mutual benefit. They've isolated a problem that exists within their world and have done something about it. Through properly engaging with their culture, they draw more people into their ecosystem and thrive as a result. There are normally many options for this kind of synergetic relationship to happen, it just requires the brand to make the first move.

It's not just up to the brands though, change must also come from the government. The Creative Industries Minister recently announced a new policy to combat this issue, imposing a voluntary levy on tickets to stadium and arena tickets, reallocating the funds raised back into grassroots venues. These larger venues must enact the policy voluntarily to their audience, or face a statutory levy themselves. Whether this will help save a struggling grassroots music scene, or whether a more enforceable method will be required, time will tell.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to check out the rest of articles here. If you have any questions on how you can apply these ideas to your brand, please feel free to reach out to us at hello@truantlondon.com. Till next time x

Guys, we’ve done something big.

The Truant crew spent January taking stock of what went on in 2024.

What trends were culturally significant last year, and how were they going to impact the next?

We had ideas.

So many that we built them into an entire magazine!

25 different topics. 1 theme.

How were the cultural milestones of 2024 going to shape 2025?

If you’re a brand, marketer or advertiser, this zine is an absolute goldmine - helping you to uncover your niche and understand the ways you can engage with your pocket of culture.

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD YOUR COPY OF CONVERSATIONS ON CULTURE.

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Do you know someone that would benefit from reading this? Send it over to them!

Much more to come on this 👀

Big up,

Truant

As algorithms routinely destroy any semblance of individuality and personal style online, people are looking for new ways to signify taste and self-expression. Autumn’s hottest new shoe, what’s the cocktail of the month, is brat summer still a thing? It all becomes monotonous and uninspiring. Thus, this has brought us to the boom of fragrance in 2024, as scent remains the final frontier of individuality. As fast-fashion becomes a mechanism of conformity, niche fragrances and scent as a whole have emerged as the last bastion of self-expression. Ana Angelic, aptly captures this shift, noting that we wear clothes to “conform” - cycling through trends and styles akin to a video game avatar, as more permanent subcultures erode due to a never-ending platform of inspiration and access to cheap goods. Yet, scent is something inherently, deeply personal, and it’s a vehicle for uniqueness. It feeds into the ‘IYKYK’ mindset, where having a signature scent transcends mere fashion, becoming a statement, a signature, and a way for storytelling in itself. 

In this environment, communities like #PerfumeTok and #FragranceTok have flourished. For them, it’s not just about ‘smelling good’, it’s about crafting an olfactory narrative as unique as the individual wearing it. Much like fashion mood boards on Pinterest and TikTok, these collages of scent delve into the intricacies of a smell by associating with increasingly niche, obscure, and complex vibes. This comes from a wider idea of the vibe economy, where our digital worlds are so fractured and chocked full of content that it’s up to users to curate their own experiences (think niche Spotify daylist playlists). These mood boards have most prominently become used for scent, which is incredibly difficult to describe. For example, a moodboard might pair a fur coat, a blurry image of the New York skyline at night, a picture of Kate Moss smoking in the 90s, and a lipstick-stained coffee cup to evoke a sultry, sandalwood infused fragrance. These scent-driven moodboards underscore the craving for intricacy, signalling a shift toward marketing a vibe over a product. For perfume lovers, it’s about world-building, inviting people into the universe their scent would inhabit. You can’t smell through the screen (yet), but these curated images provide a conceptual framework, a way to imagine the feeling or atmosphere the scent could evoke.

The move towards hyper-specificity is part of the rise of the signature scent economy, where one’s fragrance is as much about self-branding (we’re all becoming a brand online, people!) as the clothes we wear or the music we listen to. As our online world becomes clouded with content, individuality (or at least the presence of it), it’s a way to cut through. People are no longer content with standard floral or citrus profiles, instead, they’re chasing complex blends that embody unique personas, from ‘Russian mob wife’ to ‘the feeling of reading a book in a Dark Academia library on a rainy day in Edinburgh’. As I typed that out even, I could somewhat imagine the scent, and could visualise the vibe of a crackling fireplace, leather book covers, and plush couches in dim candlelight. This transition mirrors a cultural shift where consumers, particularly younger ones, use scent to try out different roles or vibes as they go about their day. Pioneering this approach, Maison Margiela’s Replica line names its fragrances not for their scent profiles, but for the experiences they evoke: ‘Jazz Club,’ ‘By the Fireplace,’ or ‘Beach Walk.’

Perfume advertising has long capitalised on this abstraction, leaning into surreal, avant-garde imagery to convey the essence of scent. Take, for instance, Julia Roberts’ iconic ad for La Vie Est Belle, or the cryptic French phrases and shirtless men (and God knows what else) that populate so many high-end perfume commercials. TBH I used to be enamoured by these commercials as a teenager, but couldn’t really put my finger on why. They didn’t make any sense, but simultaneously they did? I was struck by the opulence the ad communicated (even if it often verged on ridiculous). These campaigns often feel more like art films than advertisements; you can’t smell it, but you can imagine its scent when the world around it is built. As the “vibe economy” expands, perfume ads have only become more surreal and hyper-specific, evoking the sensation of being in a Parisian café at dawn or wrapped in cashmere by a fireplace. The goal is not just to describe a scent but to communicate a world, a feeling—a trend that echoes the storytelling central to TikTok and Pinterest communities.

@fbfragrancesEros Flame > Eros 🤷‍♂️ #fragrance #cologne #buy #fyp #foryou

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This narrative-driven marketing has only been amplified by TikTok’s influence on the fragrance world. With #PerfumeTok amassing over 2.3 billion views, TikTok has become a powerful platform for fragrance discovery, where even niche brands, like Phlur and Maison Millais, offering experimental scents that mimic mossy woods or motor oil can gain cult status overnight. Videos breaking down scent profiles, or crafting moodboards around specific vibes, have inspired millions to make blind buys, based solely on the narrative woven around the fragrance. In this new wave of consumers, there is a rejection of mainstream commercial scents in favour of more niche, experimental options—an act of rebellion against the cookie-cutter appeal of most luxury brands.

With #PerfumeTok amassing over 2.3 billion views, TikTok has become a powerful platform for fragrance discovery

Even deeper into the uniqueness-frontier, scents have evolved from being powerful to being ‘your scent but better.’ Historically, perfume was used by the nobility to mask odours (it was a real stinky time) during the Black Plague, where bathing was dangerous for potential infections. This, in turn, made loud, overpowering scents inherently aspirational and luxurious. That is, until, we came by the trend of ‘quiet luxury’, moving away from the brash and logo-obsessed era of the 2010s, and into a more understated ‘IYKYK’ idea of luxury in the 2020s. Similarly to how makeup changed from bold to demure (sorry) in the 2010s, scents have gravitated away from being head-turning and overpowering, like say Baccarat Rouge or Dior Sauvage, to smelling natural. Glossier You, one of the best selling budget perfumes from zeitgeist-y teens and young adults, functions to be “your scent but better,” adapting to each individual wearer. This isn’t a million miles away from their makeup and skincare ethos, which is all about “your skin but better,” and made it a natural, successful fit for the company. Another example is the rise of pheromone perfumes, with videos mentioning pheromone perfumes garnering 3.6 million average weekly views—a 121% increase year over year. This viral interest has also propelled Amazon’s fragrance business, particularly with pheromone perfumes like Pure Instinct’s roll-on perfume ‘Crave’, which nets nearly $300,000 in monthly sales. Even Estee Lauder has announced an exclusive partnership with Dresden University of Technology to study perfume, scent, and the emotions it evokes, signalling a shift to advertising scents in a more functional way. They currently have a dazzling roster of brands, from Le Labo to Balmain, from Mac, to The Ordinary, so it will be fascinating to see what arises from this. 

Ultimately, the fragrance industry is BOOMING, valued at $64.4 billion in 2023 and expected to grow by 7% to $68.9 billion in 2024. The sector’s growth has been driven in part by first-time buyers and an expanding men’s market, with teen boys’ spending on fragrance rising 26% in 2023 alone. This surge is emblematic of a larger shift: perfume, once seen as a luxury, has become an alternative form of self-expression and identity construction.

Luxury fashion brands, too, have taken note, with Bottega Veneta launching a new fragrance line amid a larger trend of high-end brands expanding into the fragrance space. With fashion flailing over the past year, beauty—and fragrance in particular—has become the new “lipstick effect,” an entry-level product that offers consumers a gateway into the world of luxury. And it’s not just the packaging that’s drawing attention. Brands are increasingly creating perfumes with functional properties, like Bella Hadid’s Orabella, which blends mood-boosting ingredients with earthy scents, reflecting a growing trend toward health and wellness in fragrance.

Ultimately, the fragrance industry is BOOMING, valued at $64.4 billion in 2023 and expected to grow by 7% to $68.9 billion in 2024.

The spike in interest of fragrance, as well as the idea of trialling out signature scents, has led  to the rise of ‘dupe’ (or ‘inspired’) sites like Noted Aromas or Dossier. As it’s nearly impossible to trademark a scent (who can really own the scent of ‘jasmine’), low-cost alternatives are cropping up. One could say fast fashion of fragrance, one could see it as a way to trial out new scents without superfluous consumption of £350+ bottles (I personally found my new favourite scent through a discovery pack from Noted Aromas, I stan them!). 

As consumers grow more discerning, they’re not just looking for a scent—they’re seeking an experience, a mood, or even a role to play in their everyday lives. Whether it’s through DIY mood boards on TikTok or abstract advertising campaigns, the perfume industry is rapidly evolving, embracing a future where scent is more than a product—it’s a narrative, a vibe, and a deeply personal form of self-expression.

For a very long time, the height of luxury fashion was defined by glossy storefronts on Fifth Avenue and dainty, elevated purple shopping bags from Liberty’s. Thumbing through fashion magazines or red carpet reports showed Haute Couture and luxury from ateliers across the world. Today, however, the trendiest bags are coming from the back of your mum’s closet—or, more accurately, from her Vinted account. Thrifting has long been a favourite shopping model for young people, craving the uniqueness and sustainability of vintage pieces, but as we enter an age of IYKYK, the ability to source, procure, and recognise vintage pieces is an admirable skill. Thrifting isn’t just cool, it’s luxurious, and it’s been translated heavily to an e-commerce model in the past 10 years. Thrift stores become worlds of consignment shops, and apps like Vinted, Depop, TheRealReal, Vestiaire Collective, and more are the new luxury boutiques. 

According to Samina Virk, US CEO of Vestiaire Collective, “Vintage has become its own luxury status symbol.” That Gucci bag from the Tom Ford era? It’s no longer just a relic; it’s a trophy, it’s an act of love in procurement, and shows a heightened appreciation and intellect within the world of fashion. It’s not just a cashmere sweater, it’s a 1990 Calvin Klein cashmere jumper worn by Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy. And while big brands scramble to re-issue old designs (the Fendi Baguette came back briefly people), the real fashion cognoscenti are hunting for the originals, scanning every corner of the internet like fashion archaeologists in search of a lost relic. But instead of the Holy Grail, it’s a Dior saddlebag from 2001.

“Vintage has become its own luxury status symbol.” - Samina Virk

What’s interesting is how being ‘good’ at navigating these platforms has become a flex in itself, a point of pride and expertise. Pulling out the latest in Zara is one thing I suppose, but sourcing genuine vintage from sites like Vinted or Depop, who now have adopted bespoke tabs on their platforms for authenticated luxury items, shows a general prowess and interest in the niche expertise of fashion. In the same way sneakerheads flex the latest drop online, and can resell for higher values with an expertise of their ‘worth’, fashion-mavens boast about sniping a pair of archival Miu Mius on Depop for a fraction of their current value.

This might explain why Vinted, a platform that started in Lithuania, has blown up to become one of the first second-hand fashion marketplaces to actually turn a profit—a unicorn achievement in a field littered with cash-burning startups. With a $5 billion valuation on the horizon, Vinted’s success stands in stark contrast to its competitors like Depop and ThredUp, who are still struggling to break even. Running these reselling e-commerce platforms has incredibly expensive overhead costs and migraine-inducing logistics, and in reality their true competitors are second hand shops like Oxfam and Crisis, which operate as nonprofits and have decades of experience (and just more manpower in general). 

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This profitability is a testament not just to the growing popularity of second-hand fashion, but to how we’re adjusting our attitudes toward consumption as a whole. Vinted’s recent “too many clothes” campaign hits the nail on the head: We’ve all got more outfits than Instagram can handle. The campaign cheekily reminds us to declutter and give our excess fashion a second life, which is both a noble cause and a subtle push to keep the resale cycle spinning. After all, one fashion lover’s trash is another’s archival Gucci. This is perhaps how Vinted is winning out; fixating on decluttering rather than Depop’s messaging of running a small business on their platforms (which has, arguably, led to a gentrification of thrifting). 

It’s not just the usual suspects that are getting in on the action. In the last two years, everyone from Shein to IKEA has dipped a toe into the resale waters. It’s a bit surreal (and honestly, nauseating) to think that a brand like Shein, synonymous with fast fashion, is now offering a pre-owned section, but it speaks volumes about where the market is headed. In our interview with Depop founder, Simon Beckerman (listen here!), he noted that “the fashion industry is a $1.6 trillion dollar market”, and the world of second hand is making up a larger chunk of that number year on year. According to ThredUp, the global second-hand clothing market has skyrocketed from $141 billion in 2021 to $230 billion in 2024, and they’re projecting it will reach $350 billion by 2028. That’s a growth rate three times faster than new apparel. In other words, the second-hand market is outpacing new fashion in a way that must have the Zaras and H&Ms of the world feeling a bit nervous.

The global second-hand clothing market has skyrocketed from $141 billion in 2021 to $230 billion this year, and they’re projecting it will reach $350 billion by 2028 (ThredUp).

Yet, for all the buzz, making money in this business is still a Herculean feat. The logistical nightmare of cataloguing, pricing, and shipping second-hand items can’t be overstated. The margins are thin, the competition is fierce, and the fickle nature of fashion trends means what’s hot today might be a hard sell tomorrow (maybe that’s why it’s so important that archival reigns supreme). Trends move so ridiculously fast that I’ve seen 2013 items listed as ‘authentic vintage,’ eek!. Despite the growth, many of these platforms are burning cash like there’s no tomorrow, relying on venture capital to keep the lights on while they figure out how to actually turn a profit.

In the end, though, it seems that the second-hand fashion revolution is here to stay. Whether you’re a savvy seller flipping your old fits for profit, a collector hunting for that elusive Y2K piece, or just someone looking to declutter their closet, there’s never been a better time to get in on the action. Who knew that clearing out your closet could be a luxury experience?

For a long time, the pursuit of beauty and ‘wellness’ has been seen as a predominantly female endeavour. The act of grooming, applying makeup, and dedicating time to one’s appearance was traditionally marketed towards women, who were encouraged to maintain a particular look as part of their societal role. However, the idea that vanity is inherently feminine is increasingly being challenged. The male beauty industry is now growing, transforming, and breaking down stereotypes around masculinity and self-care.

Much has been written about the world of beauty, skincare, and makeup for women. We’ve seen the reported shift towards natural makeup, enhancing one’s natural features, as a part of a shift towards wellness encompassing beauty and skincare. This shift has equally been felt in the men’s grooming market. According to Statista, the male personal care market is predicted to grow to $115.3 million by 2028, up from its already gargantuan size of $90.1 million. What used to be solely an industry for charcoal face wash and deodorants that smell ‘MANLY’ now means so much more. It’s having a hair and skincare routine, it’s dabbling in cosmetics, and ultimately personal care has shifted as an inherently ‘feminine’ routine to something wider and more encompassing. 

Yet, the importance of appearance is no longer confined to attracting the opposite sex. Instead of taking care of yourself to get a girlfriend, it’s shifting more into a focus on wellness and self-care. The rise in men’s grooming and beauty products is part of a broader cultural shift towards self-appreciation that cuts across gender lines. Historically, taking care of one's appearance has been linked with femininity and the expectations placed on women within a patriarchal society. However, as societal norms evolve, men are increasingly encouraged to embrace grooming as a form of self-expression and self-care, independent of its effects on their attractiveness to others.

The male personal care market is predicted to grow to $115.3 million by 2028 (Statista).

The commodification of self-care has played a significant role in this shift. Beauty and grooming products are no longer strictly gendered, and while there are still products marketed specifically to men or women, the lines are blurring. Men’s grooming has become an acceptable, even radical, form of self-care. Brands like NuNorm and Benny Hancock have emerged, recognising a gap in the market and a growing desire among men to explore products that cater to their specific needs without being confined to traditional notions of masculinity.

Despite these changes, the idea that marketing will ever be completely ungendered seems unlikely. There are still many societal pressures and expectations that reinforce gender norms. For instance, the way women are marketed beauty products often involves nuanced messaging about femininity, modesty, and empowerment. Now, similar pressures are emerging for men, who are beginning to navigate a complex landscape of self-image and societal expectations.

Statistics reveal a growing concern among men about their appearance. According to the NHS, the number of men seeking treatment for eating disorders increased by 70% between 2010 and 2016, and a recent report found that one in twelve boys are unhappy with their appearance. This was also several years ago, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the number’s even higher. This rising dissatisfaction is mirrored in the beauty industry, where men are increasingly turning to products traditionally associated with women, such as nail polish, makeup, and skincare. A study by Ipsos in 2022 found that 15% of heterosexual American men aged 18 to 65 use male cosmetics and makeup, with an additional 17% open to the idea.

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Yet, the market for men’s beauty products still faces challenges. While brands like War Paint cater specifically to men, there’s still a need to make it look and sound as MANLY as humanly possible. This suggests that, while progress has been made, there is still a long way to go before the male beauty industry is fully normalised and embraced. It’ll take time for the male market to appreciate that makeup has no gender, but this is already happening.

15% of heterosexual American men aged 18 to 65 use male cosmetics and makeup, with an additional 17% open to the idea (Ipsos).

The male beauty industry is also not immune to the pressures and pitfalls that have long affected women. The concept of ‘looksmaxxing’, or optimising one’s appearance to the highest degree, is gaining traction among men, similar to trends seen in women’s beauty. This has led to an increase in men seeking plastic surgery, driven not just by greater access and reduced stigma, but also by rising insecurities and societal pressures to look a certain way.

Ironically, while men are being told to look good for women, these beauty standards are often created by men themselves, for other men. It’s the male gaze, created by men for men within the beauty industry. Instead of being built on an inclusive, omniscient gaze, it’s men putting unrealistic standards on men for impressing each other, under the mask of being to impress women. Alpha male banter, if you ask me.

For beauty brands at large, it shows a lean towards a new type of wellness in the male market, as well as a potential doubling in their market reach. As beauty and grooming transcends cultural conversations of gender and stereotypes, it’s less about enhancing attractiveness but instead being a vehicle for self expression and wellness. This is, of course, not without the pitfalls of alpha-male ‘looksmaxxing’, the incessant preying of insecurities, and the commodification of self-care, but it’s a start. This is a shift that moves away from pointing out flaws of attractiveness (a mainstay in the women’s beauty industry for decades pre-Dove Beauty), and instead moves towards seeing grooming and beauty as a natural process and ritual in everyday life for all.

In the endless churn of social media content and viral trends, every other day it feels like there’s a new cult classic that graces the internet, spreading like wildfire to trendy consumers looking for something aspirationally cool or interesting. What I find specifically fascinating, and perhaps earnest, is when it feels accidental. Sometimes, a product or a brand shoots into popularity, specifically with an audience it wasn’t really ‘intended’ for. There are two powerful examples I’m going to discuss in this article, and they both speak to how and why things can go viral, especially by ‘accident’. 

The first example we came across was the resurgence of toys and stuffed animals amongst adults. For a long time, toys were seen as relics of childhood—a phase to be outgrown and left behind. It wasn’t ‘cool’ to still be into Barbie at 13 (and boy did I learn that the hard way). This has become more exacerbated at the reshaping of ‘girlhood’ specifically; how women embrace emblems of girlhood (girl dinner, girl math, I’m just a girl <3) and young girls are expected to grow up unspeakably fast (ie. the Sephora Tween phenomenon). We’ve written about this before, but in this example I’d like to keep it in the realm of adults finding nostalgic joy through old toys, signalling a desire for moments of peace and sentimentality in a chaotic world. 

Adults, especially those from younger generations, are increasingly turning to toys for both comfort and style, giving rise to a market worth £1 billion annually in the UK alone. Tamagotchis, Jellycats and old Lego sets are no longer confined to car boot sales or passed down to a younger relative. They’re beloved, a form of collectables now, and they sell on Ebay for extortionate prices. 

This trend is no longer confined to traditional collectors or niche communities. Today, it spans a diverse group of consumers, from art school students and fashion-forward individuals to professionals looking for a touch of nostalgia. Characters like Snoopy, Miffy, and Hello Kitty, once loved by children, are now being embraced by adults who find joy in surrounding themselves with whimsical and playful items. The fashion world has also caught on, with brands like Heaven by Marc Jacobs and Chopova Lowena tapping into this nostalgia-driven demand. Alex Kessler, lead editor at SSENSE, wrote for The Face "trinkets have become a major styling hack,“showcasing how these playful items are being integrated into everyday fashion.”

This cultural shift is also being propelled by social media, where curators like Bag Crap have turned the collection and sale of vintage toys and keychains into a thriving business. The nostalgia associated with these items, reminiscent of Jane Birkin's unique charm collection, taps   into a collective longing for simpler, more carefree times. As founder of Bag Crap, Amanda Marcuson notes for The Face, the trend of “excessive, kitschy, and chaotic charms” has become a key part of modern style expression.

The rise of the ‘kidult’ market - adults who buy toys for themselves - has not gone unnoticed by the toy industry. Sales of toys for adults are now even outpacing those for children across Europe, with the market projected to grow significantly in the coming years. According to Paladone, kidults are the biggest driver of growth for the toy industry. The collectible toy industry is predicted to skyrocket to a market value of $35.3 billion globally by 2032, and licensed toys account for 31.1% of the global toy market and collectibles make up 20.9% of the UK’s toy market. This is no longer solely driven by action figures and collectables from superfans, it encompasses a range of toys. Additionally, cultural monolithic moments like Greta Gerwig’s Barbie in 2023 spurred a domino effect of planned adaptation of Mattel toys, like Hot Wheels, Uno, and Monopoly. 

The collectible toy industry is predicted to skyrocket to a market value of $35.3 billion globally by 2032 (Paladone).

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It’s fascinating to see brands like Mattel embrace this shift in audience. Toys aren’t really just for kids anymore; actually Gen Alpha is losing interest in it for flashier, more digital artefacts. It’s important to note that Gen Z and Millennials are living in a difficult economy, housing market, job market, and frankly just quite a confusing time. It’s comforting to fall back into nostalgic joy (I personally have attached a Miffy keychain to my handbag AND house keys, because everytime I leave for work it puts a smile on my face, even at 6am on a Monday morning). It’s cute and kitschy, and a way to identify yourself with something fun and quirky. It’s not ‘lame’ (for lack of a better word), it’s ironically adorable. It’s a moment of peace, a moment to wax poetic about being 9 years old again and not knowing what a ‘council tax bill’ is. 

Parallel to the kidult phenomenon is the rise of Gorpcore. Gorpcore - a term derived from the hiking slang "Good Ol' Raisins and Peanuts" (Gorp) - is characterised by the adoption of technical, functional outdoor clothing in everyday urban settings. The trend reflects a desire for practicality and durability, with consumers gravitating toward brands that signify a connection to an active, sustainable lifestyle. According to the Health & Fitness IPA Report, these brands have been co-opted by consumers who prioritise functionality in their clothing as a way to demonstrate technical knowledge and a commitment to sustainability.

Gen Z and Millennials are living in a difficult economy, housing market, job market, and frankly just quite a confusing time. It’s comforting to fall back into nostalgic joy.

Originally designed for serious outdoor enthusiasts—ice climbers, skiers, and alpinists—brands like Arc’teryx have found unexpected popularity among urban consumers who may never set foot on a mountain. We’ve written about Gorpcore before, and how the rapid proliferation of the trend (intended for hikers, worn by Broadway Market and Stoke Newington residents), is a way to portray oneself as offline. How we dress is how we express ourselves, and ultimately often how we are perceived. Wearing activewear, but a more hiking-oriented, outdoorsy and disconnected style rather than the ‘Lululemon world’, signals that that’s the lifestyle we align with, that our screentime is below 5 hours a day, that our world isn’t a 9-5 but something bigger and more in-touch with the greater world around us. 

Arc’teryx, a Canadian company known for its high-performance alpine sports gear, is a prime example of this crossover appeal. Initially, the brand's products became popular among outdoor enthusiasts due to their superior functionality and sleek design. However, as celebrities like Frank Ocean, David Letterman, and Drake began to sport the brand, it caught on with a much broader audience.

Fashion brands have also embraced the Gorpcore trend, often through collaborations that blend technical outdoor gear with high fashion. The Gucci x North Face campaign is one notable example, as is the partnership between END Clothing x French outdoor brand Salomon, which resulted in a street-meets-mountain line of trainers.

The growing popularity of both toys among adults and outdoor gear in urban settings highlights a broader cultural shift. Collecting toys and wearing practical outdoor gear are no longer niche activities but have entered the mainstream, celebrated for their ability to provide fun, familiarity, and even mental health benefits.

For brands, this presents both opportunities and challenges. On the one hand, reaching unintended audiences can drive significant growth and brand visibility. On the other, there is a risk of alienating core customers or diluting brand identity. Arc’teryx, for example, faced the challenge of maintaining its appeal to serious outdoor enthusiasts while catering to a burgeoning urban market, going as far as to publicly reassert that their products are intended for the outdoors. 

Ultimately, the rise of toys and Gorpcore among unintended audiences reflects a deeper desire for authenticity, nostalgia, and a break from the complexities of modern life. Whether it’s through collecting plush toys or donning a weatherproof jacket, consumers today are finding new ways to express their identities and connect with their pasts in a world that often feels uncertain and overwhelming. Brands that can navigate this evolving landscape, maintaining their core values while embracing new markets, stand to benefit immensely from these trends.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to check out the rest of articles here. If you have any questions on how you can apply these ideas to your brand, please feel free to reach out to us at hello@truantlondon.com. Till next time!

What does the social content of today tell us about what it means to entertain and to advertise? Well, according to the resurgence of lofi, imperfect, yet immediately eye catching social content, quite a bit. As brands like Drumsheds, MSCHEF, Marc Jacobs, and House of Errors embrace an ‘entertain or die’ mantra, we are seeing a shift towards prioritising humour and unpolished social content, with high aims to captivate an extremely, chronically online audience. These brands, and a few other examples we’ll walk through, understand that entertainment first content isn’t just about selling a product, it’s about creating bizarre, wonderful, immersive, yet slightly confusing (or packed with ‘lore’ of online social trends) experiences that captivate viewers. They stand as an antidote to overly-curated, hyper-stylised content that seeks to masquerade authenticity rather than embody it; something so fixated on viewing their audiences as just a consumer rather than a part of a wider community feel. In this article, we explore how this lofi, attention grabbing advertising cuts through the noise, and how young people came to perceive this as great marketing.

Vogue Business recently highlighted this shift in an article titled "Gen-Z Broke the Marketing Funnel." They explored how Gen-Z’s interaction with online content has evolved, gravitating towards the quirky and the unconventional. This generation's exposure to a vast array of brands and advertisements means that standing out requires more than just flashy visuals. It's about creating something genuinely engaging amid the digital noise. According to their research, 54% of Gen-Zs say that their favourite brands are the ones that make them feel like they’re part of a community. In other words, younger people want to feel a part of a cool brand that engages with them far more than just being a product. Sure, Rhode Beauty, for example, is just another skincare/makeup brand at the end of the day, but their online presence feels more encompassing, it feels bigger and cooler. And, with 84% of this audience saying they’re more likely to purchase from brands they think are “cool,” universe building is incredibly important when winning over new ‘brand-fans.’

54% of Gen-Zs say that their favourite brands are the ones that make them feel like they’re part of a community (Vogue Business).

Platforms like TikTok have shifted the paradigm to demote polished, traditional advertising as lame and overdone. Today’s consumers, particularly younger generations, are super tapped into what advertising looks like; They grew up with algorithms and influencers who constantly promoted products, and they have a keen nose for authenticity. If Gen-Z has to be advertised to, at least make it engaging and entertaining. It’s not enough to say “our product does this” or “our brand stands for this,” brands need to create a world that invites interaction.

Even in mass media, I simply must take it back to a place of Charli XCX’s brat (I did say last month I was a superfan…). Brat’s rollout thrived on self-referential humour from niche, chronically online parts of the internet, embracing imperfections over perfect curation, and honestly was just fun and cool (sorry, that’s not very intellectual, but read here why I think this!). Additionally, irreverent and self-referential humour in films like Deadpool and Wolverine tapped into chronically online audiences, and it’s saying a lot that a Marvel film would embrace some sort of ‘imperfection.’ Chronically online audiences crave referential humour with an absurdist twist. Brands that can tap into this vibe, creating shareable, non-serious content, often find themselves rewarded with engagement and loyalty.

It’s not enough to say “our product does this” or “our brand stands for this,” brands need to create a world that invites interaction.

Drumsheds, additionally, is a masterclass in this new wave of marketing. It’s entertainment-first and shareable, with the actual product details presented as a reward for the audience's engagement. This approach is akin to modern-day club posters, where the primary goal is to sell a vibe before revealing the specifics. The tagline "BIG JUST GOT BIGGER" encapsulates this strategy—bold, engaging, and slightly cryptic, prompting curiosity and interaction. What Drumsheds did was silly, it was sort of stupid, yet still engaging. A not too overly constructed idea showcased their venue, but instead of telling audiences the bullet-pointed benefits of their space, they created an engaging world to be experienced, enjoyed and most importantly, shared.

@drumshedsBig just got BIGGER 🤖🌭

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Gen-Z's content consumption habits pose a challenge for brands. According to Archrival, 80% of Gen-Z feels they are exposed to more brands and advertising than any other generation. With Tik-Tok heralding content that isn’t overly polished or salesy, brands need to find creative ways to authentically engage audiences, while doing so in a way that audiences can relate to. Retailers are increasingly acting like media companies, and vice versa. Half Magic, a makeup line born from a collaboration between film studio A24 and makeup artist Doniella Davy, exemplifies this trend. By integrating their product into the cultural zeitgeist, such as through makeup looks inspired by the film "Priscilla," they create a buzz that transcends traditional advertising.

Today's marketing reflects a generation with different priorities and influences. Gen-Z is drawn to the bizarre and the standout. Their humour, often referred to as "brainrot humour,” and earlier millennial humour rooted in "so random xD" culture, highlights a preference for content that doesn't necessarily make sense but captivates nonetheless. Much of this engaging content is shot on iPhones or similarly low-budget alternatives. While these campaigns may seem unpolished, they are often meticulously crafted to resonate with younger audiences' taste for the absurd and authentic. This lofi aesthetic offers an opportunity for meaningful engagement, standing in stark contrast to overly produced content that can feel inauthentic.

80% of Gen-Z feels they are exposed to more brands and advertising than any other generation (Archrival).

Consider Marc Jacobs as another example. Instead of simply selling or advertising their clothes on socials, something we’ve seen a million times, they decided to become incredibly self-referential and tap into the brainrot. They effectively identified the trend and creatively conceived how to authentically participate in their content. Most recently, they got Nara Smith, the ‘tradwife’ (even though I don’t think she is one, but that’s a different story) with 12 million followers on TikTok, who makes bubblegum and cough syrup from scratch for her family. Marc Jacobs posted a clip of Smith mixing flour, eggs, water, and red food colouring, kneading the dough until it magically folded into a tiny tote bag. And people loved it. I was living when she declared in her infamous monotone signature that the bag was “perfectly risen” and ready to eat (or wear, I suppose). Smith is known for wearing unrealistically beautiful dresses while making things like Coca Cola from scratch, and so the link between her and a luxury brand like Marc Jacobs becomes authentic and understandable.

@marcjacobsThe Tote Bag, made from scratch by @Nara Smith

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However, this approach isn't universal. Not everyone can be Marc Jacobs or Drumsheds, who already have amassed some sort of ‘cool’ following. Not every brand can successfully navigate this landscape. For instance, Kate Spade might not benefit from adopting a brat style rollout just to promote a sale. Authenticity in marketing is a delicate balance, and brands must find their unique voice within this framework.

Imperfect content and idols are craved. I’m not completely oblivious to the amount of work that goes on behind the scenes of this ‘random content’. Even the most lofi of pieces have media plans, resources, strategy, and so much more. However, it feels imperfectly unpolished, in a way that feels genuinely engaging for younger audiences who are exhausted of constantly being advertised to. As consumers seek genuine connections, the lofi aesthetic and absurdist content have become powerful tools for brands to engage younger audiences. By prioritising entertainment and embracing the weird and wonderful, brands can create lasting connections that go beyond mere product promotion. This new wave of content and brands isn't just about being seen; it's about being remembered for their chaos, their wonder, and their absurdly enticing brand worlds, not just their product.

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As the 2024 Olympics unfold this year across Paris, we’re not only watching a showcase of athletic prowess and achievement, but a convergence of sports, technology, and storytelling narratives via sponsorship. From couture collaborations to the rise of challenger brands, this year's Games are a testament to the ever-evolving ethos of Olympic sponsorships and the stories they can tell. For this article, we want to look at how smaller brands are working to take centre stage during one of the most popular events in the world, and how they’re effectively weaving storytelling into these brand partnerships.

Despite not being particularly sporty , I find myself mind-numbingly patriotic every four years, transforming into an All-American diva every time Simone Biles steps onto the mat or Katie Ledecky dives into the pool. Beyond feats of athleticism, there’s another intriguing aspect to every Games: how sports and fashion can converge and compliment each other, and how sponsorships can become a mechanism of storytelling and culture making. This year, revered designers like Ralph Lauren for Team USA and Dior for Team France, courtesy of LVMH’s sponsorship, have taken centre stage. Perhaps most memorable thus far is Team Mongolia for their opening ceremony kits, created by Mongolian couture house Michel & Amazonka, with cultural heritage and ancient techniques brought to life.

Amidst these high-profile collaborations unfolding during the opening ceremony, we now see the emergence of sponsorships from athletic brands as athletes take to the games. We can see athletes unboxing their merchandise from Nike, Ralph Lauren, Skims, and more on TikTok, with brands of all shapes and sizes clamouring to take centre stage during the matches. 

Big brands are selective in their endorsements, often signing the most prominent athletes whilst leaving others with minimal compensation or ‘product only’ deals. It’s a disillusioning sponsorship model to say the least, especially considering track and field as a sport often doesn’t pay up in dividends. Runners typically depend on other sources of income, and Olympic athletes are not paid for their time at the games. It’s why sponsorships are so essential, albeit scarce in opportunity. Athletes, especially young, up-and-coming ones, need to turn themselves into a brand and understand how to use it.

Holo Footwear co-founder Rommel Vega writes, “A lot of these brands use their [athlete’s] name and image, and then just discard them when they’re done…It surprises me that a lot of these young guys are still pushed into the same old-school deals, and they get nothing more than a shoe.” This is why some athletes are gravitating towards these challenger athletic brands; ones who carry cultural capital in coolness by transgressing the mainstream, while also giving more creative freedom to their athletes. Outside of the Olympics, Isaac Okoro, a 23-year-old NBA player for the Cleveland Cavaliers, chose to sign his first deal with Holo, as it “offered him the chance to build his own signature shoe with a minority-owned brand, and to receive equity in the company.”

In 2020, Tim West founded Bandit, a Brooklyn-based running community that evolved into a sportswear label. Initially starting as a running socks business, Bandit began manufacturing other apparel by late 2022. The brand has made significant strides on the Olympic stage, notably through its "Unsponsored Project." This initiative provides unbranded kits to American track-and-field athletes, allowing them to "declare their independence while chasing their Olympic dreams" and draw attention to the flaws in the current sponsorship model.

Athletes, especially young, up-and-coming ones, need to turn themselves into a brand and understand how to use it.

Companies and brands are using their products to participate in cultural conversations and become aspects of the phenomenon. This is building off what we’ve written about merch, meaning that the products in the Olympics, both the sponsors for the opening ceremony outfits and the kits for the games themselves, become mechanisms of storytelling and community. The Games are always historically and culturally relevant, and attaching a product to them allows a brand to become attached to the history. Take Skims for example, who is sponsoring the games for the first time and providing merch for all the US athletes, alongside longtime heavy-hitters like Nike and Ralph Lauren.

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Bandit Running, by that logic, attaches itself to a new story of the games: that of supporting and uplifting the lesser-known runners. They become motivators of greatness, an antithesis to the Goliaths of the sporting world, and open the door for other smaller brands to stake their claim in the cultural conversation. By addressing a ridiculous yet all too common aspect of the Olympics—athletes becoming unpaid billboards—they create their own narrative and story. On Running is experiencing a similar thing, just on a slightly bigger scale. They’re sponsoring Switzerland for the Games. According to The Business of Fashion, a cohort of 66 athletes are using the Zurich-based company’s gear across 18 disciplines. As a relative newcomer to the field (sorry, this pun is truly never-ending), it is estimated On’s athletes will win at least four medals, a step up from the 2016 Olympics where the brand only represented about a dozen athletes. These challenger brands, the bigger ones and smaller ones, are helping shift the spotlight from the brands, to the athletes themselves.

Bandit Running’s unique sponsorship model in the Trials and subsequent sponsoring of athletes in the games can teach us about thriving communities and support. Sports marketing expert, Jordan Rogers, highlighted the Unsponsored Project on Instagram, garnering over 3.3 million views and 315,000 views on TikTok. This exposure led to Bandit gaining approximately 12,000 new followers in a week. The founder, Tim West notes, "I'm sure the brand will see revenue benefits, but I'm more proud of the fact that 3 million people now associate Bandit with being good for the sport of running. Which, if I could have people have one impression of us, that's what it would be" (INC, 2024).

(Bandit Running) become motivators of greatness, an antithesis to the Goliaths of the sporting world, and open the door for other smaller brands to stake their claim in the cultural conversation.

The rise of these agile brands signifies a shift in the sportswear industry, where innovation and athlete empowerment take precedence over rigid, profit-driven sponsorships. It also shows a shift in brand perception; by staking a claim and uplifting smaller athletes, these agile challenger brands become, by nature, cool, interesting, and desired. It’s why brands like Salomon or Hoka have become what younger audiences want. They want a relatable narrative after all, and this seems like something Nike and Adidas have become too big to provide in the sporting world. As the traditional giants struggle to adapt, it’s clear that the future belongs to those who prioritise creativity, equity, and authentic engagement with their athletes.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to check out the rest of articles here. If you have any questions on how you can apply these ideas to your brand, please feel free to reach out to us at hello@truantlondon.com. Till next time!

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brat (stylised in all lowercase) was not just an album release, it was a masterfully branded campaign that was able to transcend multiple mediums and dominate the current cultural conversation. It mirrored current cultural attitudes and behaviours, and most importantly reflected the ‘culture’ (or perhaps more accurately, challenged culture). It was intentional, the name and theme had an infectious, almost aspirational energy. The branding is so replicable and usable with an open toolkit - anyone can participate. This style and its offshoots have been inescapable. It begs for participation. It also launched by leveraging the cultural capital of Boiler Room, allowing it to anchor it in the moment with known reach. It makes people across generations and scenes want to engage and gives this creative class the tools to engage.

Don’t worry, this isn’t an album review per se. There’s countless across the internet, cementing the album as one of the most critically acclaimed on Metacritic. Instead, I’d like to discuss the reason for brat’s success, beyond just the music. As the brat campaign spreads across all corners of the internet (I mean from Grindr to Linkedin, she really is everywhere she’s so Julia), I want to discuss why the brat persona appeals to so many of us, and not to sound like a cringe Linkedin-fluencer, why it’s a case study in impeccable branding and cultural understanding. Months in the making, the web-breaking rollout included a Charli-led army of internet ‘it’-girls for her 360 music video, which tapped into the current cultural influences beyond the standard. Julia Fox, Hari Nef, Alex Consani, even enlisting Chloë Sevigny and Emma Chamberlain, are all known and loved for their own brand of authenticity. There was also the viral spread of a sickly shade of green, first maligned but then wildly beloved and reproduced, becoming immediately ‘memed’ across all platforms and instantly recognisable (and available through the bratgenerator). There was even a Brat-green car branded the ‘Brat mobile’ racing its way through key cities. The list goes on, it was inescapable yet authentic, it was everywhere yet felt so real.

There’s a reason it felt so real, and it’s because this aesthetic is what we so desperately want. Messy eyeliner, sticky dancefloors, red wine spilled on white tank-tops - it’s a direct departure from an overly curated, hyper-consumerist idea of fun we’ve been forced to adopt. The clean girl becomes the ‘365 party girl’, shamelessly brash yet vulnerable, the last one of the dancefloor who also contemplates life at 3am afters. We love it, it’s in tune with a growing desire for connection and authentic, nostalgic fun amidst a pandemic of loneliness across the world. We don't want perfect idols, we crave the beauty in imperfection and getting together authentically, which is what this album and campaign roll-out emulates. It's a case study for brands wishing to engage with their audience - perfection isn't always coveted, it's more about understanding aesthetics and ways of life in culture.

It’s “this aesthetic… what we so desperately want. Messy eyeliner, sticky dancefloors, red wine spilled on white tank-tops - it’s a direct departure from an overly curated, hyper-consumerist idea of fun we’ve been forced to adopt.”

Charli also authentically showed up in spaces (and has across her career) during her roll out. From the Lot Radio in Brooklyn to nightclubs across London, Charli engaged with her fans in exclusive spaces for her ‘brats, her fanbase who she’s loyally been devoted to. It tapped into the idea of fan culture and community - not showing up for the sake of it, but for your fans to have fun. It allowed her fans to feel a part of the moment. She showed up in niche spaces, yet they still 'made sense.' It's a testament to a desire to be together in real life; As Grace Gordon writes for the Sociology of Business, “She promoted her album the same way a Brooklyn dj would their latest mixtape. She didn’t go straight to mass media, nor did she operate from a space of rarified air, perfection or mystique.” This also serves as an example for brands that showing up in the physical space if essential for connecting authentically with an audience. Experiential marketing is important in a hyper-online world, and helps push above the noise.

While not all brands will have the cultural capital of Charli XCX (and nor should they, brands shouldn’t be the ones driving culture, they should support it). Authenticity is key. Brands should focus on facilitating community rather than trying to build it from scratch. Providing simple tools or experiences and letting the audience do the rest can lead to more genuine and engaging outcomes. The simpler and more accessible the brand codes, the greater the participation and expression from the community.

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It’s not lost on me that other pop artists have attempted to replicate this shift, often in a shitty, disingenuous way. The ‘alt-girl’ image is suddenly commodifiable and commercially successful, and we’re seeing artists like Camila Cabello and Katy Perry quite shamelessly attempt to rebrand themselves after pioneers like Charli, alongside her alternative peers like Arca and the late SOPHIE. It’s clear that authenticity and imperfection is in. And who better to deliver than the party girl herself, who across her expansive career has ingrained herself with a loyal fanbase, celebrated her expansive LGBTQ+ following, and has always authentically stayed true to herself, her sound, and her aesthetic. A lot of brands fall for this as well, attempting to perfectly recreate rather than authentically engage.

Equally importantly, brat and its rollout prioritised IRL fun, paying homage to the club it was born from. The rollout was equally online (a continuous feed of online content for fans everywhere in the lead up), as well as remixes in clubs, intentional leaks, and an overall celebration of the joy and play when getting together IRL in spaces meant for dancing and connection (I mean her Boiler Room set looked straight out of 90s rave culture, just add in a few hundred phones clamouring to get a snippet).

Fan culture, club culture, meme culture, and authentically capturing the cultural zeitgeist catapulted the album into critical acclaim. And while I may have elaborated too much as a fan, it’s a perfect example of hard work and dedication to a cultural niche paying off in dividends. And it feels especially prominent in comparison to crude copycats hoping to hop in on the culture. It doesn’t work like that, and brat can teach that for brands. Engage with your culture, but don’t try to take it over. Culture is driven by people, brands can help facilitate this community, but not without authentic engagement. Don’t just show up to show up, show up because you care about your audience. Charli cared about her niche fanbase, so everything post-brat feels right and honest, and exquisitely executed. And for brands with supposedly less glamorous products, the same thought remains - if you develop a POV and build for people who get it, and stay authentically true to them, then cultural success will follow.

Despite not being massive on footy myself, every other summer during the Euros or World Cup I do find myself in a pub garden with a cold white wine in hand, shrieking madly as England miss yet another open goal (eek! still holding out hope). There’s something incredible about how these tournaments can bring people together, both die-hard fans and casual enjoyers, especially during a time of uncomfortable and shifting ideas of what it means to be patriotic or connected as a nation. One aspect that especially captured my attention, perhaps amidst changing views on what is trendy and stylish, is the kits. Merch has always been a factor in the Euros (and World Cup, or any major sporting event), but as merch as a concept begins to shift, we're seeing how the Euros are adjusting their kit to match.

Football kits have been evolving beyond their original purpose of being worn on the pitch, and instead designed with the attendees in mind. It's not just about having an England shirt; it's about having a cool England shirt. Fans seek vintage designs that distance themselves from the traditional associations we have with classic kits, and also as a way to signal uniqueness and genuine interest.

The changing world of merch has played a significant role in this shift. As Ana Andjelica writes, ‘everything is merch’, and GQ similarly discussed the 'death of merch' as we formally knew it. Kits are now sold with resale in mind, and they have become collectibles. Everything is merch now, and everything has a nostalgic appeal. Departing from just ‘concert merch’, now your favourite magazine has merch, coffee shops have merch, museums have merch, movies have merch, everything has merch. It has become a symbol of cultural identity and a way for fans to express their allegiance to a group. Rather than being a retail sidegig or an added bonus, merch is the main event. Football stadiums have huge spaces dedicated to them, almost like brick-and-mortar shops themselves. At megashows, like for Taylor Swift or Beyoncé, merch can open up the day before to avoid hour-long queues during the show. Your fave coffee shop can sell out a merch drop in minutes. It’s become an essential part of the community experience. As GQ states, “consumers have learned to buy everything as merch, and there is no going back.”

The value of this lies not just in the physical item as a memento of a place and time, but also in the social and cultural capital attached to it. Originally, merch could only be purchased at a concert or specific place in time, which added scarcity. This still holds true today, as fans seek out limited-edition or unique items to show their dedication, but it also goes beyond that. You can buy fan-made merch from RedBubble, you can buy merch online instead of at a gig, and things have become so reproduced and oversaturated it’s hard to garner genuine cultural attachments like before.

In order to create these cultural artefacts, especially at a time when it can feel weird and complicated to be entirely patriotic, kits, especially for the Euros, need to be cool, timeless, and something you’d want to wear. It’s unrealistic to ask people to buy a new shirt every year for a different season (and utterly wasteful, but that’s a different kettle of fish), so there needs to be a status-related incentive behind purchasing. Even die-hard fans probably won’t buy identical England jerseys every year for a major tournament (be that Euros or World Cup), but if they become cultural artefacts from that tournament and something you genuinely think looks good to wear, then maybe you will buy a new kit every year. This is especially true in the current Blokecore era (which hit its peak in 2022 but I argue is coming back stronger during the Euros and resurgence of sport-driven fashion, thanks Challengers).

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Merchandise has become a symbol of a cultural conversation that people want to be a part of. It's no longer just about being a die-hard fan; it's about aligning oneself with a cooler, more unified idea. For the Euros, it’s not just an England shirt, especially as narratives on patriotism and national pride feel confusing and outdated. It’s more than that, it’s a cultural signifier to something bigger, a way to feel patriotic more comfortably. We’re not aligning with outdated values of English patriotism; we’re supporting a diverse, incredibly talented group of people at the top of their game. Another example is Belgium’s kit, which features the beloved character TinTin, showcasing a cultural heritage rather than relying solely on flag imagery. Additionally, Adidas recently released a retro-inspired collection with NTS, highlighting a new idea of what it means to be British and proud of one's heritage (and capitalising on the rabid fan culture that fuels football in general, for both casual and super fans).

So we can see various kits flexed in order to be desirable as merch. Scotland imbued their uniform with a tartan look, an homage to Scottish heritage over purely just the white and blue flag. Spain added their national flower, the carnation, to their kits, jazzing up what would otherwise just be a red and yellow jersey. England added a playful twist to the St George’s cross (to mixed reviews), but is also pedalling out iconic, nostalgia-fuelled iterations as merch. France adopted a jersey style from the 1960s, also playing into a nostalgia factor, featuring a large crest on the bright blue body with the tricolour French flag accenting the collar.

Merchandise has become a symbol of a cultural conversation that people want to be a part of.

Some, like Switzerland and Italy, go the traditional route, but perhaps this is a missed opportunity to evolve one’s national identity with the uniform. Looking over to the Olympics, the US team will walk the opening ceremony in iconic Ralph Lauren denim, which is classically All-American, which expands their cultural identity beyond red, white, and blue (especially at a time of political turmoil).

Especially during the Euros, the importance of football kits extends far beyond their role on the pitch. They have been transformed into cultural symbols, reflecting a broader conversation about identity, nostalgia, and community. The designs of these kits, inspired by heritage, fashion trends, and the desire to create lasting cultural artefacts, demonstrate how deeply interwoven football has become with our social fabric. Whether it's through playful reinterpretations of national symbols or collaborations with cultural icons, these kits offer fans a way to express their support and pride in a modern, inclusive, and stylish manner.

I don’t have to be the one to tell you that Bumble’s recent campaign was a bit of a misstep. There have been countless amazing articles untangling the web of problems behind it (HERE HERE AND HERE). Across social media, some have heralded it as the straw that breaks the dating app camel’s back. I’d like to argue that Bumble’s recent campaign blunder doesn’t signal the end of dating apps but rather marks a significant shift in how they must evolve to survive. In an era where loneliness pervades and dating has never felt so exhausting and vulnerable (or algorithmically driven), dating apps face a challenge: adapt or die.

The word ‘dating’ has always been a pretty loaded, confusing, and ultimately vulnerable idea. But now, it conjures up images of sliding into DMs, ghosting and the ever-exhausting yet still addictive dating app world… it’s relentless. While Bumble’s tone was off, they were right that women are exhausted by dating apps. An endless carousel of gamified algorithms and vulnerably putting oneself up for judgement. It all feels a bit bleak.

Dating apps have de-risked and automated life, thus turning intimacy into a flat, streamlined, commercialised process held up by gamified algorithms that eliminate error. Our social muscles, built upon risk and connection, are atrophying, and relationships are suffering. As the BURNAFTERREADING Substack eloquently puts it,

“That’s not the only way algorithms are warping our understanding of love. The Era of Therapisation has us in a chokehold, feeding us a constant stream of content that helps us psychoanalyse and categorise.”

This world of online therapy-speak emerged as a solution to the toxicity of modern dating, but I’d argue it’s gone further into making us risk-averse. Again, that’s not to say these conversations aren’t important - they are! Red flags are real. But the proliferation of ‘green flag, tick!’ or ‘icks’, saying someone is love-bombing when they want a second date, and overall reliance on cautious measures of therapy-speak have made us lonelier than ever.

I’m not here to tout that dating online is a complete, technocratic nightmare, because that would be ridiculous. Plenty of happy, lifelong (or short flings! No shame) relationships have started from these apps. And people are looking for similar things. Data shows that a significant majority of both women (84%) and men (78%) seek equal partnerships and traditional romance. Women (59%) and men (38%) find chivalrous gestures like ensuring a date gets home safely to be important, and a substantial number prefer putting phones away during dates to foster genuine interaction. This suggests a desire for more meaningful connections that current dating apps are not adequately providing. It’s not a modern problem of romance, it’s how entrenched in algorithms it has become.

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What was more interesting than the Bumble Fumble was the founder’s exploration of a dating concierge. Whitney Wolfe Herd has suggested that online daters could have ‘AI concierges’ that ‘date’ each other to find the best possible matches. Because that’s exactly what will solve this crisis: more algorithms. The gamification of dating ostracises certain groups and fuels disillusionment with the dating process. Bumble’s mishap, while widely criticised, brings to light the deeper issue of how love has been commodified and reduced to a swipe. This gamification not only exhausts users but also fails to deliver on the genuine connections that these platforms promise.

This won’t save the apps. It won’t cater to our desire to get offline and meet a person IRL.  It won’t solve a crisis of nostalgia; a yearning to meet people ‘the old fashioned way.’ And it certainly won’t solve a crisis of dating exhaustion, which is what started this whole fumble in the first place. Exhaustion isn’t solved through more algorithms, it’s about instilling the (healthy) risk and playfulness back into dating, and taking it away from a place of overused prompts, constant swiping, and overall gamification of love.

Women (84%) and men (78%) seek equal partnerships and traditional romance. Women (59%) and men (38%) find chivalrous gestures like ensuring a date gets home safely to be important.

Cultural theorist Agus Panzoni argues there is no algorithm for love. The reliance on algorithms to filter potential partners may inadvertently close off opportunities for successful matches. Instead of boiling dating down to a science, dating apps should focus on fostering real-life connections. Freya India, another cultural critic, discusses how these platforms have made us risk-averse. While caution is justified, excessive risk-aversion can hinder authentic connections and experiences.

So what comes next? Other apps are adapting more successfully. Tinder, while not excused from a long history of gamifying swiping and entrenching hook-up culture in a digital space (often without safety guardrails), created a recent campaign more fixated on overcoming the atrophying muscles of being connection-averse and encouraging people to take the first step with someone. Hinge (the same applies) is prioritising IRL experiences, investing money in getting people off the apps and meeting IRL (and partnering with Thursday to do so). Beyond apps, single-exclusive social clubs have been popping up, such as Ambyr in NYC. Or, as we wrote about before, will it instead signal a return to interest-based hobbies and groups? Can these communities help put some of the healthy risk back into dating, and crumble the gamified algorithms that taunt and exhaust us? Speed dating, supper clubs, and all of this is not necessarily solely romantic love, it encompasses love in all forms. Loneliness can be cured not just through romance but also through connection, and perhaps that has to come first for love to truly work (or at least, to kick the nasty habit ;) ).

From supper clubs to run clubs, open jams to local gigs, Substack to Discord, people are constantly cultivating niche communities to break algorithm bubbles and content fatigue. Many have written about the need to capture the attention of these communities, and what drives them. For this article, I’d like to reflect slightly on my own New Year’s resolution: to try and go to my local venue more often and see new music (big up the weekly Irish folk jam at The Lamb in Islington!!). I want to unpack how communities are formed in local venues, and why they're becoming increasingly important. Namely, as people start to reach a fatigue in superstar tours, and are continuously starved of human connections, how can saving the local music venue act as an antidote to isolation? Additionally, can these local venues continue to serve as social hubs amidst a cost-of-living crisis and a general move away from excessive drinking culture?

Gen-Z, as we’ve previously discussed, are going out a lot less than previous generations. No one can afford it, people are becoming more socially anxious, and nightlife (at least in the UK) is shrinking at a rapid rate. This week alone, I may have stumbled across my umpteenth article on the death of nightlife in London. From March 2023 to December 2023, 3,011 night economy businesses have shut down in London alone (NTIA). Late licences are nearly obsolete, and the only options I saw as I walked around Shoreditch at 11 pm on a Friday seemed to be Simmons.

The loss of nightlife feels particularly shocking as people are finding fan-based communities. According to Vogue Business, 54% of Gen Z says that their favourite brands are the ones that make them feel like they’re part of a community. This resonates deeply with the current landscape where feeling like you belong to a social group feels critical.

From March 2023 to December 2023, 3,011 night economy businesses have shut down in London alone.

Digital music communities are thriving, on the other hand. Exclusivity is in - think Twitch, Web3, and Discord servers. Or look to the success of Charli XCX’s ‘superfan-only’ private account @360brat. The allure of access is powerful, and these communities help fan bases thrive, but things are shifting. Constant, unmarred access and digital demands for things immediately has permeated online culture for a decade now, and widespread availability is being traded for exclusive access.

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This isn’t to say exclusivity is bad, but there’s a desire for this IYKYK experience to migrate into the real world. While social infrastructures are in the bin, there is a need for physical spaces. And, to repeat myself for the 100th time, people want to connect offline so freaking badly!

As we become more disconnected, the struggling local venue could become a ‘third space’ where people can gather, interact, and build connections outside of their homes and workplaces. And most importantly, they are founded upon music and drivers of culture. This is increasingly relevant as brands reorient towards focusing on communities over the individual. Appealing to pockets of culture is essential for brands to foster a loyal customer base.

Local businesses can partner with local venues to appeal to a more niche, yet fully formed customer. For example, Arsenal bigging up their local chippy ‘Chip In Fish Bar’ shows a dedication to strengthening cultural ties in North London. While Arsenal is by no means a ‘local venue,’ it can serve as a blueprint for venues becoming integral parts of their local community fabric.

54% of Gen Z says that their favourite brands are the ones that make them feel like they’re part of a community.

Local venues stand as vital bastions against social isolation, helping us to migrate offline. You can go for a night and see a great new act, you and the crowd now sharing a memory. Or, you go and see someone crap, and now you have an inside joke. Either way, it’s a place and time to belong. They provide spaces where genuine human connections can flourish, away from the noise of superstar tours and algorithm-driven content. By focusing on nurturing these local hubs, we can create stronger, more resilient communities that offer a sense of belonging and support.

Running is a funny one. As a high-profile sport, it never captured the glamour of other team-based sports. As the RHOC Substack puts it:

“Perhaps it was seen as too simple or uninvestable. No runner celebrities were driving fast cars, Paula Radcliffe didn’t have her own clothing line or perfume brand…it was all a bit ‘What I Talk About When I Talk About Running’, shitting yourself on a cobbled street in Barcelona, Casio stopwatches and boney elbows. But recently, that perception has flipped… Running is COOL now.”

And dare I add, the culture of run clubs and the proliferation of marathon weeks makes it trendy? Blokecore, a trend that surfaced last year around football culture, has been replaced by track and field summer. We’re trading our vintage football jerseys for Alphafly 3s, ON x Loewe, and Strava.

Running is no longer just about personal bests or calorie burning; it’s become a social event, with interest-based run clubs surfacing around city centres, and running kit becoming the new streetwear. Even marathons, a previous feat of individual achievement, have become more akin to a fashion week or a festival. As this Financial Times article states, “the festivalisation of running has turned race day into ‘race week.”’ Marathon weeks are now filled with an array of activities - breakfast runs, panel talks, and DJ nights. Brands are capitalising on this festive atmosphere, imbuing the community and cultural aspects that festivals have into running, thus turning it from an individual achievement to a community event. For instance, at the Paris marathon, Satisfy hosted T-shirt customization workshops, while Asics organised 5k and 10k races. New Balance's invite-only boat party on the Thames and their collaboration with rapper Loyle Carner at a London gig exemplify how marathons have become week-long celebrations of community and lifestyle.

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These brands above have benefitted from the running’s creative renaissance, where even the beginners are scrambling to get their hands on the latest shoe drop. In a world where ‘drops and pop ups’ were reserved for streetwear royalty (I remember the queues of trend-focussed kids outside of Supreme in 2016!!!), now niche running brands are finding their own footing in the cultural world of running. As this AColorBright report states, over ten years ago the ‘fashion’ behind running was reserved for the leaders of the sports world. Nike, Adidas and New Balance were the practical places to buy running shoes. And while always delivering in quality, perhaps 10 years ago they didn’t quite garner the hype that, say, Jordans did. But the introduction of challenger brand, On, with a focus on sleek running styles and heralding kit meant for running changed the game. This gave way to an explosion of coveted, elevated running gear brands, each crafting distinct identities and identifying with different cultural niches, and now all doing ‘drops’ the same way streetwear did over a decade ago. The modern runner’s kit has become a badge of honour, and brands like District Vision, Soar, and Satisfy are elevating running gear with high-end design and unique aesthetics.

But it’s not just about kit and marathons, what’s really elevated running’s social cache is the spirit of ‘run-clubs’ that has surfaced. New run clubs are providing a social outlet that contrasts sharply with traditional, competitive running clubs (that were solely performance-focussed and exclusive). This approach has attracted a diverse range of participants, including women under 25 who are now the fastest-growing demographic on Strava. Pubs are expensive, cafes kick you out after a £4.50 flat white, parks in English weather are unreliable, and people feel lost without a third space outside of their home and work. Run clubs are affordable, accessible and a place to feel a sense of belonging. They’re also dating spaces, which is becoming increasingly appealing as people are becoming disenfranchised with apps and more interested in meeting people IRL. And, as Lydia Douglas of RBC highlights, running clubs offer a way to meet and hang out without a reliance on alcohol, which is becoming increasingly important, particularly for Gen-Z.

Running is no longer just about personal bests or calorie burning; it’s become a social event.

It’s important to note that none of this would really be possible without honouring the OG form of it: Run Dem Crew, who back in 2007 democratised running and instilling their core rules: WE ARE NOT A RUNNING CLUB. LEAVE YOUR EGO AT HOME. The first community-based running group of its kind, Run Dem Crew became a home to hundreds of people, a place to find connection in an increasingly isolating world.

Running’s cultural resurgence embodies a move towards authenticity, community, and accessible fitness. It’s a trend that embraces the spirit of streetwear while fostering a sense of belonging and collective celebration. As we lace up our running shoes, we’re not just hitting the pavement—we’re joining a movement that’s redefining what it means to run.

In today’s world, catering to Gen-Z requires a delicate dance between advertising and authenticity, especially when attempting to ‘go viral.’ This digitally-native generation has reshaped the marketing funnel, gravitating towards content over traditional advertising. As brands adapt to this shift, they are blending sponsored content seamlessly into regular content, leveraging social media platforms where Gen-Z’s seek inspiration, entertainment, and connection.

Gen-Z's advertising fatigue is evident, with 80% of Gen-Z agreeing that they are exposed to more brands and advertising than any other generation. Their primary channel is also their social hub, their source of entertainment, their learning centre, and so much more than just your average content channel. For brands to work online, they need to speak the language, to ingrain themselves so deeply into the content that it feels distinguished from a traditional ad. You hear of people making fun of ‘influencer brain rot,’ or the monotone voice influencers use to promote sponsored content and thus overconsumption. People want to be entertained, and Gen-Z understands that marketing and campaigns online will always be inevitable, so why not make it clever?

For brands to work online, they need ingrain themselves so deeply into the content that it feels distinguished from a traditional ad.

Take, for instance, Michael Cera’s partnership with Cerave, which began as a meme and evolved into branded content embraced by audiences. Cera's nonchalant endorsement of the product, captured in candid photographs, resonated with consumers, highlighting the power of authenticity in sponsored content. Or, that stupidly hilarious video of a guy doing a dance with the caption reading “the party ended hours ago and he’s still here.” Quickly, the sentiment became a meme across platforms, becoming a joke for anyone expressing interest in something for too long/doing something for too long. And then a few weeks later, the OG creator recreated the video with exact detail, except this time he was wearing sponsored clothing from Marc Jacobs (famous for their lo-fi style of marketing aesthetics). The clothes aren’t heavily branded, and one would simply think nothing of it, besides, maybe “oooh nice shirt diva.” Cynically, I ask myself as I mindlessly scroll for hours: is all of this just marketing now, is it all just staged?

We wrote a few months ago about manufacturing virality online. Culture nowadays feels boiled down to a trend, a meme, or a moment in time that spreads like wildfire across the internet.  So much of what’s online now, intended to go viral, is staged. It’s like this Influencers in the Wild video, or husbands ‘pranking’ their wives for the 150th time this month, even the JoJo Siwa rebrand feels calculated and intended as rage-bait for engagement.

@influencersinthewild@greta thunberg will not be happy about this #influencer #fyp

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Gen-Z don’t blindly follow influencers, really. While we grew up being advertised to via our social platforms, most are savvy about who they follow and who they chose to engage with. It’s a generation that HATES being advertised to, yet loves influencers (to some degree…). As the world is set on fire around us, with income inequality skyrocketing to unfathomable heights, influencers are losing their allure. We’ve written about this before, the great crumblings of the old guards of influencers, whose out-of-touchness is beginning to infuriate a generation marked by a pandemic, war, housing crisis, and more. It’s easy to bristle at influencers complaining about how tough their life is while a ‘side-hustle-generation’ lives paycheck to paycheck.

It doesn’t look like an ad or quack like an ad, but it is an ad. And instead of feeling ‘duped’ by a brand, if the content is genuinely quite funny and falls under the umbrella of consumable ‘content,’ it tends to be rewarded. Instead of disrupting feeds with stark advertising that feels too in your face, too on the nose, and thus ruining the ‘scrolling experience,’ the blending of content into content can make it feel more palatable, and thus more enjoyable for everyone.

Famously, everyone loves to travel, yet no one wants to travel like a tourist. But paradoxically, everyone ends up doing just that. Algorithms have usurped the role of traditional travel guides, relegating locals to the sidelines while boosting engagement with popular tourist traps. It’s difficult for a local to go viral with a recommendation (or whether they’d even WANT to expose their favourite spot like that, wanting to gate-keep it from the hoards of tourists who would only ruin the authenticity), but it’s easier than ever for people to find recommendations for where they want to travel, written by visitors, for other visitors.

Social media platforms tantalise us with the promise of authentic cultural experiences and ‘hidden gems,’ presenting a facade of local living. Airbnb ignited the desire to live like a local, while social media inundated us with endless scrolls of curated experiences that never really ‘give local’. However, beneath the surface lies a stark reality: these experiences are often curated by fellow tourists, not locals themselves. As a result, genuine local perspectives are marginalised, overshadowed by the algorithm's preference for popular destinations. It all feels a bit bleak, and quite mid.

Social media platforms tantalise us with the promise of authentic cultural experiences and ‘hidden gems,’ presenting a facade of local living.

Cities worldwide grapple with the consequences of over-tourism and the proliferation of short-term rental platforms, exacerbating the divide between locals and tourists. Famously, some are even turning away tourists. Travel, intended to broaden horizons and foster cultural exchange, instead traps us in a perpetual tourist bubble. Going to the same restaurants, experiences, bars, cafes, and more by tourists, for tourists. This phenomenon, known as cultural flattening, homogenised experiences and erodes the authenticity of travel.

Call me old fashioned, but growing up I used to love buying a travel guide from the shops before a trip. While they were never a perfect, objective source, they still felt like there was some sort of local influence in mind. This may be a bit of reminiscing on a past that never existed, haha, but it feels better than the alternative now. I can’t lie, I’m no better than anyone else! Of course before a trip it’s easy and interesting to look on TikTok or Insta for recs, but I often find myself disappointed by them. They always have a tinge of by-tourists, for-tourists, and give me a bit of the ick.

This phenomenon, known as cultural flattening, homogenised experiences and erodes the authenticity of travel.

It’s a bit paradoxical for locals to share their favourite experiences. We live in a time of budget-friendly flights, more exposure to new places to travel, a globalisation that creates a sea-of-sameness across the world (you’re never more than 5 feet away from a McDonalds or a Starbucks), and a wealth of content online on things to do. It strips away some of the exploration, simply because it’s so much easier to take someone’s word for it. We’re in a culture so obsessed with reviews and feedback that it’s difficult to take a chance on something new, which is the entire ethos of travel!

Even if locals were inclined to share their insights, the lack of flashy visuals akin to influencer content poses a significant barrier. When "pics or it didn't happen" reigns supreme, authenticity often takes a backseat to aesthetics.

To counteract this trend, a new wave of independent travel guides are emerging, harkening back to the ethos of traditional travel literature. Take Trippin.world, which prioritises diverse and local experiences outside of the mainstream, promoting an idea of travelling expanding cultural horizons rather than trying to replicate the comfort of home anywhere you go. Rather than marginalising local voices or perpetuating a voyeuristic gaze, these guides actively platform locals, particularly individuals from marginalised communities.

When "pics or it didn't happen" reigns supreme, authenticity often takes a backseat to aesthetics.

When travel can feel dominated (and shaped even) by algorithms and curated content, reclaiming the narrative of travel as a means of cultural exploration is more crucial than ever. By embracing local voices and fostering genuine connections, we can transcend the limitations of the tourist bubble and embark on truly meaningful journeys of discovery. We can move from tourist to traveller, from imagined online experiences to actually broadening our horizons and wanderlust. After all, the true essence of travel lies not in ticking off bucket list destinations, but in forging genuine connections and embracing the richness of human experience, wherever the journey may lead.

Festivals have long been a culture-driver and epicentre of community, they’re a testament to constructing imagined communities amongst disparate groups of people with shared interests. They celebrate heritage, innovation, culture, and perhaps most importantly, music. In a culture that values tangible, physical experiences over digital, it’s important to physically show up in these cultural spaces, to ingrain oneself into the communities that value it, and to truly understand why they’re so important (especially amidst a cost of living crisis, people are willing to save for these festival experiences).

People love to bemoan online the ‘death’ of the festival, especially at the hands of corporate influence and social media. Every year, pictures circulate of stagnated crowds during headliner sets, more focussed on getting the perfect picture for Instagram over actually engaging in the community-building and shared social experiences of the festival. Stages are plastered in brand names, strange and often mysterious exclusive ‘VIP’ sections crop up, with little explanation of their significance. Influencers often get chalked up to blame, as brands have become less interested in engaging with the cultural heritage and community, and more about just getting their name seen. And what’s relatable about that? What is the incentive for your average young person to feel any sort of emotional connection to this brand?

A question arises: could experiential brand activations centred on real-life interactions breathe new life into the festival scene?

With such a wide range of festivals in the UK, each with its own community and cultural identity, it’s paramount to understand why it exists, and why it’s important. If you’re an expert in your category, and understand the true ethos that underpins a festival, you’ll be able to not only connect with the audience there, but to authentically promote your own cultural identity as a brand in a way that doesn’t feel corny or mid.

This may seem slightly obvious, but often it’s overlooked! Slapping a name on a stage will bring your name to a huge audience, but will they really understand who you are? More importantly, do you understand who they are, what they want? Handing out a sample can bring immediate satisfaction, but once it’s gone in the bin or used, what’s keeping your audience thinking about you?

It’s all about delivering a brand promise. How can one stay true to the culture and community of a festival without imposing unnecessary branding, while also communicating the brand message and identity? In other words, how do you move a partnership beyond a vanity project or purely functional to something exciting and ownable for festival-goers?

Brands who understand the importance of physically showing up for festivals, and authentically engaging with the culture, heritage, and traditions of the ‘scene’ win out. Festivals are meant to be fun, and with a generation of young people feeling constantly trapped within the digital world, festivals become a form of escapism. And because this generation is inundated with unprecedented levels of targeted advertising and general content online, their desire for the escapism and care-free fun at festivals is really important. Brands need festivals for exposure, and festivals need brands to augment the experience to something truly special - but this symbiotic relationship has been muddied by influencer-culture and changing perspectives online.

Brands who understand the importance of physically showing up for festivals, and authentically engaging with the culture, heritage, and traditions of the ‘scene’ win out.

Brands can become part of the cultural conversation through authentic partnerships with festivals, so it’s important to go beyond just showing up and expecting people to come to you. You need to ingrain yourself into the community ethos of a festival, and show up relevantly. Selecting the right festival to partner with is equally paramount. By understanding the underlying ethos of a festival and its audience, brands can authentically promote their cultural identity without appearing forced or insincere. It's not merely about slapping a name on a stage but rather about fostering genuine connections and leaving a lasting impression on attendees.

Consider the example of Liquid Death at Live Nation festivals, which ingeniously promotes hydration in a festival setting, offering attendees access to branded "Country Clubs'' for relaxation and exclusive experiences (that also feel as transgressive as the brand is, with Horoscope readings and a live string quartet). Or, Adobe’s Art Garden installation during Lollapalooza. To celebrate the new look of the festival, Adobe partnered with three Chicago creators to show what they love most about the city and its culture. This showcased the brand’s love of creativity, while also connecting with the local cultural importance of the festival, thus creating a symbiotic relationship that made sense and didn’t feel overly contrived.

You need to ingrain yourself into the community ethos of a festival, and show up relevantly.

Similarly, the collaboration between Vodafone and Glastonbury goes beyond promoting cellular connectivity; but actually encouraging the facilitation of human connection, an ethos found both with the famous festival and the service provider.

Successful brand partnerships extend beyond mere visibility; they require genuine engagement with the festival community and a commitment to enhancing the attendee experience. Festivals provide a unique opportunity for brands to connect with their target audience in a meaningful way, transcending traditional advertising methods.

Across the past year, my social media feeds have been littered with an all-too-familiar style of creative direction. Rather than meticulously staged photoshoots, we find ourselves immersed in the voyeuristic allure of lo-fi creative direction, paparazzi-style imagery showcasing celebrities in the everyday world. Celebrities like Kendall Jenner and A$AP Rocky doing paparazzi walks for the latest Bottega Veneta campaign, Lil Uzi Vert being captured on CCTV stealing a birthday cake for a Marc Jacobs campaign, Kanye West’s 3-second-pixel Superbowl selfie advert, Rihanna papped mid-errand coffee-run for Louis Vuitton - the list goes on.

This sort of art direction uses lo-fi production techniques to capture exaggerated, almost surreal facets of everyday life, with the subject being captured often a celebrity of some kind doing an average, everyday thing. Whether the photography style is more paparazzi or CCTV, the result is still the same, a sort of banal co-option of the mundane. The lo-fi capture helps these extraordinary moments, say A$AP Rocky decked out in the latest Bottega Veneta, feel more relatable to the everyday public (I too walk outside to get groceries sometimes). Even though this calibre of celebrity is so out-of-touch and unrelatable (I doubt Kendall Jenner does her own grocery shopping), it allows us to assume the role of the voyeur, to relate to the life of the celebrity.

The rise of paparazzi, IRL shots for campaigns emphasises the surrealism of everyday life, placing the viewer into the role of the voyeur, peering into the staged relatability of the celebrity. Celebrity culture has never felt more prominent, and importantly more accessible, and our parasocial relationships with the stars has been exacerbated by social media and constant exposure to content. Is there almost something humorous, letting the public in on a joke, about watching glamorous celebrities in the everyday world?

It allows us to assume the role of the voyeur, to relate to the life of the celebrity.

The roots of this phenomenon can be traced back to Surrealism, an art movement that challenged the conventions of realism and rationality. As the New York Times describes, Surrealism emerged in the 1920s as a rebellion against the status quo, giving rise to imagery characterised by disembodied eyeballs, melting clocks, and otherworldly landscapes. Fast forward to the present day, and Surrealism continues to shape our cultural landscape, providing a lens through which we can explore the absurdities of contemporary society.

For Gen-Z, often characterised as a generation disillusioned with traditional norms, Surrealism offers a means of coping with the chaos of the modern world. As Tony Wang, founder of creative consultancy Office of Applied Strategy, observes for the Business of Fashion, “There is an element of irony or self awareness that gives it that kind of edge and that charm … At the end of the day, [A$AP Rocky] is still a celebrity and he’s styled impeccably.’” The elements of irony and self awareness gives these campaigns their edge, reminding us celebrities are not immune to the surrealism of everyday life.

The rise of paparazzi-style creative direction reflects our increasingly self-referential culture, where nostalgia reigns supreme, and the boundaries between reality and fantasy are blurred. Drawing inspiration from the iconic paparazzi shots of the early 2000s, these campaigns tap into a collective longing for the raw authenticity of a bygone era. One with a chaotic ethos, where celebrity culture existed solely offline in paparazzi shots.

At the heart of this creative direction lies a desire for authenticity, a rejection of the hyper-curated world of social media in favour of something more raw and unfiltered. By eschewing traditional production techniques in favour of lo-fi aesthetics, these campaigns challenge our perceptions of what is real and what is staged, blurring the lines between fiction and reality.

Surrealism offers a means of coping with the chaos of the modern world.

The Surrealism permeating fashion and advertising offers more than just a fleeting trend; it's a reflection of our cultural zeitgeist and a testament to the power of authenticity in a world inundated with staged perfection.

When consumers crave genuine connections and immersive experiences, authenticity reigns supreme. Brands that embrace the mundane, turning everyday moments into compelling narratives, stand to captivate audiences in ways that traditional advertising cannot. By relinquishing control and embracing the imperfection of lo-fi aesthetics, they invite the viewer into a fantasy that feels surreal, yet still relatable (even if it is in a tongue and cheek way).

Last month, we wrote about the changing nature of wearable tech, and how innovation was focussed on disrupting our most beloved medium (the screen) and sought to reframe the way we engaged with content in a screen-obsessed world. This month, we’re delving into the converse innovation of wearable technology, and how it’s emerged as both a beacon of hope and a dystopian future in the realm of healthcare, specifically in underrepresented areas of research: women’s health, well-being, and mental health. A myriad of health technologies, specifically designed with women in mind, have cropped up across the internet. From GPS tracking for safety, to devices to mitigate period pains, and early-detection of breast cancer.

This paradigm shift challenges the traditional ‘tech-bro’ culture of wearables, because in my opinion, it’s way more optimistic to read about devices that do actual societal good instead of egotistical vanity projects fixated on a more toxic idea of self-optimisation. How can it be bad? Offering promising solutions to longstanding health problems, often under-researched or overlooked by a strained medical institution could help an unimaginable amount of people suffering from chronic health problems that often get overlooked. That being said, amidst the optimism, there is a complex controversy: is wearable technology ascribing healthcare accessibility to just the individuals who can afford it, or is it helping to empower marginalised communities amidst medical bias?

Amid the complexities, femtech or wearable tech designed for women (which is a generalised description I understand, as the idea of tech being designed for a fixed idea of gender in mind gets a little... murky) can be seen as a beacon of progress, bridging critical gaps in women’s healthcare. For example, the Myoovi Period Pain Relief Device, which helps people suffering from unusually painful or just downright uncomfortable cramping. The development in personal ultrasound devices signifies a shift towards proactive healthcare. These innovations not only empower individuals to take charge of their health but also address longstanding disparities in healthcare provision.

Moreover, femtech shines a light on underrepresented healthcare areas, particularly those pertaining to women's unique biological experiences. The development of wearable cooling devices for menopausal symptoms and smart earrings for tracking ovulation and menstrual cycles exemplify the inclusivity and innovation inherent in femtech.

While innovation in FemTech holds promise, it simultaneously casts a slightly dystopian shadow, echoing broader societal inequalities. The emergence of devices like Happy Ring, which ‘combines proprietary, next-gen biometric sensors and generative AI to deliver personalised medical insights,’ is an example of this personalised healthcare with on-demand access, while still being extremely unaffordable to the everyday person. As these devices allow users, especially those whose health issues get overlooked by medical professionals (like getting told to just ‘deal’ with an extremely painful period cramp), to take control of their own symptoms, what exactly would this mean for those who couldn’t afford it? Does this divert the responsibility of care to the individual rather than the provider? Do I really want AI to access my medical health, is it any different than a doctor? It all feels complicated, and in a landscape where healthcare systems can falter under financial strain and constraints, the emphasis on individual agency can seem both empowering and oppressive. The narrative of personal responsibility can risk obscuring systemic failures and contribute to perpetrating disparities in healthcare access.

Is wearable technology ascribing healthcare accessibility to just the individuals who can afford it, or is it helping to empower marginalised communities amidst medical bias?

It also can seem a bit ‘pink-washed’ for my liking. There’s a certain girlboss ‘je ne sais quoi’ to all of this. I truly think the creation of fem tech helps empower people who feel ignored by their healthcare providers, or at least whose healthcare providers don’t have enough time in the day for. Period cramps with conditions like endometriosis and PCOS are no joke, they’re debilitating. Early screenings for cancers are hard to access, and it can be difficult to get seen (especially when your early symptoms don’t seem necessarily out of the ordinary). The resources for parents suffering from postpartum depression are extremely limited. It all feels impossible without external help, but sometimes the products, when capital is invested, make it feel girlbossy. The commodification of health, and the ascribing of individual responsibility being branded as the must have product feels a bit icky, but conversely it does alleviate real life pain overlooked by medical institutions. I’m not the one to say whether it’s good or not, I don’t know how to feel!

Furthermore, the pervasive nature of wearable health tracking introduces concerns of obsession and over-reliance on technology. The compulsion to monitor every aspect of one's physical and mental well-being, fuelled by ‘science-backed’ claims, underscores the fine line between empowerment and obsession. The 24/7 accessibility to personal health data can be overwhelming, raising questions about the balance between autonomy and technological determinism.

Addressing these challenges requires a collaborative approach that acknowledges the intersectionality of health disparities and technology's role in exacerbating or mitigating them. FemTech must not operate in isolation but rather in tangent with existing healthcare systems to ensure equitable access for all. By fostering partnerships between technology innovators, healthcare providers, and policymakers, FemTech can realise its full potential as a force for positive change. Amid the optimism, it is essential to navigate the complex controversies surrounding individual responsibility, healthcare accessibility, and inclusivity. By addressing these challenges through collaboration and innovation, FemTech has the potential to revolutionise healthcare delivery and empower marginalised groups worldwide.

How Food Became a Storyteller

In the indie food world, the narratives behind what is, at the end of the day, pure sustenance has evolved into captivating sagas, life stories, and intricacies of our favourite artisanal delicacies, and the culture that connects all of us behind it. A few months ago, we wrote about the rise of food and beverages as an everyday luxury, an everyday indulgence amidst a cost of living crisis, a more broad example of the lipstick effect.

Recently, when doing a shop, I find myself stuck at the dichotomy between opting for locally sourced indie brands versus industry monoliths, especially as we read more about ‘shrinkflation’ and the price gouging from said monoliths (why are my crisps packets smaller and more expensive!?). Walkers or Torres? Heineken or Two Tribes? As an advertising gal myself, I found myself plagued by the psychology of brand loyalty (well, that’s part of my job, but I naively thought I was immune to it…). Am I anchored in nostalgia, retreating to the simplicity and comfort of Cadbury chocolate buttons as they remind me of my childhood, or do I now view my snacking habits as a conduit for immersive storytelling, finding myself keen to explore more diverse and locally-rooted culinary narratives?

Delving into the psyche of contemporary consumers, a report from Botrista illuminates a profound shift in how we perceive food and beverages—not merely as consumables, but as extensions of our identity, vehicles for self-expression, and canvases for storytelling. The sentiment finds resonance in Cassandra's 2022 survey, revealing that more than half of Gen-Zers believe that what they eat is indicative of who they are as a person—an emblem of individuality carved from every morsel and sip. This burgeoning cultural ethos is palpable across social media platforms, where Instagram feeds brim with the kaleidoscopic allure of artisanal beverages and snacks, from natural wines to craft beers, and from Perello Olives to Everything Bagel crisps, exuding an aesthetic charm that captivates the senses. Food is how we assert ourselves everyday, it’s an everyday proactive choice to express ourselves, our likes and dislikes, and ultimately communicate how we want to be in this world.

Kinda like fashion, no? Well, exactly, except amidst a cost of living crisis, we’re finding ourselves pivoting away from frivolous materialism in fashion (Gen-Zs like thrifting more anyway), and that luxury has transcended material possessions towards experiential indulgences - the thrill of discovering a new restaurant, mastering a novel recipe, or savouring an innovative food product.

For Gen-Z, renowned for their thriftiness and disdain for mass-produced homogeneity, the allure of indie brands lies in their narrative richness, their promise of uniqueness, and their ethos of independence. It's a sentiment reflected in the success story of DELLI, an online marketplace that has redefined the paradigm of food shopping. While mainstream supermarkets offer convenience, DELLI tantalises with the allure of storytelling—each product bearing the imprint of its creator's passion and heritage. DELLI’s success, and differentiation from other online food markets like Ocado, rests in their storytelling and commitment to community. Nowadays, nearly all the big supermarket titans offer some form of delivery service, but DELLI’s appeal lies in the intricate storytelling of their products.

From Mama Yu’s chilli oil - crafted by a mother-daughter duo, to Papo’s Bagels - bagels steeped in the tradition of native New Yorkers, every item becomes a portal into a world of culinary craftsmanship and cultural resonance. The niche appeal of their products means they can’t be produced en masse, and combined with the ‘drop culture’ of DELLI, it makes the products feel luxurious and elusive. There’s an intimacy involved, a peek into the lives and stories behind our cult classic favourites. Importantly, there’s community constructed through storytelling, which is always a pillar of success for brands and products like this.

More than half of Gen-Zers believe that what they eat is indicative of who they are as a person (Cassandra's 2022 survey).

The allure of DELLI isn't merely in its products but in the ethos it embodies—the celebration of community, craftsmanship, and narrative. In a world saturated with mass-produced goods, supporting indie sellers becomes an act of rebellion - a vote for diversity, authenticity, and the enduring power of storytelling. It's a movement that transcends mere consumerism, forging connections between producers and patrons, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and collective identity.