THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING Podcast

Melissa Vogel, PhD, is a business anthropologist specializing in business and organizational research. She founded the Business Anthropology program at Clemson University, directed UX research at Capital One, and leads Great Heron Insights LLC. Prior to this, she studied the Casma culture of Peru as an archaeologist. She has a regular series of short videos called The Anthro Minute, and a substack, On Being Human.Melissa’s writing.“From trowels to tech - how can an archeologist work for a Fortune 100 Company?” Anthropology Career Readiness Network“Articulating Anthropology’s Value to Business” with Adam Gamwell in Anthropology NewsSo, I start all these conversations with the same question, which I borrowed from a friend of mine who helps people tell their story. It's a big, beautiful question—one of the reasons I use it—but because it's so big, I tend to over-explain it the way I’m doing now. Before I ask it, I want you to know that you're in total control, and you can answer—or not answer—any way you want to. The question is: Where do you come from?Yeah, that's a cool question because you can choose to answer it a number of different ways. I'm going to take it pretty literally. I was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. I’m a first-generation American. My dad's family immigrated from Europe after World War II, and honestly, the Midwest never really suited me. It was quite conservative for my taste, including my family.I was very fortunate that, when I was applying to colleges, my parents didn’t restrict me to the local area. I got into the college of my dreams, which was UCLA.Oh, wow.So, I'm a proud Bruin alum.What was the attraction to UCLA? Do you remember when it first entered your consciousness—when you first became aware of it?I think when I started looking at colleges in high school. I’ll be frank: one of my criteria was, how far can I get away from St. Louis?So again, I feel lucky that my parents told me, "You get the grades, and we’ll figure out how to send you where you want to go." I’ve always been the overachiever type—give me a goal, and I run for it. Or I give myself a goal.We did a little trip out West after I decided it would be really cool to go to school in California. We checked out UCLA, UC San Diego, and I think we swung by Arizona State as well—which was really interesting because, for years afterward, Arizona State just sent me postcard after postcard: "Why didn’t you come here?" I was like, "Because I went to UCLA—what do you think?" That was an easy choice. Sorry, ASU.But yeah, when we actually visited, I had already heard of the university—obviously, it’s world-famous and incredibly high quality. But then the campus was beautiful, and I loved the idea of being in a big city like L.A. It just seemed like it had everything to offer.My dad loves to tell the story of our campus tour. He asked the tour guide, “How many of your students come from out of state?” The guide said, “Oh, I don’t know the numbers, but it’s less than five percent.” So my dad was like, "Phew, well we won’t have to worry about this place."Surprise, Dad—I got in.I'm curious to return to that earlier thread. What does it mean to you to be from the Midwest—or maybe is there a story you can tell about growing up there that feels significant?Yeah, you know, it’s interesting. I grew up in a pretty darn white suburb, and my parents very much prized education. Neither of them came from families with education—none of my grandparents finished high school. My dad had come over from Europe; my mom’s family was from rural Missouri.So when my dad announced he was going to quit his factory job and go to college, my grandmother apparently said, “Are you crazy? Nobody's going to pay you to sit around and read books.” And then when he eventually became a stockbroker, he was like, “Look, Mom—people are paying me to give me their money!”So yeah, it was a big deal for them to move to a location with a good school district. We were in this very affluent, white suburb, but we didn’t share the same values as a lot of the families around us because of my parents’ backgrounds. I never felt like I fit in there.This was the ’80s—it was all about conspicuous consumption, what brands you were wearing, who got what car for their birthday. My parents didn’t believe in any of that. We didn’t get an allowance. I actually continue this with my son—I think it was a great idea. My parents wanted us to learn that you have to work for your money. You don’t just get $5, $10, $20 a week because you exist.There were some chores we had to do for free, but a lot of them they paid us for, to prove the point: you do this work, you get paid. I figured out real quick I made the most money mowing the lawn, so I took that up as soon as my dad would let me. I started babysitting at 11, and eventually, when I was 15—because I’m a late-summer baby—I got a work permit to start waiting tables. I was always trying to figure out, “How do I make the most money in my current circumstances?”It was a kind of environment where, because there was so much homogeneity, people focused on things like, “Oh, they’re Catholic”—as if that was a big deal. But that’s how little diversity there was. It was a big deal if someone was Lutheran versus Methodist versus Catholic. And it was amazing if there was a Jewish kid in your class. Whoa.I just never wanted to be a part of that.One little fun story: when I went back for my sister’s graduation—she stayed in Missouri for college, like a lot of my friends did, and went to the University of Missouri—I ran into a girl who had been in my class. My sister's younger, so we were about three years older than her classmates. This girl said, “Melissa, you got out.” And I said, “You could too!” It was this amazing thing to her that I had managed to leave St. Louis.And yeah—my sister literally still lives a mile from where we grew up.If that—it might be less than a mile. Actually, it’s probably like half a mile.Well, it feels like a very... I mean, I grew up in the suburbs outside of Rochester, so the suburban experience is what I feel like you’re describing. Is that fair?Oh yeah, for sure.Do you have a recollection of what you wanted to be when you grew up? I mean, I hear you loud and clear on “get me out of here.” But did you know what you wanted to be?Oh yeah, I had lots of ideas. When I was in kindergarten, I wanted to be an astronaut—I think that was right around the time of Sally Ride—and I just thought it was the coolest thing to go to outer space. Unfortunately, as I got older and needed glasses—at least back then—that was a no-no. You couldn’t become an astronaut if you needed glasses, so that was out the window.Then I remember in second grade, like many second graders, I thought dinosaurs were the coolest thing. I asked my parents, “What do you call a scientist who studies dinosaurs?” and they said “a paleontologist.” So when my second grade teacher was asking the class what we wanted to be, I said “paleontologist”—and she didn’t even know what I was talking about.As I got older, again, I feel very fortunate. Because my dad was from Europe and both my parents enjoyed traveling, they took us with them to a lot of places other kids didn’t get to go. We went back to Europe a couple of times to see my dad’s family, and I developed a love of international travel very young. I think the first time we went to Spain to see his cousins, I was about 12 years old.I was studying German in school, since that’s the language my dad’s family spoke—although they spoke this obscure dialect I couldn’t understand after learning high German. We went to Germany a couple of years later. So, I really wanted a career that would allow me to see the world, learn other languages, and learn about other cultures.I only got a tiny introduction to what anthropology was in high school, but I didn’t fully understand how you could do that as a career—especially because I think what I was exposed to was more the evolutionary aspects of anthropology, which has never been my favorite part.When I started at UCLA, I was actually a political science and international relations major. On that same trip to Germany, we visited cousins in Austria and went to this really cool restaurant up on one of the little mountains. There was this big table of people, all speaking different languages, and there were women at different spots around the table translating. They looked very fancy—I don’t know who they were, maybe businesspeople or diplomats. I asked my parents, “What’s going on over there?” and my dad said, “It looks like they’re translating for them.” I thought, Oh, that would be cool. That was one of the possibilities I considered.I was lucky that I seemed to have inherited my dad’s ability with languages. He could speak German, French, and English pretty well—though he lost his French after moving to the U.S.—and he picked up a little Spanish along the way too. When I took German in school, it was super easy for me—embarrassingly easy—having been around it a bit with my family, even though it was a different dialect. Later, when I had to pick up Spanish to work in Latin America, that came pretty easily as well.I just knew I wanted something where I could travel the world.But when I got to UCLA and started political science, I was really disappointed. The classes were huge—hundreds of people in the lecture halls—and I have to admit, my poli-sci professors came off pretty arrogant. I remember in particular my international relations intro professor. He’d stroll in late and say, “Sorry folks, I just got in from Moscow. I’m not on West Coast time yet.” And I just thought, Oh wow, must be nice for you.I worked for him through a summer research program students could do, and we were basically writing his book for him. I was appalled. I don’t even know if we got mentioned in the acknowledgments. That’s crazy. The students were doing all the research. He would just talk into a recorder—he’d say, “Okay, this is what I want to cover in Chapter One, blah blah,” and we’d do everything else.In the meantime, I had luckily signed up for a couple of anthropology classes, and I just thought, These are my people. The students in the poli-sci classes were mostly pre-law and had very different goals in life. It felt almost like that same group back in St. Louis that I hadn’t fit into. The anthro kids, on the other hand, were from everywhere, doing all sorts of interesting things, very nonjudgmental, just interested in the world.So I found my people sophomore year and switched majors.Yeah, amazing. And catch us up—where are you now? What is the work you're doing? You’ve made a career out of anthropology. What have you been up to?Yeah, so when I switched majors, my dad was horrified. He was so hoping I was going to end up in law. The quote of his that I love to repeat is, “Anthropology? What do you want to be—poor for the rest of your life?” Yes, Dad, that’s my goal—to be poor for the rest of my life.But once I got into it, I was serious. Again, I set a goal and ran for it. I went all the way through my doctorate. At the time, I wasn’t really aware—because they don’t broadcast it in grad school—that there are non-academic ways to be an anthropologist. So I thought, Okay, what do I have to do to be a professor? That’s the only option, right?So I did that. And there were great things about being an academic. I mean, the best part is you get to research whatever you want. You just have to fund it yourself—but as long as you can find someone to give you a grant, go for it.It took me three years to get a tenure-track job. I had told myself, Okay, I’ve seen other folks just suffer—going from adjunct to adjunct, or visiting professorship to visiting professorship, moving all over the country—and I’m not doing that. I gave myself five years to get a tenure-track job, and I considered myself lucky that I got it in three.But when you're on the academic track, you go where the job is. You don’t have the luxury of saying, Well, I love California. I want to stay here. The job I got was in South Carolina. I had no family, no friends there, and honestly hadn’t been interested in living in the South. But you go where the job is, right?So I thought, Okay, I’m more fortunate than a lot of my peers—I got a tenure-track job. Let’s make lemonade.I helped build the program there. I was only the second anthropologist in the entire department. We built a major. Eventually, I became the grad director and converted their master’s in applied sociology into a master’s in social science—because I’d never had a sociology class in my life. I said, We’re going to have to update this if you want me to be grad director.I’d always wanted to get into administration, but that just wasn’t happening. I didn’t fit into their idea of who was going to be department chair or dean. And if your own university won’t give you that opportunity, no one else will give you the time of day.In the meantime, I’d always done applied research. I’ve always thought that was important. I’m very passionate about my discipline—I think anthropology has so much to offer the world. Everyone can be their own little anthropologist in their own way, if they’re so inclined.So I’d done applied research since grad school, and I just got more and more interested in doing that instead. I’d written something like 18 articles and two books on academic topics that—maybe, if I’m lucky—100 or 200 people ever read.You know, so I decided to create a business anthropology program. It took a lot of work and a few years to get through all the different approvals, and I was happy with the results. But at the same time, I was banging my head against the wall trying to get an administrative role and not getting anywhere.Luckily, at that point, I had met my partner, because I really needed the support to make the decision to leave academia. That was a huge, huge decision. I had invested 20 years of my life. I had tenure. I was a full professor. I was the director of a grad program. People don't just walk away from that—it’s unheard of. But I was deeply unhappy. Even though I had built this program, nobody in the administration seemed to care. Students liked it—they were thrilled to have a practical way to apply their anthropology degree—and it was slowly growing. It was still early days, but the administration just didn’t seem interested in me.I started to feel like I had hit a glass ceiling. I wasn’t going to be able to grow anymore. At the time, I was around 40-ish, early 40s, and I thought, I’m not okay with continuing in this situation for the next 20, 30, however many years I have left to work.So, after long discussions with my partner, I finally had the guts to say, Okay, I’m going to try applying for industry jobs, take my applied skills, and use them full-time. At first, we were trying to stay local because I have stepkids—we have a blended family—and it just wasn’t happening. And I hate to say this, but even in bigger cities like Charlotte or Atlanta, they just didn’t seem to understand how my experience translated to the business world, no matter how hard I tried to explain it.When my younger stepkids were ready to go off to college, we agreed we’d consider moving. And sure enough, the first place I applied to in D.C. hired me in six weeks, because it was very easy for folks around here to understand how my experience translated to market research.By then, that was my fourth market research company, but it wasn’t the first one full-time—because I did do a year full-time in between grad school and my academic job. It was a great place to transition out of academia. It was full of people just like me—former academics who, for whatever reason, didn’t want to be in academia anymore. Just super smart people who knew what they were doing.But it was also the start of COVID.Oh wow.Yeah, so it was a tough time for all businesses, certainly for market research. It was just a struggle. But I’m really proud of what we were able to do there. I helped them dramatically update their program. I was the director, and eventually senior director, of qualitative research. I helped them update their pricing model—they were way underpricing their qual work. I created a more streamlined work process to bring timelines down. We expanded into all sorts of online qual, because before the pandemic, they hadn’t done any.So yeah, did some really cool things, despite the struggles.I want to return and talk about the transition, but before that, I was curious—I’d love to hear you celebrate anthropology. What makes anthropology so important? I can’t remember the language you used, but there’s something that anthropology does that nothing else does. How do you think about what makes it powerful?Yeah, well, you’ll have to watch me, or we’ll be here all day.I should note that I was introduced to you through The Anthro Minute, this beautiful series of wonderful little introductory videos on YouTube—I’ll share a link to it. I’m always excited to hear really accomplished people champion the beautiful things about anthropology. So, back to the question—what is the power of anthropology?Well, thanks for asking, because I did want to make sure to mention The Anthro Minute at some point.Oh yes, of course.So, for those who may not know—because I think anthropologists, unfortunately, have done a terrible job of explaining who we are, what we do, and why anyone should care—anthropology is the broadest of all the social sciences. It’s the study of every single aspect of humanity: the biological, the cultural, the linguistic, and our past. That’s literally our four subfields.And that’s what I love about it—you can completely immerse yourself in anything about humans that fascinates you. Everything from how we got to be Homo sapiens from our ancestors—I was a specialist in archaeology for a long time, so I loved learning about past civilizations. I loved that in archaeology you got to use all the subfields. Archaeologists need all of them. We don’t just know about the past—we know about cultural, linguistic, and biological anthropology because we use it in our work.Also, in the United States, graduate programs are usually what we call four-field programs. You have to know about all four fields and be able to teach at least a little bit of each to be competitive in the work environment. I loved that—it was so holistic, so comprehensive.But I also just love the fact that one of the major things anthropology teaches us is cultural relativism, meaning every culture is just as good as any other. There’s no superior culture—there’s no “this one’s better than that one.” They all have their own cultural logic as to why they do what they do. And I just thought that was fantastic. Having felt kind of like an outsider for a good chunk of my younger life, it was really appealing to me to understand that not every culture is like mine. They don’t all do things the way I do. Sometimes I like how they do it better.So yeah, I think anthropology has so much to offer everyday life, because it’s really just about understanding humans—who we are, where we come from, our beliefs, our behaviors that are passed down, that are learned and shared among groups of people.I created The Anthro Minute because people don’t know what we do. I mean, you walk up to someone on the street and ask, “What does a psychologist do?” and hopefully, at bare minimum, they can tell you what a therapist does. Maybe they’ll think of counseling, even if they don’t know all the subfields of psychology.But you walk up to someone on the street and ask what an anthropologist does, and they’re probably going to think of the retail store. That’s the first thing that comes to mind—Isn’t that a store? Or maybe they’ll think about archaeology, although a lot of times archaeologists are confused with paleontologists. No, we don’t dig up dinosaurs—which is kind of a bummer. I like dinosaurs.It’s so funny—Indiana Jones came to mind as you were talking.Oh yeah, that’s the number one response you get when you tell someone you’ve been an archaeologist. Certainly.But for some reason, it came up even just now as we were talking about anthropology, which is kind of funny. That’s strange. But of course, I completely agree. Anthropology—I'm not an anthropologist, but even qualitative research has, in my experience, done a very poor job of articulating itself. What do you love about the work? Of all the different things involved in what you do as an anthropologist, what’s the part you love most? Where’s the joy in it for you?I got to do what I wanted to do as a kid—I’ve gotten to see the world. And I’m not done.I got to spend 20 years working in Latin America—either being on or running projects in Nicaragua, Belize, and mostly Peru—and traveling to nearby countries while I was there. And then you get other opportunities because you have friends working in other areas, so you get to visit them. I got to visit friends in the UK. I had other friends I ended up visiting in Bali. You get around.And you get to see the insider’s view of things, because you’re not just there as a tourist all the time. I like being a tourist too, don’t get me wrong. But I really love the opportunity to get out in the world and understand how people live in different places—and try to see it the way they see it, if I can.That’s one of the big concepts in the anthropological perspective: balancing what we call the emic and the etic, the insider and the outsider perspectives. In my case, now that I do a lot of work in the United States, I’m not necessarily an outsider. But traditionally, we were outsiders trying to understand the insider perspective. And it works both ways.It’s a really wonderful way to—hopefully—understand the best of humanity. Although you’re probably going to come across some things that aren’t so great, too. But that’s what I love about it.What kinds of things were you exploring? Can you tell me a story about some of the research you’ve done?Yeah. Most of my work in Peru focused on a culture called the Casma, who are not very well known. Most folks—if they’ve heard of pre-colonial Peruvian cultures—only know about the Inca. Again, we haven’t done the greatest job of publicizing that.The Casma existed from about 700 to 1400 AD on the north coast of Peru. I was looking at the whole development of their civilization, but especially the origins of urban environments—so, Andean urbanism.The preservation you get on the coast of Peru is rivaled only by Egypt. It’s this incredibly dry desert, and what’s wonderful about that is you get a window into ancient people’s lives that can be hard to get in other climates where preservation isn’t as good.I was able to study and write books about how these people lived—how they built their cities, how they seemed to run their religion and their economy, what we could see about their social structure. I really tried to take as holistic a view as I could to understand them and how they fit into the larger picture of Peruvian prehistory.They came after a group called the Moche, who were very theocratic, with a lot of dependency on ritual and religion to maintain authority. After them comes an empire called the Chimu, who were very bureaucratic—very much like all roads lead to Chan Chan, which was their capital city. Very highly centralized.The Casma occupy this niche in between, showing a kind of transition—from people using spectacle and elaborate rituals to maintain authority (not that ritual ever goes away), to something with less emphasis on centralized bureaucracy, like with the Chimu.The Casma seem to have been this grassroots, local group that managed to get out from under the thumb of the Moche. Eventually, they fall under the Chimu, but for a few hundred years, they seem to have been running their own show. More of a heterarchy than a hierarchy.I think you said Andean urbanism, is that correct? What can you tell me? I mean, in my sort of narcissistic way, I’m really interested in urbanism and cities. What’s the most interesting thing you learned about Andean urbanism? What were cities like?Yeah, I mean, what was fascinating with the Casma—and so different from what we see after them with the Chimu—is that the growth of the cities seems to be pretty organic. While there is a more elite sector of their capital city at El Purgatorio, which has these grand compounds with big high walls, and within them small—not the big giant pyramids you think of, say, in Mexico—but small pyramidal mounds with either stairways or ramps, and plazas in front of them, they’re all inside these walled compounds, which is a long-standing tradition on the north coast.So they do have more formal elite sectors eventually, but when you start digging through those layers, you find all sorts of places where they’ve remodeled and built on top of what was a much more organic growth underneath. And as you see the rest of the city—and we get radiocarbon dates to support this—you can see where the city expanded around the side of this mountain and up onto a little saddle on top, where there was more of a working-class living sector.We see the differences in the material culture to recognize the different statuses of people and the different activities they’re doing, and indications of trade—both between the farmers in the valley and the fishermen on the coast, as well as with other nearby cultures up in the mountains and things like that. There are certain things that don’t grow on the coast, but we find them, so we know they’re trading for those.Yeah, I think that’s what’s really cool—to see how these larger and larger conglomerations of people just sort of organically pop up. Andean cities never seem to have gotten as big as, say, Central American cities like Teotihuacan or Tenochtitlan. We don’t have those massive piles of people together, and yet they were very complex.And if you’re familiar at all with the quipus that the Inka used—it’s a series of knotted strings used for accounting purposes—there was someone called a quipucamayoc, who was the person who kept the quipu and would read it for the ruler. To me, it was just fascinating to see that people can reach more complex levels of civilization in different ways. They didn’t have the written language that the Central Americans or folks in the Old World had, but they still had their own complicated way of keeping track of things and running cities and governments.So, for dramatic effect, I’m curious now to talk about the transition into business anthropology—being an anthropologist in the corporate space. What in God’s name do you do with that kind of thinking and perspective when trying to apply it to a market research context? How did that go?If you want, we can put in the show notes the article I wrote about this called From Trials to Tech: How an Archaeologist Ended Up at a Fortune 100 Company, because I make the argument that being an archaeologist actually gives you a lot of the skills you need to run a corporate team.Archaeologists don’t work alone—ever. Where some cultural or linguistic anthropologists might venture off into whatever area they’re trying to study all by themselves, we don’t do that. We always have a team, and it’s nearly always interdisciplinary. We can’t be masters of everything.So when I was directing projects, I had my faunal and floral expert who handled all those remains. I had my osteologist who handled the human skeletal remains. My expertise was more in architecture, ceramics, and iconography. But yeah, to do excavations, you need a lot of people. You learn, the hard way if you have to, how to manage a team, how to manage a budget.Also, when you’re working in another country—I never did archaeology in the United States—I always thought, Wow, that must be so easy. I mean, that may not be true, but when you’re working abroad, you have to navigate a foreign government, a foreign language. You’re expected to do permits and hiring and all sorts of stuff in that country. You need to adjust to their customs. You’re going to be eating their food. You need to fit in enough with their culture that you’re not putting yourself in jeopardy.And it behooves you to use all your cultural anthropology skills too. As much as I used to joke that the nice thing about archaeology is “my people don’t talk back,” the reality is there’s virtually no archaeological site in the world that isn’t near a modern community anymore. It really behooves you to take an interest in that local community from the beginning, and make sure you’re involving them in any way you can—and hopefully in a way that they appreciate, not in a way that makes them want you out.We would hire local workers, and we always had a public interest component where we’d ask, “Is there something you would like to get out of this work we’re doing?” For example, on my last project, they said, “We want to learn English.” So we did—we had informal Saturday classes for anyone who wanted to show up and learn how to speak some English.All of those skills translate directly to a corporate experience. You learn how to manage people, budgets, timelines, deal with different types of governmental regulations or communities. And you need to be able to relate to people.Part of the decision to switch from working in Peru to doing business anthropology primarily in the U.S. was that I had a family of my own by then. It’s extremely difficult to work internationally once you have kids. That was something that was important to me—I didn’t want to miss any part of my son’s life.So, on top of being frustrated in my career, I also didn’t want to be away from him. And it wasn’t feasible for my partner to spend every summer in Peru, like I’d been doing for 18 years. So it just made sense to go back to the applied work that I was also passionate about.I wanted people to see the value of anthropology for solving everyday business problems—which is what business anthropologists do. My original way into it was through market research, but eventually I transitioned into design anthropology, doing user experience work at a fintech. We had done a little of that at the market research company I was at as well.I also had been doing the third subfield of business anthropology, which is organizational culture work—especially around what later became known as DEI. When I first started doing it, it wasn’t called DEI, that was the later term. But I did that work in academic institutions and then through the market research firm.And that’s now what I want to do in my own company, which I’m starting right now.What were the challenges or difficulties in translating anthropology into market research—or in helping market researchers understand and make room for anthropology? Where did these things fit—or not fit—together as you tried to make it work?Well, I think one thing that helped a lot is that, as an archaeologist, we use both qualitative and quantitative data. We don’t restrict ourselves to one or the other. So, for example, I’ve literally mapped archaeological sites with a total station or a transit, and used survey software to create that—I used to have to do AutoCAD and all that kind of stuff.We take lots of measurements. We don’t do super sophisticated statistical analyses, but we do use statistics for various things—to group things into categories or for a lot of spatial analysis. So we’re quite comfortable moving between qual and quant. That made it pretty easy to translate into market research, where—to be successful—you really need to be comfortable with both.You don’t have to be a statistician, but if you’re really... I mean, that’s one thing I tried to help my teams with. I would certainly bill myself, if I had to, as more of a qualitative than quantitative person, because I don’t have the heavy stats background. But numbers don’t scare me.I’d really try to help my qual researchers understand the importance of being able to administer a survey, understand what the results mean, and how to properly represent those numbers. I was surprised when I entered the business world how many people didn’t seem to know how to do that.So, yeah—I think that helped. But I mean, you also just have to explain to people the hard way—with examples. And I was fortunate that I had been doing this work off and on the whole time. I don’t think it would’ve been so easy for me to transition if I hadn’t.I was doing it in grad school just to make extra money, but I had no idea I was building a muscle I would end up using full time. I always say, no experience is ever wasted. When I finished my PhD and didn’t have an academic job, I ended up working with other grad students at UCLA’s Center for the Study of Evaluation. That was a team environment where we were the folks doing the fieldwork—going out and doing interviews, observations, different types of qualitative techniques, and also administering the surveys. Then our statisticians back at the university would do the heavier stats work for us, and we would write up the reports.I had no idea that job—which was just to pay the bills—was going to be what I would end up doing full time. That would've been, let’s see, like 15 years later. So there was just instance after instance where you’re doing something that uses your skill set, but mostly you’re just trying to pay the bills—and then you realize later, wow, I have all these foundational skills that I developed in all these jobs I picked up along the way.I know you're a member of EPIC, which is a beautiful organization. Do you have a point of view on the state of business anthropology—or anthropology in the corporate sector—and where we are today?Oh, yeah. I mean, we still have a big PR problem, which is one of the reasons I created The Anthro Minute. We've unfortunately been targeted politically. Even though we do what I think is really important, useful research on humans, we’ve unfortunately—since Margaret Mead died—not had a public spokesperson to really represent our discipline for decades.So people... we sort of were like, Oh yeah, we’re not going to worry about that—we just want to do our research and be left alone. And that’s been to our detriment, because now folks don’t know what we do. They think it’s frivolous. They don’t understand how it’s highly relevant to their everyday lives.The skills we build as anthropologists help companies build better products—things people actually want and need—understanding what customers are looking for to market those products and actually gain greater market share. Especially if you're going internationally and want to broaden the cultural audiences you’re selling to. And to improve their own cultures—to be workplaces where people actually want to be.Unfortunately, right now in the U.S., we’re in a really bad place. The trend has done a total 180. There’s a real lack of concern for humans—a lack of concern for what people want or need. A lack of caring about whether your employees like where they work. There just don’t seem to be enough companies that care about being a great place to work. I’m sure there are some, but that doesn’t seem to be the dominant trend this year.So, I think we really have our work cut out for us as anthropologists—to continue explaining why a deep understanding of humanity in all its variety, and globally—having that global mindset, not just this trend of being insular and focusing locally—why that matters.Because there’s no turning back the clock. We live in a global economy. That’s not going to stop. It’s going to continue. I think people like anthropologists—who can help you understand the world and people—are going to be much more successful than someone who thinks they can just turn inward, shut out the rest of the world, and shut out different opinions.I love that you mentioned Margaret Mead. I wonder if you might talk a little about her role—what was the role she played that you say is currently lacking?Well, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t alive, so this is just from what I’ve read. But yeah, my understanding is that she was the public figure for a long time in the United States. She published a column in Redbook, which was a popular women’s magazine at the time, and really made an effort to put herself out there.Unfortunately, as we now know even more than when Margaret Mead was alive, when you put yourself out there, you can become a target. So she certainly had to deal with some controversies during her lifetime. And with hindsight, we can always look back at someone’s work and say, “Oh, they should’ve done this better or that better,” or whatever.But she was one of the pioneering anthropologists that came out of the original circa 1900 group of anthropologists—all students of Franz Boas. For a while, there was a biological anthropologist doing research on love and attraction—and of course, now I’m blanking on her last name. I know her name was Helen, and I just lost the last name. But she did get a little bit of public attention for a while, which was great.Then... I don’t know if she decided she didn’t like it anymore, or people just weren’t as interested anymore. Like, she really stayed focused on her one subject area, so maybe that’s why. So yeah, I really think—and I’d be happy to be one of the people who tries—to become one of these public anthropologists who really helps people understand: Why do we need to know about other cultures? Why do we need to care what motivates human beings in different places?Because, you know, one of the areas where we tend to disagree with psychologists is in thinking that we all operate the same way. Anthropologists tend to celebrate the differences as well as the similarities across cultures.So, we’re kind of near the end of our time. What Anthro Minutes do you have coming up, or what topics will you be tackling, if you have any in the queue?Well, I had a request for more business anthro case studies, so I’m currently working on that. I’ve already mentioned a bunch of them as examples, and now I’m hunting down new ones, because I’d really like to have some that are more recent and a little more relevant. So that’s a work in progress.But the one coming out next week is about environmental anthropology and sustainability. Then there’ll be one after that talking more explicitly about user experience in the design anthropology world. And I’ll keep seeking out more case studies that really bring home for people the practical applications.And, you know, I only keep myself to under 90 seconds, so I can’t get that deep into any case study. But the more I can demonstrate for folks how anthropologists are actually impacting... you know, we have Go-Gurt and Toughbooks because of anthropologists, right? So, the different ways that we've led to innovations.Well, hold on—now I need to hear either a Go-Gurt story or a Toughbook story. Your choice.So, Sue Squires is an anthropologist who was doing research for—I believe it was a breakfast cereal company—and doing ethnography in people’s homes while they were getting ready for the day, getting off to school and work. Interviewing them as they were doing that, asking what they were looking for in breakfast foods.She made a lot of important observations. One of the things that’s really important about our primary methodology, participant observation, is that people will often say one thing and do another. So, you want to ask them, but you also want to watch them, if you can.She found that parents would talk about how important it was to give their kids a nutritious breakfast and send them off to school fueled to learn. This sounded great—like what every parent would want. But she was watching the kids do things that contradicted that—either refusing to eat what was put in front of them, secretly sneaking off and throwing it in the trash, or sneaking to the cupboard to get some kind of snack food to stick in their backpack for later. She noticed all of this going on.And at the same time, these poor, harried parents were just trying to get their kids ready and out the door. That led to the idea for Go-Gurt—that you could take yogurt on the go. The kids could eat it in the car.One thing I didn’t know—since I’ve not been a big Go-Gurt user myself—is that you can actually freeze Go-Gurt, stick it in your kid’s lunchbox in the morning, and by lunchtime it’s defrosted, but still safe to eat. It hasn’t gotten all hot and gross. So yeah, it was the idea of: how could we have a healthy breakfast food that kids can take with them on the go?That has to do with John Sherry at Intel. He was sent up to do research on Alaskan fishing boats—what they needed from a computer. He was watching these guys—if you’ve seen that show Deadliest Catch, where they’re throwing tons of fish on the deck, processing them, and blood and guts are flying everywhere—it’s just disgusting.He’s watching this and talking to them, and they’re like, “Look, what I really need from a computer is to be able to hose it down when I hose down the deck.” And out of that research eventually came what we now think of as rugged-use computers—Toughbooks that can stand up to conditions like fishing boats, construction sites, or other places where the more delicate computers of the past would have been a disaster.And that was Panasonic? Is that a Panasonic Toughbook—is that what it was?I think so. But John was working at Intel, so it must’ve been a partnership. That Toughbook brand—I remember it. I had never seen anything like it.Yeah, that story is really powerful.Awesome. Melissa, again, I really appreciate you accepting my invitation and sharing your wisdom with us. I’ll put all the links to all your good stuff here. It’s been wonderful to get to know you a little more, and I appreciate what you’re doing.Thank you. Thank you so much for having me. It was fun. Get full access to THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING at thatbusinessofmeaning.substack.com/subscribe

Philip McKenzie is a cultural anthropologist and strategist who founded InfluencerCon and hosts The Deep Dive podcast. A former Goldman Sachs trader, he has served as Chief Strategy Officer at MediaVillage, advises global organizations, and teaches at Hyper Island. I think you know this already, but I start all these conversations with the same question. I actually borrowed it from a friend of mine who lives in Hudson. She uses it to help people tell their stories, and I love it so much because it’s such a big question. And because it’s so big, I tend to over-explain it before I even ask. So I want you to know you’re in complete control—answer however you want, or not at all. I just really love the question. And the question is, where do you come from? Again, you’re in absolute control.Absolutely. Thank you for that. I think it’s a great question.Where I’m from is Brooklyn. I talk about Brooklyn all the time, and I always very specifically introduce myself as being from Brooklyn—which I think is distinct from saying I’m from New York.I’m a proud New Yorker, and I understand Brooklyn is part of New York, but anyone who’s a native New Yorker understands the specificity of the borough you’re from. Growing up, being from Brooklyn meant a lot. It shaped everything about who I am.My parents are from the Caribbean—my mom’s from Barbados, and my dad’s from Guyana. I’m the only one in my family born in New York—born in Brooklyn. And Brooklyn has the largest Caribbean and West Indian population outside of the West Indies. All the islands are represented: Barbados, Jamaica, Guyana, Trinidad, Haiti—you name it.That microcosm of being in New York, but specifically being in Brooklyn, feels very different from being in other parts of the city. So, long-winded answer, but: I’m from Brooklyn.Beautiful. What part of Brooklyn were you from, and what was it like? Maybe tell me more—what does it mean to you to be from Brooklyn?Oh man, it means everything. I grew up in Brownsville, then moved to East Flatbush. I grew up in New York in the ‘70s and ‘80s—I graduated from high school in 1990, which I kind of use as a clear demarcation point. That was actually the year with the highest murder rate in New York City’s history. Crime has been declining ever since—current narratives in the media aside. If you only watched the news, you’d think New York was the Badlands, but it’s definitely not.Growing up in the ‘70s and ‘80s was just different. It was the New York people tend to mythologize, which, culturally, was very important to me—even when I didn’t realize it at the time. I remember Reggie Jackson, the Yankees winning in ’77 and ’78, the blackout... all of that.I remember riots and looting in our neighborhood during the blackout in ’77. Those kinds of moments were just part of the world we grew up in. I joke with friends that graffiti was everywhere. The trains were covered in it. Back then, it was considered a crime. Now it’s a marker of gentrification—luxury condos feature graffiti murals to make them feel “authentic.”It’s wild how those things come full circle. That’s part of the Brooklyn identity for me—watching culture shift. One era’s criminality becomes another era’s marketing aesthetic.Yeah. That’s amazing. I mean, I remember all that too. We’re the same age—I graduated in 1990, but I was in the suburbs in Western New York.OK, yeah.But I definitely remember Reggie Jackson. The straw that stirred the drink.Do you remember what you wanted to be when you grew up? Do you have a sense of what young Philip imagined for himself?Yeah, I think I went through a bunch of different phases—wanting to be different things without really knowing what it took to become any of them.My parents got me a telescope pretty early—I must’ve been eight or nine. I don’t think I was ten yet. Cosmos was on PBS—the Carl Sagan documentary—and it just blew my mind. I didn’t understand all of it, but what I did understand was like, wow: space. The stars. That kind of wonder.So in my mind, I was going to be an astronomer. But that faded as I got older.I think I always had a curiosity, a desire to discover things. I used to go to work with my dad—he was a zoning consultant in the city. At the time, they were called expeditors, but zoning consultant is another term. New York City’s building code is a labyrinth, so architects and engineers would hire people like my dad to help them navigate their projects.Each borough has its own Department of Buildings, and in the summers I’d go with him across the city. That’s when I first saw Manhattan during the day, saw people going to work. That made a huge impression on me.My first thought was, “I want to be in business.” I didn’t know what that meant—I just knew I wanted to be a part of that world. My dad would be running around and I’d hang out at Barnes & Noble or Borders—back when Borders still existed. I’d get lost in the bookstores, reading, exploring.But the thing that stuck with me was seeing people in suits, carrying briefcases. That, to me, was business. And I knew I wanted to be in those canyons of buildings, in and around Wall Street. And eventually, I did all that.But I think the seed was planted back then—being in that environment, seeing those faces, and associating it all with success.And that was Manhattan—you’re talking about the experience of Manhattan.Yeah, exactly. Because the Department of Buildings used to be in the old municipal building. For those who might be familiar with New York City, the municipal building sits right off the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s this big, kind of Art Deco-looking building—like One New York Plaza.The city, the police department is right behind it. You’ve got the court building nearby. But the municipal building is a big government building. It was probably more fully occupied back then than it is now, because, you know, things have changed.Back in those days, the Department of Buildings was on the 20th floor. I used to spend a lot of time in that building.Then there were all the bookstores I mentioned earlier, along Broadway. A bunch of other stores too—like Trinity Church used to have a bookstore. There were all these little outlets that had magazines, books—places I would just wander around. We lived in a different society then, where a 10-year-old could roam the streets of New York alone.Right? And no one thought anything of it. Today, that parent would probably be arrested. But in the latchkey era? It was different.I love that conflation of business and a bookstore. I am in the world of business. And the experience of being in the world of business... was a bookstore. That sounds amazing.Yeah, yeah. Because walking to those bookstores was where I saw people doing things. Even the shoeshine guys—they always had magazines and stuff. That was a popular thing back then. If you watch an old movie from the ‘70s or ‘80s, you’d see someone getting their shoes shined on the street. I just attributed all of that to what, in my mind, was “business.”Awesome. So, catch us up—where are you now, and what are you doing in the world of business? If you’re still in that world, how do you talk about what you’re up to?Yeah, I’m definitely in the world of business. Officially, I’m a cultural anthropologist and strategist, and I’ve had my own consulting practice now for what feels like forever.I kind of reject the term “futurist” because I just don’t like the word. But basically, I help organizations understand culture. It’s more than just trying to be predictive—it’s a practice rooted in rigor around foresight and applying that within a broader cultural context.I use that to help organizations better understand their place in the world—not just to avoid pitfalls, but to identify potential opportunities. I’m happy with the work because it allows me to engage with a wide range of organizations. I always say I’m industry-agnostic—it doesn’t really matter what the business is, because it usually comes down to people.There are some things I won’t do, based on my own ethical compass—like defense work or anything I feel is about harming people. But beyond that, I’m open to engaging. That approach has allowed me to build a business that puts me in active contact with many different people and industries. It’s broadened my horizons beyond what I could have imagined as a kid—or even as a young professional.When I left business school, I worked for Goldman Sachs for many years. I was doing what I had envisioned as a kid: One New York Plaza, 50th floor, top of the world. Master of the universe on a massive trading desk.And even though, at the time, that was the thing I most wanted in the world—and I killed myself to get it—it turned out not to be what made me happy or fulfilled.Lots of lessons in there.Yeah. And what was it, to the degree you’re comfortable sharing? What caused the shift? I mean, we’ve known each other a bit, so I know some of the story. But what happened—what was the shift from the 50th floor to cultural anthropology?Yeah, you know, it wasn’t any one thing, to be honest. It was more of a gradual acceptance that I could have sat in that seat for a really long time—and made goo-gobs of money. Because a big part of my interest in that world was the money. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.You know, I used to joke with friends at business school that, for a kid like me coming out of Brooklyn, this was the most money you could make without having to throw or catch a ball—neither of which I was particularly good at doing professionally.So I was like, this Wall Street ticket is a huge opportunity for me. I went back to business school specifically to work at Goldman Sachs. I wasn’t even that enamored with Wall Street as a general idea—Goldman, specifically, was the draw for me. And trading, as an extension of that.So, to answer the question, I only share that to emphasize how much I did want that job. And the reasons I left weren’t specific to Goldman Sachs. I don’t really have anything negative to say about Goldman specifically. I think Goldman was just part of a larger culture that didn’t align with my values over the long haul.These environments can be really toxic. And I think a trading desk—particularly when I was trading, in the late ’90s into the 2000s—was a prime example. I can’t speak to what it looks like now, and maybe it’s better. Someone listening might say, “Oh, it’s not like that at all.” But my experience was that it was a very toxic environment.It can really grind you down. And even with that, those weren’t necessarily the reasons I left. I’m just recognizing what the environment was like. Because, in a lot of ways, I fit the profile of someone who would do that job.I’m a former athlete—high school and college—and trading desks are full of those types. A lot of military folks, ex-athletes, or a mix of both. It’s a very male environment. And the women there—again, when I was there—mirrored that. They often out-maled the males in many respects, in their demeanor and style.That doesn’t work for everybody. That kind of constant, what our president once called “locker room talk,” doesn’t align with everyone’s personality. It didn’t really bother me that much—but I knew it wasn’t going to make me happy in the long run.So I decided to leave. And I didn’t know what I was going to do next. It’s not like I left for a thing—I left just to leave.I spent some months in Argentina and Brazil. Then I came back, and that led to this second iteration of myself as a professional. I started working with some friends I went to school with—friends and fraternity brothers. They had started a nonprofit, and that eventually led to us starting a multicultural agency called Free DMC.We published a magazine called Free Magazine, and we were fully engaged with lifestyle brands around multicultural marketing—helping them reach this elusive audience they didn’t fully understand. And we were part of that audience. That audience was shifting tremendously at the time we were growing the business, and we just plugged right into that. That’s really where all of my interest in culture led to what I do now.Yeah. I’m so fascinated—I just did a project on young analysts and associates, the recruitment experience for investment banking. I spent a lot of time in that space, and I feel like you and I could probably talk for hours about the anthropology of that whole recruitment process and the culture of those banks. It is a crazy process, but it also—and I saw this from the other side, too—it really speaks to how significant finance is in our broader culture. There’s this extreme hazing or initiation process around it that’s just... in plain sight.Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I ran the summer analyst program at Goldman. Because at Goldman, you wear multiple hats. My job-job was on the trading desk. But they ask professionals to run a lot of these programs. So it was me and two other folks, in different areas, who ran the summer analyst program for equities.And it was the same thing I had experienced as a summer associate: 80, 90 kids jammed into the bullpen, being run around the city for 10 to 12 weeks. Right. You were just expected to live, breathe, sleep the “Goldman experience.” Stay late, get there early, go out socially with Goldman people. It was full-on—like, it never stopped.Yeah, it’s a crazy thing. So I want to talk about... what’s an example? Can you tell a story about the kind of work you love to do now?Yeah—two examples. I work with Hyper Island, and this is more of an academic example, but I love what Hyper Island is all about. I’ve been working with them for a few years now, basically as a supervisor for students going through their IRP process, which is essentially their master’s thesis.You really get the opportunity to get under the hood and help someone younger—though not necessarily young, because it is a master’s program, but younger than me. Which, at this point, is not miraculous in any way—just a statement of fact. Class of ’90.Exactly.You get to work with these folks on shaping what will be their final thesis as they finish the program. And selfishly, I learn a lot from these students. Honestly, I think they impart more to me than I give to them.But you also get to provide some real, practical knowledge based on what you’re seeing out in the field. So when they’re building a research project or a product, or incorporating research into their thesis—I’ve done all that. I’ve done a ton of ethnographies.I’m big on the qualitative side of the business. I think there are really important stories to uncover through longer-form interviews and deeper engagement.What I’ve noticed with this newer generation is the opposite—they’re very focused on just doing the quantitative stuff. They’re not necessarily strong with numbers, and they’re often skeptical of qualitative work... but they don’t really know why.They just feel like, “My thing is data”—whatever that means to them. So I get the chance to talk to them about opening up to the qualitative side. Because that’s the culture piece. That’s the human layer. Working with those students has been really incredible for me.So that’s one engagement. And then, on a completely different side, I work with a client in venture—helping them figure out how to do venture in a way that creates better outcomes. Not just for investors, but also for the founders.It’s been an incredible ride. It’s an incredibly strong team, with a clear focus and a sharp investment thesis—so all the boxes are checked. But what’s really inspiring is the foresight the partners have. They’re thinking about how their firm fits into a much larger infrastructure.Just like how Wall Street has its own culture and way of being, venture has its own rhythm, its own norms—and especially with the way technology shapes so much of our world.That’s the bigger story. And the fact that they see that clearly, and want to think long-term about how they grow their business—that’s been deeply inspiring to me.Yeah. What do you love about the work? Where’s the joy in it for you?The joy is in discovering really big things—and then bringing them to life. I often tell clients, prospective clients, or collaborators: I am not the holder of the answers.There are a lot of people in this space who present themselves as having the answers. Like, “Work with me and I’ll help you increase your ROI,” or, “I’ll make sure your strategy moves in the right direction.”I stay away from that approach, because I don’t think it reflects what any of us can actually deliver. We don’t know. And because I work with many different types of organizations, I’m not going to be the expert on every business I walk into. That would be impossible.What I do try to discern is: where are there foundational similarities across industries? What universal themes can we discover and work through together?All of my work depends on teams and deep collaboration. I can’t do this if I walk into an organization and people aren’t willing to give me truthful, accurate answers. I can’t just make it up myself.So it really depends on the willingness of the organization to share. What I’ve found—and then I’ll stop here—is that a lot of times, an organization will come to me with one project. But once I start digging in, it often has very little to do with what they originally presented.They’ll say, “We just implemented these new systems, and we’re having trouble getting people to use them. Can you help us understand where the gaps are?”And then I dig in—and it has nothing to do with the systems. For example, I worked with a media company that had grown by acquisition. They had done three or four fairly large acquisitions over four or five years. So the company had grown quickly.They had reporting schedules, forms, processes—all the usual stuff. But they said, “It’s not working. What’s the problem?” And the issue wasn’t the forms. It was that people didn’t trust the reporting lines inside the organization.The company had all these formal lines—this person reports to that person, and this team feeds into that team. But after working with them for a few months, I realized the place was full of indirect lines that no one was seeing or acknowledging.They thought things were working in a static, top-down way—but they weren’t. It wasn’t about the reporting methodology at all. The real issue was trust within the organization.Right. So those are just a couple of examples, I guess.Yeah. I mean, it’s hard to say whether I advocate for it. What I’d say is—I just use it. You know, these distinctions we lean on... to a certain extent, they’re kind of false. Right? We’re caught in these dichotomies—right brain vs. left brain, technical vs. non-technical—and we treat them like gospel in professional settings.People throw around terms like “hard skills” and “soft skills,” or “skilled” vs. “unskilled” labor. But all of those definitions miss the richness of how we actually interact to solve problems.From my perspective, as someone who leans toward long-form interviews—like yourself—yeah, of course I can send out a bunch of surveys. But I find that surveys usually just lead me to more questions.The structure of a survey is set up to check a box or fill in a field. But there are very few things in life where I can give you a meaningful answer just by checking a box. So the whole model feels kind of weird to me. And then we try to compensate by saying, “Well, we’ll send this to a lot of people,” as if volume will make up for depth.But to me, you’re just collecting a bunch of half-answers—or assumptive data—that often fits into a narrative you’ve already built. You’re looking for something to prove it out, hoping the numbers will materialize a solution. And I find that hard to believe.I just think you’ve got to get under the hood with people and ask them more questions. Even if the sample size is small, that doesn’t mean the observations aren’t deep. Like—I don’t need a hundred 70-degree days to know I love 70-degree days. I kind of only need one.Have you ever heard this? I share it too often, but there’s that quote that goes around: “The plural of anecdote is not data.” It’s one of those popular phrases people throw out. But when you dig into it, that’s actually a bastardization of the original quote. It came from a Stanford economics professor, and what he actually said was: “The plural of anecdote is data.” We just have this weird bias toward numbers and measurement. I love how you were describing surveys—this idea that just by measuring something, it somehow becomes more real.That’s it. And maybe I’m overstating it, but I try to bring these things together. Because even the word data—it’s loaded. It pushes you toward a very technical or technological understanding of the phenomenon you’re trying to explore.But we take in so much information, and we sense so many things. That’s actually the language I prefer: What we take in. How we make sense of the world. Can you try to break that down into data? Perhaps. But I push back on this idea that we’re machines. We’re not computers.This logic-heavy worldview has become the dominant story—and it’s not a new story. It’s a 500-year-old Age of Enlightenment story. But it’s a broken story. Because it doesn’t allow us to put equal weight on the things that truly matter.It reminds me of the trading floor. People would say, “To be a trader, you’ve got to be able to process tons of information and manage risk.” And yeah, that’s true. That’s what they talked about—managing risk, operating with imperfect information.But it was also a place full of emotional ding-dongs.I always said the trading desk was just an excuse for adults to act like children.Throw things. Blow up. Break things—literally break things. Phones, monitors—all kinds of stuff.And that behavior was just chalked up to testosterone and “being a man.” But when you see emotions expressed in other bodies, in other spaces, we discredit them. Exactly. Emotions held in some bodies make sense. In other bodies, they’re dismissed.That’s what I try to unpack. I try to move away from these binaries. People say, “Turn off your emotions. Be logical. Don’t get emotional.” And I’m like—I’m emotional about everything. Emotions are what make us feel alive.Yeah. I love that. I love what you’re saying—it’s a perfect segue into your podcast. I want to hear you talk about where it came from. I’ve been introduced to so many ideas and incredible thinkers through it—especially from corners of the world I wasn’t familiar with. So how do you think about what you’re doing with the show, and how do you invite people into the conversation?Oh, thank you. I appreciate that. And I appreciate the kind words about the show. It’s called The Deep Dive, and I’ve been doing it for five years now. I actually came to podcasting through a previous show called Two Dope Boys and a Podcast, which was an homage to OutKast’s second album, ATLiens—specifically, the track Two Dope Boyz in a Cadillac.It was me and Michael Brooks, who has since passed away. Michael really introduced me to podcasting—he was already part of that world. He co-hosted The Majority Report with Sam Seder.Michael and I were just friends. We’d sit around my kitchen, put a bottle down between us, and just talk—about all kinds of b******t. And at some point, we were like, “Man, these conversations are pretty awesome. People might actually want to listen to them.”That became Two Dope Boys and a Podcast. We did that show for a little over two years—amazing team, and I loved working with him.He passed away—not due to COVID, but during the COVID period. Michael was a huge, huge star. I often wonder, in the times we’re in now, where he would be, and what he’d be building. He had already built so much.He was really my entry point into podcasting. Later, he launched The Michael Brooks Show, which was his own thing. I wasn’t looking to start another podcast or get back into that world. But the opportunity came up to create The Deep Dive—a show where I could just sit down, have a conversation like this one, and see where it goes.And so The Deep Dive was born. It’s a Culture & Insights show—at least the way I define Culture & Insights. I try to talk to a wide range of people who I think have interesting ideas. There’s connective tissue between episodes, but it’s not the kind of show where you’re going to hear me talk to the same type of guest every week.They probably skew toward design, and there’s always a lot of economics, history, and politics woven in. I think those are inseparable from how we view everything else.But I say I’m in it for the books and the good conversations. Not everyone I interview has written a book, but many have, and I get to dive into some really dope ideas with great people—folks I might not have a chance to talk to otherwise.For example, I’m going to be interviewing Cory Doctorow again in a couple of weeks. He’s always writing—super prolific. He’s got a new book coming out on “enshittification,” which is a term he coined to describe how tech systems deteriorate over time.I asked him, “Hey, want to come back on the show?” and he said, “Yeah, I’m down.” I’ve got the book, I’m reading it now, and we’ll probably record in October.But like—if I just emailed Cory Doctorow out of the blue, I don’t know if he’d sit down with me for 90 minutes. He’s got a lot of stuff to do, right? But having The Deep Dive gives me that kind of access.Another example is Saree Makdisi—I’ve interviewed him twice and will again later this week. Just another incredible thinker whose work I admire. So the show is really my greedy way of getting into people’s worlds and having great conversations. That’s what it’s about.It’s been really well received, and I’m so grateful for the support. I get amazing responses from listeners all over the world, and honestly, I have no idea how they even find the show.I’m not on a network. I don’t buy ads on Facebook. I’m not even on Facebook. But people find it. They share it. A lot of teachers and professors assign it, so I’ll see spikes in older episodes and realize—“Oh, that must be on someone’s syllabus now.”It’s incredibly rewarding. And I’m always grateful when people agree to come on, because I know it’s a real commitment of their time and energy. But they go down the rabbit hole with me, and I love that.Nice. Well, congratulations on what you’ve built—it’s really wonderful.Thanks.I have two questions I often ask—I tend to combine them, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’ll make sense to you. First: do you have any mentors? Who are the people who’ve influenced you? And second: are there any touchstones—ideas or concepts—you find yourself returning to again and again?Yeah. I’ll do mentors first. That’s a tough one. I have a few obvious ones I can name. Some of them might sound cliché, but my dad is definitely someone I’d put in that category. He showed me everything about New York growing up. He took me everywhere. I know the city as well as I do because of him.While a lot of kids were just hanging around Brooklyn, my dad would take me and my sister into the city. We went to the top of the Empire State Building. The Statue of Liberty. We did the Circle Line, the Day Line.He took us on all these little adventures. That had a big impact on me as a kid. It gave me a deep appreciation for the city I was in.I love New York. I love Brooklyn—even though it irritates me sometimes, the way it’s changed. But my deep passion for all things New York and Brooklyn really came from those trips with my dad. My high school track coach was another major influence—Mr. Malik. Shout out to Mr. Malik.He gave us lessons that weren’t just about track—they were about life. We were really close as a team. Going to Brooklyn Tech was another huge turning point. That’s where I started running track, so it all came together.It’s kind of a perfect New York story. For those who don’t know, Brooklyn Tech is one of the three specialized high schools in New York. We were mostly a bunch of immigrant kids from all over the city. My graduating class alone was almost a thousand kids—so it was also huge.And we all got along. That was the thing. I was in high school during some pretty polarized times in New York City. There was a lot of regular violence, but also police violence. The Central Park Five case happened when I was in high school—those young guys who were falsely accused and later exonerated.There was Howard Beach. The Bensonhurst killing. It was a time that, if you only looked at the headlines, seemed incredibly polarizing.But then you had us—these super diverse kids from all over: Queens, the Bronx, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island—and we all got along.One of my closest friends was this white guy—I won’t say his name here to protect his privacy—but he’s an awesome dude. One of my best friends in high school. He gave me Led Zeppelin IV. The first time I ever got that cassette tape, it was from him. We were on the track team together. He gave me that tape, and it changed my entire trajectory on music.And that’s just how we were. I can’t say we were always super kind to one another—we were just regular kids—but we didn’t bring the b******t that was going on around the city into Tech.We had our friend groups, but we got along. So when I hear all these stories now about people not getting along, I’m like, how the f**k is that possible? We were dealing with so much more, and we still found ways to coexist.Anyway, I’ll leave the mentor piece there. There were others—people on the team. One guy I ran with was a sophomore when I was a freshman. Coach Malik used to give us our summer training program. Since we were from all over the city, we didn’t see each other again until the fall.He never checked up on us. We kept our own calendars. One day we asked him, “Coach, how do you know we’re doing the workouts over the summer?”He said, “If you do the workouts, I’ll know. And if you don’t do the workouts, I’ll know. It’ll be obvious.”It was one of those early lessons in trust.And that older teammate? He called me up and said, “Hey, we live kind of near each other. Let’s run together over the summer.” That summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I made huge progress—physically, yes, but more than that, I learned something deeper. He didn’t have to train with me. He extended himself.He pulled me along. And that became a lifelong lesson: always help people. In every part of my life, someone has helped me—sometimes when I didn’t even realize I needed help. Someone always extended a hand.So I try to carry that with me in everything I do—personally and professionally. It’s one of the saddest things to me: how helping others has become commoditized. People say, “If you want 15 minutes of my time, you’ve got to do this, book that...” F**k off, man. Just take the f*****g call. Answer the email. Who cares? I will die on that hill.No one is that busy. I don’t believe it. Either you’re lying to yourself, or you’re lying to the rest of us. That’s my thing. And I learned it from that teammate—and I’ve tried to carry it with me ever since.Yeah. And the other question—what was it again?Touchstones.Right, right. Touchstones. That’s a weird one, but I’ll keep it short.One of the best decisions I ever made was going to Howard University. It changed everything for me. And I bring that up because it was another one of those pivotal, transitional moments.Like I said earlier, my parents are from the West Indies. They didn’t go to college in the U.S. My dad took some college classes while on a student visa, but didn’t finish. My mom didn’t attend college at all.So the Black college experience was foreign to them—and to me, initially. But during high school, I started to find my political self, which was different even from my parents’. I watched Eyes on the Prize, Roots—all of that. My life as a progressive person was taking shape.And Spike Lee was right across the street from my high school. He took over an old firehouse, turned it into his studio and home. I’d see him all the time. He filmed a video for School Daze—that “Doing the Butt” scene—in my high school. That’s how present he was in my world.And School Daze, of course, is all about a fictional Black college, modeled on Morehouse. So everything in my politics was pointing me toward an HBCU experience. Howard was, in my view, the best. So I said, “I’m going to Howard.”None of my teachers understood the decision. My dad would go to parent-teacher night, and my AP English and AP History teachers were like, “Philip is so well-adjusted... we’re surprised he wants to go to Howard.”It was this existential crisis for them.Even my coach was surprised at first. Howard was a big running school, and I was tracking for a track scholarship.He actually reminded me of this recently—about a year ago—when I saw him. I explained why I chose Howard, and he said, “Once you told me that, it made perfect sense. I never second-guessed you after that.”To me, it was important. Getting an education in an all-Black environment is no less valuable than getting one in an all-white environment. So it was a political and philosophical decision. And I surrounded myself with some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. We’ve all joined the ranks of the many Howard alumni who’ve gone on to do amazing things.It changed everything for me. I pledged my fraternity there. Those are the people who have carried me through my life since I first set foot on campus. Lifelong friends. People I’ve worked with. My fraternity. So shout out to all the bros—and yes, going to Howard was the best decision I ever made.That’s such a beautiful story. And maybe I’m being super naïve, but—what were they surprised about? Was it just the perception of historically Black colleges being inferior?Exactly. And it doesn’t make them bad people—it was just the prevailing bias. Being at Brooklyn Tech, the expectation was that I’d go to an Ivy League school, or a top engineering school—RPI, Carnegie Mellon, something like that. Howard wasn’t even on their radar.The underlying assumption was: “Howard isn’t as good as the places your son could be going.” But I was decked out in Malcolm X gear, all of that. Actually, I was going through some old storage stuff recently and found one of my drafting notebooks—because I was an architecture major at Tech.Oh, right—your dad worked in zoning. Is that what got you into it?Yeah, exactly. So I opened this old notebook, and it was filled with Black radical stuff—“By Any Means Necessary,” “Black Panther Party,” all of that. And I thought—yo, I was always this dude. If people think that came later, nah. This was 14-year-old me. It was Public Enemy. Boogie Down Productions. Hip-hop at the time.All of that was politically shifting how I saw the world and my place in it. That led me to Howard. And Howard led me to everything else.Yeah. I mean, I feel like we could talk for another hour. But I want to thank you so much—this has been such a joy. I really appreciate you accepting the invitation. I love what you’re doing.Thank you. It was great to be here—thank you so much. Oh, thank you, man. Anything for you. You call, I answer. And I love what you’re doing. Like I told you before we started recording—I listen to the show, I check out the transcripts. Sometimes it’s actually faster for me to read than to listen.Same—I’m a reader too.You bring on such amazing guests—thoughtful, deep thinkers. I love that, because we need more thoughtfulness in the world, not less.Yes. If we can model some thoughtfulness and curiosity, maybe we can make the world a better place. Thanks, Philip.Thank you. Get full access to THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING at thatbusinessofmeaning.substack.com/subscribe

Sam Pressler, co-founder of Connective Tissue and founder of the Armed Services Arts Partnership, dives deep into the essence of community. He shares how his upbringing in Wayne, New Jersey, and the influence of his grandmother shaped his commitment to civic engagement. Pressler discusses the disconnect in modern society, using research insights and historical context. He outlines three paths for renewal, advocating for cultural relocalization and structural change, while highlighting innovative local initiatives that bring people together and foster a sense of belonging.

Meg Kinney is an ethnographer, strategist and co-founder of Bad Babysitter, a consultancy blending documentary storytelling with brand strategy. Named MRS/ICG Independent Researcher of the Year in 2017, she's worked with Fortune 500 companies like Procter & Gamble, Walmart, and Nordstrom. Featured in Gillian Tett's "Anthro-Vision," Kinney pioneered video-based shopper ethnography and holds a Master's in Natural Resources from Virginia Tech.I start every conversation with the same question, which I borrowed from a friend of mine who helps people tell their stories. It's such a beautiful question, I borrowed it. And it's such a big question, I kind of over-explain it the way that I'm doing now. So before I ask it, I want you to know that you're in total control. You can answer or not answer in any way that you want to. And the question is: Where do you come from?Oh gosh, I love that. I think I identify myself as coming more from a time than a place—so, the 60s and 70s in Indianapolis, Indiana. More and more, I realize just where I get certain character traits or things I've needed to unlearn. As I really make a point of trying to grow as a person—not just stumbling through life kind of growth, but the actual intentional, "I only have so many years left" kind of growth—I find myself reflecting a lot on my childhood.So much of who I am is informed by the early 70s in a very conservative place. And, without getting too much into it, I had... I was that house on the street where parents of kids were like, “I don’t want you spending the night over there,” or, “I don’t want you going down there.” We were kind of set off in the neighborhood a lot. There was just a lot that always went down at my house.It was a time where things were very stigmatized. My mother suffered mental health issues. My parents got divorced—that didn’t really happen much. I'm the youngest of three, and my older brother and sister were never in school with me; they were always just enough older. But being the 70s, they were very much a part of that scene.I just think I’m from a time that has informed me a lot. But Indianapolis—and I wouldn’t trade a Midwestern upbringing for anything. I think it gives you a very deeply embedded sense of humility. Respect is a big theme, and an agrarian work ethic, and all that. But eventually, it was a place that I realized I simply must leave.Do you have a recollection of what you wanted to be when you grew up?Yeah. I mean, the funny answer that I used to give—without even knowing what it really meant—was, “I want to be a landscape architect.” I don’t know why. But I always loved the outdoors—still do. Spent a lot of time by myself outside in deep and imaginative play. And something about the creative process...So when I went to college, I really wanted... I started out studying fine arts. I’ve always loved the arts. And then quickly realized that I was not going to be an artist. But yeah, something in a creative field of some kind.Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.And I'm curious—you talked a little bit about it—what did it mean? Can you tell a story about 70s Indianapolis? What it was like growing up?Well, I mean, only from my little purview. I didn’t have a lot of adult supervision. I was around a lot of adults. So when I wasn’t left unattended, I was around adults.My dad had a bar. He and his second wife had a bar and a catering business. So I washed dishes at a really young age, but was around the regulars at his bar. My brother and sister—their curse was they could pretty much do whatever they wanted, as long as they took me with them.So, I think by comparison to most kids under ten, I probably saw a lot of things. But as I’ve become more reflective, I’ve realized that really did create a bit of a template for what I do today. I’ve always been an observer, and kind of been most comfortable on the perimeter of something—just sort of seeing things play out.Music was a big part of it. There was a soundtrack, as we all know, to that time. And that, to this day, is an immediate rocket ship right back to times and places.It was in the city. It was kind of rural until it became suburban.What was the bar?Oh, it was called Lord Byron’s British Club.Wow.Yes. It was kind of the neighborhood place for— as I used to say—men who drove Cadillac’s, drank scotch, and wore Sansabelt slacks. You kind of know... I think that helps you locate it.But yeah, my dad, you know, he always found something new to do. He was always self-employed. So he was a builder, then he was in real estate, then he was in the restaurant business, and then he was back. He was very scrappy that way.But yeah, growing up in the bar was kind of fun. And interestingly, I’ve made this connection recently that I’ve always liked being on the service side of an equation. I started out in agency life, and now, as an independent consultant, I’ve worked client-side exactly two times in my career—and they were both very short-lived.So I think it kind of cast the die for me to be in service. I like that. I derived a lot of joy from interacting with people, taking their dishes away, chit-chatting with them, asking if they needed anything else. I liked that—and I still do.Yeah. So catch us up. Tell us—where are you, what are you doing, what’s the work that you’re doing?Well, it’s funny, I talked to somebody the other day who said, as we evolve as independent people, the trick is to never have to actually quit what you do, or quit your company’s name or your website, and start over. Instead, just try to peel layers and make the water go a different direction.Since 2008, I’ve been an independent consultant, using ethnography—or just the ethnographic lens—as a way to contextualize data and tell stories around numbers that can align people, and hopefully make things more human in the process. It’s always sort of been a humble pursuit. Affectionately, I’ve always just said, “Giving a damn is a competitive strategy.”I started my career in the agency business and came up through the ranks in advertising as an account planner, then a strategist, and then led a big insight and strategy group for a publicly traded agency network. I did that whole thing and kind of stepped away from it right at the apex because I realized I really just love qualitative understanding of things.I’ve always been more interested in the immeasurable than the measurable. But, you know, I exist in capitalism, so I completely respect the numbers side of things. I’ve just always thought that helping explain things in human terms—to provide interpretation of numbers and what they actually mean, and why you should care, and the decisions you could make that would benefit you and the people you’re trying to serve at the same time—just seemed like something I wanted to do.I was fortunate that I had met enough people in my advertising career that when I hung my own shingle, they were like, “Hey, we want to bring you into this.” And that just kind of evolved into—I just like to help people get through the mud. When people are stuck, I like helping them get unstuck, whether it’s being paralyzed by too much information, or the market isn’t behaving the way they think it’s supposed to behave, and they don’t know where to go next.I like parachuting into something kind of messy and helping find the signal in the noise.So—long-winded answer—but to my original point about not really quitting your business and opening a new one: now, probably due to a combination of the market, synthetic users, preoccupation with AI, and a little bit of ageism… a lot of my clients who sponsored my projects have retired. It’s a different time for somebody like me.And I know there’s a role—now more than ever, I think. I think what I bring to the table is probably needed more than ever. But that’s not the shiny thing right now. So I feel like presently I’m kind of in a bit of a “waiting out the storm.”I will say during the pandemic, I kind of hit the ejection button. That was my second client-side thing, and I had two years in the cannabis industry—which was a fascinating education in and of itself. But yeah.Yeah, well, I identify quite a bit with what you’ve just described—about waiting out the storm, and just how sort of confounding the current moment is. And having woken up and been in this for so long—or realizing that it has been so long. I appreciate you being open about that. And I wonder, maybe just to return to first principles, what do you love about the work? Like, where's the joy in it for you? When you talk about giving a damn—I love "giving a damn" as a competitive advantage. Yeah, what do you love about the work? Where's the joy in it for you?Oh, gosh. On a very practical level, I mean, I love fieldwork. I just love being out in the mix, in situations I know nothing about, for the sole purpose of building trust with somebody so that they'll open their world up to me. I love that entire exchange, and I personally take a lot of pride in that.I really think I can talk to anybody. I can shapeshift. And, you know, quick shout-out to people who have interviewing skills—not everyone has the gift. I just love the fieldwork. I love talking to people.From the business application side, where I derive a lot of joy is when what I bring back contextualizes whatever business problem people are wringing their hands around. When what I bring aligns the room—I love it when I can tell a story from the field that explains data they're looking at but don’t understand what drives it.I love when I can come in and say, “Let me tell you a story,” or better yet, “Let me push play.” Let me play you some footage, because we do video-based ethnography whenever we can. Or just the introduction of the camera in the setting—whether we’re shooting it or the participant is capturing things. I love when you can align a room.Because misinterpretation is so easy, right? Everyone is looking at a business problem through the lens of what the expectations are on them—what am I held accountable for? I kind of call this the strategy cul-de-sac, where a CEO will be like, “Okay, this is what the numbers are saying, this is what we're doing, this is our initiative.” Everyone interprets it through their own lens, goes off, deploys in the way they think they're supposed to—and the needle never moves, right?And then they come back, and it’s like, “What is happening?” There’s nothing like stories from the field to loosen that up and help people realize, “Oh my gosh, you mean that simple thing we're doing in this part of our sales training is creating this speed bump for us?” I love it when the light bulb goes on.Yeah. And I feel like—I mean, we met, or interacted, or connected—I don't know if it was... it feels like ages ago. And, you know, your name—Bad Babysitter—I remember meeting you a long time ago, and it always occurred to me that you guys were really early in video. Really advocating video first, ethnography out front.And I don’t know if that’s factually true, but I wonder—looking back—how has it changed? Where are we? Because I have that same experience too—the power of pushing play. Just a three-minute clip of somebody telling a story just blows the doors off so much, if you can align everybody.So what is my question? I think my question is: What was it like leading with video ethnography in 2008? And how has it changed now? Where are we in the lifecycle of that kind of research and storytelling?Yeah. Man, I appreciate that you come from that era—not to, like, wax nostalgic—but where I really got into it was, I had an amazing boss when I worked in the agency business. He just really believed in my whole approach. And I didn’t even know anything about anthropology.It wasn’t until I met some anthropologists at Procter & Gamble, just as, you know, an agency person. And they said, “You know, you're an ethnographer.” And I was like, “What is that?” And then I learned, “Oh, what is video ethnography?” I just loved that idea of enrolling a research subject in the telling of their own story.It was like, “Oh, we’re going to make a documentary film about you. And it can be whatever you want it to be about. And I’m here to just help you do that.”That was before everyone had a camera in their pocket, right? So it was a rig. And my boss—I said to him, “You know what would drive incredible business for us? If we did a proprietary study.” And he actually funded me to do a year-long proprietary study about the culture of shopping in America.We had a video guy at the agency who did corporate, institutional videos. I grabbed him, and we went into the field. We didn’t know what we were doing. These were clunky rigs, but we were just out there explaining to people—and people got on board. We were doing shop-alongs, and then we rigged the secret camera. I’m sure you did that too. You didn’t used to be able to have a camera in a retail environment.Those were incredible days. But that work product—that deliverable—was incredible. That study was responsible for explosive agency growth.I wanted to do more of it. As people started having cameras in their pockets, there was this shift: “Okay, now I want it through your perspective.” Those are artifacts that are interesting in and of themselves—giving people tasks to do, or reflections, and that sort of thing.I still, though, whenever we can, like to do the old-school version. It’s slimmer now—my partner uses an iPhone. Sometimes he has a bigger DSLR camera. But I still like to be the one capturing the things, because I do think zooming in on things or panning wide at certain times is effective in telling a story. There’s a little bit of film wisdom there.But yeah, it’s changed completely. I’m not opposed to research subjects taking the imagery themselves, at all. But the creating of an industry around that has produced a lot of junk.Well—yes. Yes. Can you say more about this?Oh, and, you know, there are many research tools out there. All of them have a time and a place. But, you know, the whole—in the name of expediency—“Well, can’t we just get 10 people in this age group to go take pictures of things they think are cool?” Sure. Yeah. I don’t know what you think you’re getting, but okay.So, again, as you and I have to evolve, it’s like, all right, that’s a tool in the box. But deep understanding of human motivation and all that does not come from that method.No, it’s interesting. It brings up so much. I mean, a question I had sort of lingering and waiting—because you talked about your instinct for people, being in the interview, being someone who’s interested in people. So there’s one question about the role of the researcher, because very often—I say this a lot—I feel like I’m really good at this, but that my ability becomes invisible because it just looks like a conversation.You know what I mean? Like you say, it’s not something anyone can observe as a notable, remarkable skill. It’s just, “Oh wow, look, Meg’s really great with people,” or “Peter’s really nice with that person.”Or “Well, that’s a great recruit. That person really has command of their thoughts.” That’s right. That’s right. And then the other—so I want—that’s like the bulk of the question. And then I want to bracket your observation about this—I guess is it auto-ethnography? Or the outsourcing of data collection to the consumer. But you used that word “just.” I feel like I have an argument against the word.“Can we just...” Anytime anybody uses that phrase, I feel like they’re doing real harm to something. You know what I mean? “Can we just do this?” It’s just sort of like, well, there’s so much you’re erasing from the process.So I guess my question is: What’s the role of the researcher? And maybe, what have you learned? What does it mean to you to be somebody who talks to people and tries to understand them? Yeah, I think that’s the question.Yeah. I mean, with my clients, the way I come at it always is: What kind of decisions do you need to make from whatever I deliver to you? I am here to help you have confidence in your decisions. I am going to give you that confidence because I’m firing your own human instincts. Yes, you’ve got a lot of numbers. I’m not here to change your interpretation of that. I’m here to help your instincts fire. I’m here to help you smell an emergent signal.So, what decisions do you need to make? What’s preventing you from making your decision? Let’s design research that gives you that. Because I don’t have any interest in research that’s inert, or leaves people still hungry, or like, “Well, so what?”The researcher has been defending their role in the C-suite for as long as I’ve been doing it. So your question, what does it mean to be a researcher today? I’m trying to find new language to describe that.Leaders are always going to need instincts—even with AI. We have to have our instincts. And that’s as much being in touch with your natural environment as getting out of your box. I think collectively there is anxiety around that, with the emergence of the absolute steamroller that is AI.But I’ve got to find the language. People are hearing: “Hey, we’re still going to need people.” The machine doesn’t have taste. The machine can’t probe. The machine can’t ask why. The machine can’t see an emergent signal. The machine’s only about the probabilities of things. It’s predictable. It’s a flattener. All that.We’re hearing that—but at this moment, the fervor and the gold rush is too strong. So I’m not like in a “let’s ride it out” mindset, but I do feel like it’s going to come back around to the question: What is the role of the researcher today?There are those leaders who are always ahead and have always gotten it. And frankly, they’ve always believed in ethnographic work. For everyone else, it’s like: What is the thing that research can say that fits into the slipstream of the conversations that are happening now, that are so efficiency-driven?I always come back to: every leader who’s accountable in a company is always afraid of getting it wrong, right? I want to help people say, “We did the best we could to understand the situation.”I’m not a person who is here to give anyone predictability. But I am a person who’s here to say, “I can help you feel it. You can trust yourself.”Yes. Well, I wanted to ask about the word “instinct.” You keep returning to this idea of instincts. It’s about qualitative understanding. What’s the role of instinct in qualitative understanding? What do you think qualitative actually does for your clients?I think—generally speaking—it’s always just this constant reminder that people are gonna people, you know?I mean, I’m sure you’ve had these situations where there’s this tiny thing you’ve observed or that you hear, but it unlocks so much, right? I think, yeah, it reminds you that humans will surprise you. It reminds you that there are many different ways to get what you want. Giving a damn is one of them.Like, “Hey, we could innovate over here. It would help these people. It would actually be a net positive for your customer. And it would positively impact your bottom line.”I’m always like, “Is that something you might be interested in?”You know? I mean, I have countless stories from the field of that happening. But I don’t—I’m not answering your question. I am somebody who loves emotion. I’ve always loved emotion. I’ve always felt emotion. Why we try to zero it out of a professional situation, I have no idea.I’m fond of saying, every business problem is a human problem. Even if you’re talking about raising the price of something and people don’t buy it—that’s a human problem. People didn’t see the value, and you’re doing that.Everything is about trying to get people to do something—everything in business. You’re trying to get people to do something you want, behave the way you want them to. And qualitative is this reminder that there are so many ways to do that, that can be a net positive, that can be differentiating, that can spark innovation, or can just be kinder.Yeah, as far as—it’s interesting, the role of qualitative. I know you interviewed Simon, and I love his UXification of Research paper. The idea of generative research is now taking a backseat to qualitative being: “Tell me what you think of this.” “How about this prototype?” I think there will be a big swing.I do. I’m optimistic. I think the pendulum will swing.Now, will I still be here for that? I don’t know.But yeah, that’s a long-winded, very indirect, non-answer to your question about qualitative. But the language—I’m presently, as you can see, struggling to determine what is the thing I can say as I’m pitching projects. Because there are plenty of people who are there to take care of efficiency.Yes.I will drop into your workflow, and I will conduct my research and design it in a way that is compatible with the way you work. But I am not here to help you do anything more efficiently.Yeah. This reminds me of when John Dutton invited me to answer this question for his newsletter. It was kind of, “What’s the role of qualitative in the age of AI and synthetic users?” And it really sparked a real existential crisis. Because when you really look closely at generative AI, it really does—or mimics, or looks like—most things that I think I do. And that’s why the synthetic user stuff is growing the way that it’s growing. Because it looks like it’s doing what we do.But yeah, I really had to come to terms with what it is that we do. And I was attracted to your use of the word instinct, because I feel like qualitative probably apologizes too much for being... you know, or tries to... or abandons the humanity of the work too quickly in order to get access to the C-suite.But what we really do is this sort of magical form of understanding that’s not—like you said, what is it? You said something about the immeasurable up front. What’s the line that you say?Oh, I’ve just always been more interested in the immeasurable than the measurable.Yeah, that’s right. But I think you’re making a really good point about maybe we need to hold the line more as qualitative researchers and not be apologetic. Or build the value in.Sorry—yeah. What did you say?I love what you were saying about maybe we shouldn’t apologize for its squishiness. Yes, right. Because I’m here to take what we’ve learned and put it into the business equation—but let’s let it be squishy. Let’s let it be unruly.Yes. And I feel like—tell me what you think about this—that qualitative, through the business lens, very often looks like a bad form of quantitative. Or some other thing that’s not really connected to data (number one) or real understanding (number two).And so we haven’t even made the case yet to sit alongside quantitative. You know what I mean? Just to sit next to quantitative as a necessary partner that delivers a particular kind of data, collected a particular kind of way, that delivers a particular kind of understanding.That’s not—you don’t even compare it. It’s like... you’re not even in the same boat. And what I came down to is the idea of intuition.Because I’ve had the experience that you’ve had, where you press play on one person telling the tiniest little story about their experience in a category, and it just blows the doors off of the internal understanding of the business.And it’s a story. You know what I mean? It’s not a number. There’s not a measurement in it. And people are—it blows their minds. And it changes everything.Oh my gosh, yes. And I live for those moments.I have a story that I like to tell about that very thing. So I was working with Benjamin Moore. I ended up working with them for like three years, across their entire ecosystem—but beginning with the homeowners and understanding: When is the paint purchase occasion?Well, the quantitative longitudinal studies that they’d always done said, “Why are you painting?” And, you know, you would have regions of people—Benjamin Moore would say, “Well, it’s when you’re moving and you need to improve the value of your home.”You have smoke damage, you have water damage, or you’re bored. That’s when people decide to paint. And this was just institutional understanding—that that was it.So every year they would benchmark to see the changes in that, using the same quantitative instrument over and over again, and tie many of their programs to moving these things.Oh my gosh. You go in and you play one four-minute vignette of a woman talking about—after losing her daughter, she knew her grief was over when she was willing to repaint her room and take it down.Then you hear a guy, in the same vignette, say, “I had this woman who was this wild lover. I was shooting way above the rim, and we were lying in bed, and she’s like, ‘You should paint this room green.’” And he’s like, “We were standing in this room—it was a horrible color green.”And we ask, “Are you still together?” And he’s like, “No.”And the whole C-suite bursts out laughing, right?So you take them from a lump in their throat about a woman who uses paint symbolically to tell herself she can move through her grief, and answer it with this sheepish guy who painted his bedroom this awful color—for sex.You can’t get that any other way.And to your point, that blew the whole thing open. And we were like, so it is emotional. It’s not transactional.That’s right. Right.There are moments in life.And what if we just changed the language at retail to say:What are you going through right now that has you wanting to change?“Oh, we’re having a baby.”“Oh, we just got married.”You know—all these things.And so that’s just one example of how one marketing tactic, sales language, benefits the retailer, benefits the brand—all those things. But you would never get that if you didn’t go spend hours with people talking about paint and life.Yeah, that’s so beautiful. I mean, those really are the thrill. They really are the thrill, because it is a totally different kind of understanding. I like to describe it as: it smuggles in so much information. Do you know what I mean?Right.It’s just sort of like—yes, they don’t see it coming, and they can’t read—when I say “they,” I’m talking about client-side people who are fluent in, I guess, what I think of as an analytical understanding that quantitative data gives. But maybe they’re uncomfortable with the kind of intuitive understanding—or instinctual understanding—you describe from qualitative. And they can’t resist it, because it is sort of elemental. It’s human in that way.Yes. And you’re right—I love this idea that it smuggles in. Because, you know, another layer: the woman moving through grief was basically a ringer for Fran Drescher.She was a New Yorker. She had her little teacup dog. She was dressed head-to-toe leopard. She was very sassy—but then immediately softened when she talked about the loss of her daughter.Right.And so, also, there’s the visual trick that’s being played on the client. And the guy who painted for the woman—a really tall, kind of awkward guy, you know. And it just... there’s so many things. So many layers. To your point, smuggling is a great word for that. It’s just so full. And I don’t know. To me, that kind of work, and that kind of experience you have when you show—when this connection happens, where everyone in the boardroom is suddenly really feeling the business situation—it’s like...I just want to say, “You could feel like this all the time. We can have way more fun than this. And we can drive business.”So, in preparing for our conversation, I dug around a little bit, and I wasn’t aware that your work was featured in Gillian Tett’s book. And there’s a Primrose School by me—I think it’s still around. But I wanted to give you a chance to tell that story. And for anybody who doesn’t know: Jillian Tett, anthropologist at the Financial Times, wrote a book called Anthro-Vision, advocating for all the stuff we’re talking about. What was it like? Can you tell that story about Primrose and what it was like to be featured like that?Oh, that’s so nice of you to bring that up. Yeah, I had submitted a paper to EPIC, which is a global community of people using the ethnographic lens to advance business. I’d submitted it to the annual conference—it got accepted—and I presented the case study. And Gillian Tett happened to be in the audience.Oh, wow.Which was interesting. It was in Providence, Rhode Island. I didn’t know who she was. But then, like two months afterward, I got a call from the PR people at Primrose who were like, “Great job getting in the Financial Times.”We really appreciate that. And I was like, the what? And they’re like, “You—we got mentioned in the Financial Times.” And I was like, “We did?” So Gillian had written—when she was editor-at-large, still for that publication—she’d written about the presentation. And I was like, wow. That was... that was really nice.And then, oddly enough, not too long after that, she reached out directly and said, “Hey, I’m writing this book, and I’m really interested in how you used an anthropological approach to solving this company’s business issues.”Primrose—for those who don’t know—it’s like a billion-dollar early education company.Oh boy.And they have—I think they’re probably up to over 500 franchises of preschools. An incredible story. A female founder, Jo Kirshner, is a supernova. It’s a really incredible company.And again, we ended up with a three-year gig with them, doing their whole ecosystem. But it began with: How does a new generation of parents go about making this decision? Because they had all this data that indicated, “We’re moving people through the funnel. Great. We’re running our social ads. They’re clicking on it. They’re going to the pages on the website. We’re directing them to the tour page. They’re booking the tour.”And then—they’re not signing up. What is happening?And the CEO, Jo, she had a hunch. She said, “I think our franchisees maybe come from a different era of parenting. What’s happening here?”So we did a six-month study—spending time with young parents navigating the decision. Ones who rejected Primrose, ones who had just enrolled, and ones who were at the very beginning of that journey—going with them on school tours.One of the really fascinating things about that was just explaining that this generation is in a peer-to-peer world, and you’re talking to them about your pedagogy up here.You need to break that. Because it used to be Dr. Spock—we had the experts, right? It was one-to-many. And we were like, “No, no, no. You’ve got to—you’re a peer.”So there was a lot of work around just language. And what parents wanted—they wanted resilient kids. It’s like: “My child will learn to read. I don’t need him learning cursive or reading at four. I want him to understand how to be with others.”A lot of generational things like that.But then, one of the other things—again, you could never do this without this kind of research—was going on the tours. Over and over again, when we would be with a young mom and she had her baby—this is for moms giving up for the first time, right? It’s not like, “Oh, he’s three and we’re changing preschools.” It’s, “My baby,” you know?And every tour would start with: you meet the parents—and we always pretended to be like an aunt or something. “Oh, this is my aunt and uncle—they’re going to go along on the tour with us.”Every time, the school director—when they got into the room where the babies are—would immediately launch into how clean the room was. Because apparently, in quantitative surveys, constantly benchmarked in ratings and reviews, cleanliness is obviously a big deal.So they’re like, “Oh, cleanliness is a huge deal—let’s launch into cleanliness.” And every single time, they would give the baby to a teacher—just to put the mom at ease—and the director’s talking about cleaning solutions. And the mom looked nauseous. Just really destabilized. Nothing spoken—purely observed.We noticed this. And when we got back in the car, we’d say, “So when she was talking about the cleaning...” and all these moms were like, “I’m worried if these people are going to love my child. I don’t care about bleach concentrate.”And we were able to go back and say, “You know what? Just don’t say anything for the first minute. Let there be silence.”Just a little tweak like that in the tour was one of those things that unleashed a whole...It’s like—let mom process. Yeah. And get to bleach later. So again—just, you know, thank you for asking.Oh, of course. I definitely feel like I have a weird little underdog complex as a qualitative ethnographic type person. So I’m always excited by moments when it gets celebrated and championed. I was excited to—I don’t know that I knew that when it happened—so I was happy to hear you talk about it.And we have a little bit of time left, and I was curious—you mentioned EPIC. Talk to me about EPIC. Talk to me, maybe about—are you still on the board there? Is that right?I just joined the board.All right. There we go.Yeah. It’s my first board ever.Congratulations. All grown up.I know. Baby’s going places. Yeah.Talk to me about EPIC and what excites you about it and the role. Yeah. I mean, I guess—where does it fit in everything we’re talking about?Yeah. I found—well, both Hal and I found—EPIC 10 years ago. We’ve been members for 10 years, and it was truly out of a moment of just feeling isolation, being in this weird little niche, trying to do business development. Just like, oh my gosh, we need people. We need our people.And just Googling around and stumbling upon this organization that initially—I’ll be honest—I was like, what is this? It has the word “ethnography,” they have a conference, but they talk in ways I don’t understand. And it felt very academic.And it is—it has quite the academic backbone, in the best possible way. But we just rolled the dice and were like, well, this conference is in New York. Let’s just go. And if it’s a bust, hey, we’re in New York City. That’ll be our own good-time growing.So we went. And EPIC is—it’s not a trade group, because it has no agenda. It’s not there to ratify standards or anything like that, that a trade organization might. They describe themselves as a community. It’s global.The language it’s used for the last 10 years—it’s a 20-year-old organization—has been about advancing the value of ethnography in business. Of course, as you might imagine, we’re grappling with the word “ethnography.” It’s the most meaningful method that is so misunderstood.But it is a group. It’s UX researchers, it’s design researchers, it’s anthropologists, it’s social scientists. It’s people like me. I call it purebreds and pound puppies. I’m a pound puppy.Wait—I was going to say, who’s who there? I’m a pound puppy.Yeah. Well, you need them both, right? They do different things.And every year, there’s an annual conference. You can submit to do a case study, a paper, a Pecha Kucha, a speculative design installation. And it’s been a really special, special group where you can go and openly debate things, right?It is that safe space of people who care deeply about the human social science perspective in business. But we’re not in the business of absolutes, right? So there’s lots to debate. And there’s a lot of application of theory versus what actually just happens in the real world.So it’s been a lovely professional oasis—and a lovely debate arena.We’re having our big conference in Helsinki in two weeks. And I think we’re going to try to do a big membership drive at the start of the year.But like many organizations post-pandemic, people are like, “Ah, do I really need to get on a plane? Do I really need to go be there? Can’t I just join virtually?” Or, “Here are all these other virtual webinars, and I never even need to leave my desk.”So we’re kind of suffering that situation, as many in-person events do.So yeah, I kind of came on the board because I have a marketing background. And most people come from other backgrounds—there are a lot of people from socio-technical research, and that sort of thing.So yeah, that’s my remit: to help them get some sea legs under them and broaden the aperture, because it really is for anyone who cares about this thing called humanity and believes that humanity and business don’t have to be mutually exclusive.Beautiful. I want to thank you so much. We’re kind of running out of our time. This has been a blast. It’s nice to see you again. And this is just a real treat. So thank you so much for accepting my invitation.You’re so kind. I’m not used to—I’m not comfortable being the one dominating conversations. So thank you for finding all the buttons to hit play. That didn’t hurt a bit, Peter.Nice. High compliment.I appreciate it very much. Thank you so much. I love what you’re doing. Please don’t stop.That’s kind. Thank you very much. Get full access to THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING at thatbusinessofmeaning.substack.com/subscribe

Linn Davis, Program Director at Healthy Democracy, specializes in civic assembly design. He discusses the transformative power of collaborative versus adversarial politics and how civic assemblies foster empathy among participants. Davis shares insights on the emotional rewards of witnessing strangers form connections while tackling complex issues. He also outlines innovative governance ideas, including the proposal for permanent assemblies to enhance democratic ownership and trust in everyday citizens' deliberative capabilities.

Elle Griffin, a writer and publisher of The Elysian, delves into imaginative approaches to governance and culture. She shares her journey from a nomadic Air Force childhood to becoming a journalist at major outlets. Griffin defends bold creativity in journalism, emphasizing the importance of reimagining political systems. She explores feminist utopias and highlights the need for hopeful futures over bleak narratives. Additionally, she discusses her upcoming book on capitalism and the joy of crafting personalized news, encouraging a more engaged and visionary audience.

Shannon Gallagher is a brand strategist & writer based in the Hudson Valley. I start all these conversations with the same question, which you know, of course. I borrowed it from a friend of mine because it’s such a big, beautiful question—but because it’s big, I tend to over-explain it, like I’m doing now. Before I ask it, I want you to know that you’re in total control. You can answer or not answer any way you want to, and it’s impossible to make a mistake. And the question is: Where do you come from?Even knowing this is coming, there’s really no way to be prepared. Where do I come from? I come from here. I live in Red Hook.I was born in Hudson, just up the river. I grew up in Tivoli, right in between. I’ve been here for most of my life and definitely feel very of this place. I imagine that happens when you spend so long in the same geographic area. This is where I’m from.What does it feel like to be of this place? What does it mean to be from Tivoli? There’s such a long tail of experience, and it’s changed so much. Now in my 40s, I see how much has shifted in the last five years, and even more in the decades before. So much of my life has happened here. It’s tied to this place.My family is from here too. In a small town, that means something. You and I have had this experience: you run into someone on the sidewalk and they say, “Oh yeah, I know your mom, I went to high school with her.” It feels like we live in generational stories. My family’s story is here too.What was it like growing up here? It was great. Tivoli, which is well known now, was very different. My dad talked about how you couldn’t even get a loan from the bank to live there. There was a motorcycle gang safe house, drugs were dealt there. If you lived in Tivoli, you were probably an artist or some other unsavory character.My parents bought their first house there for $25,000. It was small, on a dead-end road, and everybody knew everybody. You were a Tivoli kid. My older brother says we were the hippie white trash—which feels accurate.We were bused to school in Red Hook, where most kids lived in developments and their parents worked for IBM. If you came from Tivoli, you were different.It’s still very much that way. I lived there for quite some time when my daughter was young and raised her there for years. A lot was the same—the kids had free run of the place, even at a young age. It was safe, intimate. But now it’s definitely fancier.Do you have a recollection—I'm dying to hear this—what did young Shannon want to be when she grew up?Oh boy. I think it changed a lot. Still does.I remember going through a phase where I wanted to be a doctor. A phase where I wanted to be a marine biologist—I think most kids go through that phase. I went through a phase of wanting to be a designer, a fashion designer.But the most pervasive one, I think, was being a writer. I always kind of came back to that.What did that mean to you, do you think? What was a writer to young Shannon?Oh, I mean, I loved books. I read very early, and they were a real refuge for me growing up. My grandmother, who I was extremely close with, was a remedial reading teacher in Hudson.So much of my childhood—so many moments of feeling connected, or inspired, or safe—really came from being read to or reading. Even at a young age, I used to drive my older brother nuts. My mom likes to tell this story, because I would be so excited about what I was reading—about the idea that a story could not just take you somewhere else, but really make you feel things.I would get so excited about that. I’d want to share what I was feeling. I’d be like, “And then this happened, and then this happened, and then they said this…” and my older brother would get so annoyed. He’d say, “Enough, Shannon.”But I just so badly wanted him to have the same experience I was having. So yeah, I think I was really enchanted by the power of language and storytelling at a very young age.And to catch us up—what are you doing now? What are you up to? What’s your work?What’s my work? Well, my work is evolving, let’s say that.I got a degree in literature and creative writing. I did some postgraduate work in literary nonfiction at the Salt Institute for Documentary Studies in Maine. I intended to be a long-form journalist. I wanted to write for magazines.Life had slightly other plans. I ended up—through someone I met… You know, if you live in the Hudson Valley, especially before COVID and remote work—if you worked here, you did a lot of different things. It wasn’t like now, where we have such a big creative community because people can work on Zoom or have hybrid schedules.I freelanced for a couple of publications. I taught Pilates. I bartended. It was a real mixed bag.Through someone I met teaching Pilates—who then joined a writer’s group I had—I got my first copywriting job. She had an agency. I didn’t even know that was a career.That’s what brought me into the world of branding and advertising. I worked as a copywriter doing comms, and then got into strategy. For the last six years or so, that’s been my job—working at an agency, copywriting, brand strategy.I was recently the head of strategy at a B2B agency in the city, and left that job in mid-June to work with you.That’s right. Congratulations on both counts. I always congratulate people on departures and transformations—good or bad, all big changes deserve it. Congratulations on that. And of course, this is the official announcement of Gallagher Spear. What do you love about your work? Where’s the joy in it for you?Oh man. Where is the joy in it for me? You and I have talked a lot about this.The joy is in the work itself. Talking about the work—great. But it’s doing the work. It’s having a problem to solve. Figuring out what that problem is. Figuring out what questions to ask. All of the research. Gathering all of the information. Talking about it. Hashing it out, like we do—even when we fight.Absolutely. And starting to make sense of things in a way that—yeah, in a way that makes sense. And then translating that into work that makes sense to other people, and that people can do things with. That whole process—I just find it so fun and exhilarating. Sort of the discovery, the act of discovery.Yeah. I'm curious—I really identified with the way you described that. I don't know if I'd heard that story before, that you were doing all these different jobs in Red Hook and Tivoli and then sort of got plucked—or invited—into this world. I identified with that. I mean, I wrote a very arrogant cover letter to a brand consultancy in San Francisco—that was my beginning. And I didn’t really know. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was applying for, really. But I feel like I found a mentor there—this guy, Mark. So I’m curious: can you tell me more about that story? About being pulled into the industry as a copywriter? What that was like, and that relationship?Oh yeah. It was Alicia Johnson, who you’ve now met—Johnson & Wolverton. She had a boutique branding and creative agency. It was complete happenstance that I met her. She went to the Pilates studio in Hudson where I taught. Her teacher was out of town, and I was covering for her.Alicia and I just instantly hit it off and stayed in contact. She had been working on a book, and I had started a writer’s group—just because I was feeling, you know, I had a toddler, I was a single mom, I was doing all these various jobs, but really starving for creative connection and an outlet.So I started this writer’s group. She came, and I ended up editing her book. It was in that relationship—and I guess you'd have to ask her what it was she saw in me—but yeah, it was a project for Food Network. And I just remember being a little gobsmacked, like, I get to play with words? Come up with ideas? The assignment seemed so fun.She still remains my mentor to this day. And she has this gift—I’ve seen it with her and other creatives—she knows exactly what to ask of you, exactly how to give you the assignment in a way that gets all your synapses firing. She teaches you to get comfortable with the idea that you can’t get it wrong.She kept seeing things in me and kind of threw me in the deep end—so I could see what I was capable of. I loved collaborating with her. I loved working with the other creatives. It was this idea that we were taking human insights and cultural insights and translating them into—objects, if you will.That whole process was just... yeah, it was fun. Just like when you and I work together—it’s so fun. And I think that’s where the best work comes from—that chemistry. Between the makers, but also with clients.Yeah. I’m really connecting two things you said. One—well, I guess it was an idea that came to me as you were describing something earlier, about words. You talked about playing with words, and how much of this work is that—just diving into language, moving around in it, seeing what happens, paying attention. So much of it is about words.Mm-hmm.It’s an odd observation, but it’s viscerally true.Yeah. When we used to joke about doing this together, and then we actually started working together—we were on a project, and the client, in one of the early meetings, said they wanted to do some qualitative research. And they said, “We want to be saying things that no one else is saying.”You and I had that conversation—well, if you want to say things no one else is saying, you have to know things no one else knows. And that starts with asking the right questions.And you always say—and I’ve told you this before—I love what you say about how research starts at the invitation. The words really do matter. From the questions you ask to get the information, to the way you then communicate those ideas back to the client so that they really understand. It’s so much about communication and relationship.And then, of course, the final product—saying things that make people think, feel, and do what you want them to do, or what will serve your objectives.That relationship piece—and the clarity of communication—is so important. And it gets lost, right? It gets lost a little in the traditional agency structure. Or maybe not lost, but deprioritized. Stymied.Can you say more? What are you pointing at? What have you learned about how to make that kind of work in an agency structure?Well, I think it can be really challenging, right? Because you're doing a lot of stuff not because it serves what you’re trying to achieve, but because it’s what needs to get done.We’re at a moment—so many people are talking about this—where the agency landscape is changing. There’s this essentialism happening. Clients don’t want big, bloated processes. They have a problem to solve, and they need to solve it. It needs to be effective. It needs to happen quickly and efficiently. There’s not a lot of time for the rest.So, as I said, chemistry really matters. When you have, in my experience—and I think most people in this industry would agree—when you have a strong rapport with the client, when they trust you, when they feel heard, when you understand what they’re trying to do, the work turns out so well. And it’s usually really effective.It becomes a very co-creative process. And you also get to be trusted to be the expert. That’s so much better than when it’s transactional—agency as vendor. A lot of assumptions about what the problem is. A default to recycled, surface-level insights. Everyone kind of doing the same things.That’s part of what excited us about Gallagher Spear. Working the way we want to—just you and me and a client—you get to have that intimacy. I hesitate to use the word collaborative because it’s overused, but it’s really about...It’s not about having a set process. I mean, obviously there are steps. But it’s more about having an opportunity. An opportunity to learn something. To make something. To do something. Again—to play.Yeah. The word that came to me before you said “opportunity” was relationship. That’s what I’ve observed in working with you. You listen unbelievably well to the client, and you build that rapport almost naturally. It makes the work better. And selfishly—it creates a better environment for me.You know, as a researcher, out there talking to people and trying to translate that back into the organization—I don’t always have a safe space. And I’m not always good at that. But you’ve always really understood what I was trying to say. I don’t know if that’s an asset or what, but it’s made our collaboration really fun.That’s how I came up, really. I was told at the beginning to just follow my curiosity—that was the only thing I needed to listen to. And that means sometimes saying things that don’t always make sense to people. I’ve had to learn to be a better communicator. Which is a long-winded way of saying that the bridge you and I provide is really powerful. And we don’t see that much anymore.The last thought in this pile of thoughts coming out of my mouth is this: for so long, as an independent—because I’ve been independent a long time—hearing you talk about agency structure can feel like an alien world. But for a long time, I wanted to appear to be a company. Do you know what I mean? Like, over the last 15, 20 years, the last thing you wanted to be was some jackass out on your own. You wanted to look like a company.But now, on a meaningful level, that’s not the case anymore. You want to appear to be a human being. A person someone can have a relationship with. So you can—like you said—get into that playful space, get creative. That seems to be what people are really hungering for.Yeah. That idea—I can’t remember where I read this—but as we turn more toward things like AI, the thing that becomes scarce is connection. Intimacy. Human-to-human interaction. So being able to offer that has real value.I love that both clients and creatives—designers, account directors—we’ve worked with, when we told them we were doing this, they said, “I want to come work with you.” They enjoy it as much as we do. And I think that says something.You’re right—once upon a time, you couldn’t say, “Well, we’re a lot of fun to work with.” But now, it works. Or at least, we hope it does.Yeah, we hope it does. Yes. So, I’m curious—two things I always circle around. I’m always curious: when did you first encounter the idea of brand? The concept of brand? And then also qualitative research—those are two big buckets for me. So let’s start with brand. When did you first encounter it?Oh, geez. Honestly, I think it was when I started working with Alicia. It was never something I had thought about before. But also, I think brand has really changed—what it is has changed.That was when I really started to understand it as kind of a living, breathing thing. And over the years, it feels like it’s become more malleable. Things change so much faster. Brands need to be everywhere and able to adapt much more quickly than even ten years ago.And that, if I may segue to the qualitative piece—that’s why it’s so important to base your brand work and communications on a real understanding of what’s happening in culture, and with the people you’re trying to connect with.So much of the packaged process—the agency promises we’re trying to get out from under—they perpetuate the idea that we know something, without actually knowing anything. We make assumptions based on what other people are assuming. But when you sit down and talk with people, and listen—and I’ve said this before, but it’s 100% your superpower—you hear things. You learn something.That somehow gets skipped over. We see it all the time. Clients just want to skip the research. “Can’t we just go straight into brand development?” It’s such a missed opportunity.My first exposure—not necessarily to qualitative, but to ethnography—was at school, at SALT. We studied fieldwork, ethics of fieldwork. We spent three months out in the field, working on a story. That’s where I learned about observing, watching, listening—letting stories reveal themselves.And I feel a kind of relief now, in what we’re doing. One thing that was always a bit of a tough fit for me in agency life, especially in strategy—there are a lot of big personalities. People talk a lot, talk fast. It’s very extroverted.I’ve always been quieter. I listen more than I speak. And I’ve gotten feedback in my career that that’s a weakness. But I actually think it’s part of what makes me good at my job.Yeah, 100%. I mean, I feel like, more than ever before, I'm finding myself really articulate—maybe just because I'm old and thinking about this too much—about really championing the value of qualitative, and what it does.You know what I mean? I don't think we're always told—unless you go to school and study this stuff—I don't think the business world tells you, "Hey, you know what? You can get all that quantitative data, and that's great, but there's also this other form of data that gives you a totally different, but absolutely necessary and complementary kind of understanding."It’s the kind of understanding that’s going to make you feel so much better about the decisions you make—and probably allow you to make better decisions—because you’re going to consider things you wouldn’t have considered before.It’s everything you talked about. I think about intuition. This is how I think about it: quantitative is the science of measurement. It gathers big data and gives you an analytical understanding of what’s happening. But qualitative is the science of description. It produces thick data, using that Geertz definition, and gives you an intuitive understanding of what’s happening—why people are doing what they’re doing.And putting intuition at the center of everything—especially in this moment where, like you said, we’re entering this synthetic madness with AI, where we’re so removed from everything—I think that’s actually kind of exciting.Yeah, well, especially too when you're talking to—especially in B2B—where there’s not as much understanding of what brand actually is and how it works. Definitely a gap, in my experience, between B2C and B2B clients.This idea that brand is essentially emotional, right? It’s intangible. It’s a perception. It’s how you make people feel. Yes, it’s communicated through tangible things, but the brand itself is a feeling. So qualitative is critical to that understanding.And I also think it sets brands up for success—especially because of the demand to be adaptable. Quant is a snapshot. It gives you a view of a moment in time—very useful for understanding a situation at scale in that moment—but it doesn’t necessarily tell you where things are going.That’s why I’ve always been amazed by forecasters—people who can see around corners culturally. But that ability is based on what you’re saying: watching, listening, intuition. Making space for that—that’s everything.I feel like I’m being a little indulgent here, talking—but teams are making decisions using an analytical understanding from their big data. But they’re also already making decisions with an intuitive understanding that’s probably not being nurtured or informed.If you’re not working in an organization that has a qualitative practice, then you're still making intuitive decisions—you just don’t know it. You haven’t gone out of your way to inform your intuition through qualitative research.So there’s this kind of blindness, honestly, where quant feels like the “right” thing because it’s correct, it’s mathematical, it’s the lingua franca. It’s numerical. All that. And somehow, it makes you feel like you’re standing on an island of certainty because you're dealing with numbers.But you forget that you’re a human being who’s making all sorts of emotional and imaginative interpretations of what you’re looking at. It’s unbelievable.Now I’m ranting, but it also occurred to me—there’s a difference between an organization understanding the emotion that a brand or category represents, and its decision-makers actually feeling that emotion.You can know the feeling—or you can feel the feeling.And that’s something I’ve enjoyed with you, especially in B2B: using imaginative exercises in a B2B context, and blowing people’s minds with the power of imagination. Helping them unlock the emotional experience of the customer—which isn’t always allowed. Does that feel like a fair description?No, 100%. That’s the thing. And I’ve said this many times, but people—like leadership clients in the B2B world—they’re people. They have imaginations and emotions. We all work more or less the same.But it’s such a human impulse—certainty. We want to feel certain. You're making big, expensive decisions. You want to say, “This is going to work,” or, “This is the right thing.” And numbers give that false sense of certainty.But I’d argue—and I think you’d agree—that having a deep, human understanding of the people you’re serving and trying to reach is a much more stable and secure position.Even in personal relationships, right? Understanding the person you’re in relationship with allows you to navigate all kinds of experiences—good, bad, neutral. You don’t always need to know the right thing to do or say. You just need to be able to show up, be present, and deal with what’s in front of you.So it creates more presence, I think—for a brand and for an organization. It allows them to be in dialogue with the people they’re serving.And like we said earlier, that’s paramount right now. People are super distrusting of brands and institutions.I remember doing a presentation earlier this year for a client’s marketing summit. They wanted to talk about the “state of brand.” And I talked about how Gen Z is super distrusting of brands. They’re like, “Forget all your super polished, cohesive, coordinated communications. We want authenticity. We want to know your people. Who are your leaders? Who works there?”They want it to be messy. They want it to feel real.So there’s this diminishing trust in brand, while also brands still need to be sewn up—organized around an idea. There needs to be a thread. Some consistency.It’s about balancing those two things. Trusting your audience—and also trusting your people. Helping them develop their intuition. Helping them assess their intuition.Beautiful.Well, listen, we’re near the end of our time. What are you most excited about when it comes to Gallagher Spear?What am I most excited about? All of it.The kit and the caboodle?Yes. I’m excited about doing the work with my best friend. I’m excited about doing the work in a way where it can be about the work. And doing it with someone where there’s shared values. I think that’s really it.Yeah. What are you most excited about?Oh, yeah. I mean—working with you. Having fun doing work with my best friend. Enjoying the hell out of it.I’ve been a solo operator for a really long time. So finding someone to collaborate with—and translate the stuff I enjoy into stuff that’s useful for clients—that’s huge. It’s always been a hand-off process for me. So I’m excited to have more contact with the final product.And what occurred to me was truth. You know what I mean? I think you and I share this—and maybe it’s the journalism part of you—but I’m just fascinated by people. No matter the category, I’m dying to know: what’s the truth of the situation?Trying to uncover it. Discover it. Articulate it. And then, with your ability to build relationships, to write and communicate—just excited about all of that. About doing good work. Real understanding of what’s going on.Yeah. And I think too, as we’ve talked about—staying in that space where, you know, especially in my last role, I had a pretty large remit. I was overseeing brand strategy, brand communications, and culture—employer branding. It was broad.But my favorite part is always the research. Translating that research into big ideas. Outlining the implications. Figuring out what to do with them.That’s the sweet spot for both of us. And getting to stay in that space—it’s still fairly broad—but getting to go deep is what delights my cat-like brain.Beautiful. Well, thank you so much for accepting my invitation. I know this was not something you were excited to do, so I appreciate you being vulnerable and joining me here to launch Gallagher Spear.Yeah, thank you.And to everybody listening—you’ll find the link. Come say hello if you have a big problem that needs solving.All right. Bye, buddy. Get full access to THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING at thatbusinessofmeaning.substack.com/subscribe

Andy Crysell is a cultural strategist, author, and former music journalist. In 2008, he founded **Crowd DNA**, a global cultural insights and strategy consultancy with offices in London, New York, Amsterdam, and beyond. In 2023, he stepped down, and is the author of *Selling The Night* and *No Way Back*, and remains active in creative and cultural projects across the UK and US.I start all my conversations with the same question, which I borrowed from a friend of mine who’s also a neighbour. She helps people tell their stories, and she had this question that was just so beautiful, I use it all the time. But it’s so big, I tend to over-explain it because I want you to know, before I ask it, that you are in absolute control. You can answer or not answer in any way you want to, and it’s impossible to make a mistake. The question is: Where do you come from?I've heard this question. I’ve heard you ask it. My answer is a pretty straightforward one. For me, it’s London. That answer is based certainly on geography, but on a bunch of other things as well. It probably sounds quite dramatic to say London made me, but I think in many ways it kind of did.I’ve always taken so much from the place, even now when I’m spending quite a lot of time in the US. I left school when I was 16—technically 15, but officially at 16. Doing that somewhere else could have been pretty scary and maybe a bit bleak. Doing that in London actually felt quite exciting. There was so much you were in close proximity to. It was all on your doorstep. If you didn’t know people, you could still find ways into different areas of culture and media.That’s probably why I feel quite defensive of the city these days. Like with other cities, there’s this rhetoric you hear a lot—especially on social media—that “London’s gone.” There’s this idea that it’s now an outrageously dangerous city, that you’ll be relieved of your mobile phone within 10 minutes of arriving, and probably stabbed 10 minutes after that, which just feels so far removed from reality.I think London is actually having a really strong period at the moment. Everything from US rappers acknowledging that London rappers are good at what they do, to how London dresses, the accents, all of that. I think it has a kind of global cultural cachet right now—probably the strongest since the so-called Cool Britannia days of Tony Blair and Britpop, which, for me, wasn’t that cool at all. These are good days for London.I’m also just kind of obsessed with cities in general. I’ve always found ways to weave that into my work or to look at my work through the lens of cities. The relationship between London and New York is particularly interesting. I’ve heard quite a few people say that London and New York might have more in common than New York and L.A. There’s some strong cultural tie there—a kind of shared cultural conversation that’s been ongoing.When I say I’m proud of being from London, I guess it’s no different than anyone else being proud of coming from Philadelphia or Tokyo or wherever. It’s about the cultural components of the city. It’s always been an incredibly creative place. Like everywhere else, it’s hugely gentrified now, but at its best, it still creates opportunities. It still has that DIY spirit. It’s always felt global, super connected to the rest of the world. It’s always changing. It’s fast—kind of like New York, but also different from it.You mentioned a love of cities, and I’d love to hear more about that. Even the way you talked about London getting a bad rap—it seems like something you hear across the board with big cities. They’re all suffering in similar ways. What do you make of the city today?I think it's emblematic of the fact that people are just a bit scared these days. And when people are scared of the world, cities tend to bear the brunt of that. There’s a tendency to focus on the downside of city life, rather than all the positives.And, you know, don't get me wrong, I love the countryside too. I love the beach, but there's just something about the energy of the city. I kind of hope that people will come around to it again and sort of see the positives there.You know, and cities are growing as well. I think all the statistics say that by, I think it's by 2050, that more people will be living in cities than not in cities. So we kind of need to get, we kind of need to find our way and find our love for cities again.Yeah. I'm curious, when you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? Do you have recollections of what young Andy wanted to be as an adult? I think after a very brief period of thinking, maybe I wanted to be a footballer, a soccer player, then realising that was highly unlikely. After that, I think, in a way, all I really knew I wanted to do was something that was kind of a bit cool, some cool s**t, something that felt like it was the centre of the action.That's the sort of shallow level I operate on. I don't think it was particularly about a career, it's just sort of being in something that felt like it had an energy to it. I was very into music.And I was very into the media that came with it and the pop culture that surrounded it. I guess I'm not particularly unique there. Lots of people are when they're in their teens.I suppose I maybe just dug a bit deeper compared to my mates. I kind of, I was the one that read all the details on the record, read the masthead of the magazine and just kind of tried to join the dots between these things. Who were the models of cool at that time for you? I mean, I guess titles like The Face magazine, where there was a sort of, you know, I guess in London, it was sort of smash hits when you're really young.I'm not sure if you're familiar with smash hits. It was a pop magazine, but it kind of talked about pop music in a really, really different way. So on a surface level, it was all cool haircuts and shiny new pop bands.It built up this new kind of language around how you talk about pop music. And a lot of people then would gravitate from that to The Face, which I'm sure you're familiar with. It was more kind of more grown up style mag.But it just kind of, yeah, it felt like it was shining a light on a lot of young entrepreneurialism that was going on in London and elsewhere. So it kind of began from that for me, but it was all a little bit formless. I wasn't really clear how I was going to get into any of these worlds.I didn't really have much sense of access. You know, my dad was a builder. My mum was a cleaner.She cleaned people's houses and worked in pubs. There wasn't any sort of clear routes to that world. I got a job as a runner, first of all, a foot messenger, as they were called, a job that literally wouldn't exist these days.So I worked for, it was a photographic company in Soho that's still there. And my job was to go around to ad agencies with photos. It was a repro house.So I would take these big photos around in brown envelopes. Now they'd literally be emailed in seconds. But back then I got to walk around Soho delivering these photos to these ad agencies.And these places all are very cool. You know, it was, I guess it was the sort of a halcyon age of advertising in the late 80s. But I was definitely very much going in through the tradesman's entrance.I wasn't going in through the front door. So as alluring as it looked, I couldn't really see a way into that world. Yeah, and I think the thing that then changed it for me was the sort of the emergence of acid house or rave culture in London, which kind of really, really blew my mind in many senses.And all of this musical stuff that I've been interested in, but felt a little bit out of reach, suddenly felt much closer to me. You know, if you didn't know the DJ or the club promoter, you're one of your friends didn't know the DJ or the club promoter. So you could you could kind of immerse yourself in that world.And you could you could learn a lot. It felt very democratizing, really, you know, there were no there were no experts in a way. So you could become the expert very quickly.Just to jump forward, I think I’ve benefited from two democratizing moments. One was acid house. The next, about ten years later, was the first dot-com wave. There were experts, I guess, in the form of developers, but there were no experts in terms of how to create content for dot-coms or how to present it to people. So that, again, felt like a democratizing moment.Back during acid house, I didn’t have a clear career path I wanted to follow. I just wanted to be involved with it. I wanted to be immersed in it. So it began as what you’d call a portfolio career. I was running club nights, helping others run bigger ones, selling tickets to raves. I had a record deal—very briefly. I worked in a record shop and did some writing for magazines—mostly by luck rather than planning. That’s the bit that stuck, really. The other parts fell by the wayside. I ended up spending ten years working as a music and subculture journalist.So that was the early stage of my journey into, for want of a better word, a career.I came across you on LinkedIn—the way I come across so many people—and I was curious: what’s the story of Crowd DNA? How did you make the leap from journalism into cultural strategy? And it seems you’ve exited now, right?Yes, I have exited. Back then, I didn’t have a clear path from being a music journalist to running agencies. But I liked the idea of agencies. They seemed like cool places. There was one in London in the ’90s called Tomato, a design agency. It was a cryptic, collective setup that operated more like a band than an agency. I really liked that idea. Their projects felt very different. You didn’t get the sense they were hustling brands for briefs—they seemed in control of their own destiny.The dot-com boom was the bridge for me. I moved from being a print journalist to working at a dot-com startup called Ammo City. That lasted about a year and a half—lots of fun, lots of chaos. No one really knew what they were doing, as I mentioned earlier. But it was amazing. We were bringing journalists online for the first time. We also had video, and we ran an online radio station.As much as I enjoyed the content side of it, I think I also really liked being in a startup. It was the first time I’d ever heard the word “startup.” We were also trying to work with brands—brands that were intrigued by what we were doing and the audience we were building. Some of them wanted to create content on our platform to reach that audience. Others were interested in how they might mine that audience for insights—an early adopter audience, really.When that dot-com venture folded—like so many of them did because we weren’t making any money—I decided not to go back into journalism. I went the agency route instead.My first agency was called Ramp, which I started with someone else. We called ourselves a creative communications agency, and that’s really what we were. We didn’t make ads—it was more long-form content: documentaries, print media, curated events. We did a lot of work with Sony PlayStation.This was the early 2000s—around 2003. They were fun times, and it was still early days for doing creative work online. Brands seemed braver and more ambitious then. With Sony PlayStation, for example, we never did anything related to gaming. It was all about involving them in grime culture and other areas of youth culture. We also worked with Honda, Topshop, and BMW.Eventually, my business partner and I started to go in different directions in terms of what we wanted out of life. I guess you could call it an aborted project—we got about five years in and then sold the agency to St. Luke’s, the advertising agency. I stayed on and ran Ramp as a division of St. Luke’s, while my business partner left.That added a new dimension for me. Even though St. Luke’s is considered an unconventional agency, it was more conventional than Ramp. Ramp was all about ad hoc work; St. Luke’s focused more on retained client work, which created a different kind of relationship with the client.I did that for a while, but I was very keen to start another agency. I had a non-compete clause, so when I left St. Luke’s, I couldn’t immediately start another creative agency. But there was nothing stopping me from starting a more insight- and strategy-based agency. At Ramp, we’d always done a little bit of that, even if we never formally claimed it was our focus.So that was really the sort of the beginning of starting CrowdDNA. So I launched it in 2008. There were three of us at the beginning. I left it three years ago—no, sorry, no I didn’t—I left it two years ago. It was about 110 people at the end and a whole bunch of cities around the world. And yeah, lots of fun adventures along that sort of 16 years of journey.Yeah. Amazing. And what did you—what do you love about that work? Where was the joy in it for you? Of all the different parts of that kind of work, what, for you, did you get the most joy out of?Yeah, I mean, I suppose there are sort of two dimensions to that. One is the work, and one is the business, I suppose. I loved being in a business and just thinking about it obsessively—really trying to plan where you’re going to go with it, thinking about what you can do, and having this sort of blank canvas in front of you. Launching other cities was such a fun thing to do. There are so many reasons not to open offices in other cities around the world. Arguably, you could just do global work out of London. But I think we became a more credible and interesting business by setting up in New York, Amsterdam, Singapore, Sydney, and so on. That side of it was fun and really interesting—trying to build a proposition.And then the actual work—I guess I just quite loved the randomness of the briefs. I loved the brief. I loved receiving the new brief. The promise of the new brief was always really exciting when it arrived by email. You open it, and maybe it’s a topic you’re really familiar with—and that’s exciting, because you can feel how you’ll build on it. Or maybe it’s a brand-new topic, and that’s exciting in a different way—your brain’s racing, trying to find ways in, trying to find hooks, trying to find your way into that topic. So yeah, those are some of the things that come to mind.And I suppose just working with—you know, it blew my mind when this relatively small agency had people like Nike and Apple wanting to work with us. It seemed quite unfeasible, in a way. But yeah, lots of excitement came from that.It’s a little odd to be asking you about this two years after the exit, but I’m just curious: what did you—how did you—how do you talk about what you did, or what that approach was like? And what kind of problems did clients come to you for?Well, I guess we used the culture word a lot. Back in 2008, I wouldn’t say we were the first people to use “culture,” but it was used less heavily. It’s so heavily used now, which I think creates some challenges for sure. Our strapline was “culturally charged commercial advantage.” We had that from about three years in and stuck with it.What we were saying to our clients, in essence, was: we understand you’re going to want to look at your category. We understand you’re going to want to look at your customers. We understand you’re going to want to look at your competitors. And we will be doing all of that in our work. But we also encourage you to look out into culture—because out in culture, you’ll find opportunities, and you’ll find threats. And that could relate to your brand, your products, your services, your experiences.I think we were also encouraging clients to think of people as people—not just as customers or consumers. You could argue: does it matter? Is it just semantics? But I think it does matter. Being a customer is a very thin slice of time. The rest of the time, they’re being a person, with all the hopes and fears and so forth that a person has. I think you need to understand the whole person.So that was our shtick. That’s what we went in there to do.The kind of work we actually did could be anything from culturally informed work around the here and now—what does a brand need to be doing in the next three months—to what I guess you’d describe as futures work: what is the future of socializing in 20 years’ time? It was a very ad hoc business, which certainly keeps you on your toes—constantly pitching, always trying to come up with new ways to do the work. Trying to make something that feels organized in amongst a lot of chaos as well, I suppose.Yeah. And how has it changed? I mean, I guess that’s 20 years, basically—almost 20 years. Is it still the same now as it was in 2008? I mean, I’m curious on your take on culture, and what it’s like now, having...Yeah, I mean, I guess it feels like the term is very, very heavily used these days. I kind of feel it was one of those COVID-related things. COVID—I think lots more agencies started to talk about it.We found a lot more people on the client side were interested in things to do with culture. I think COVID maybe was a bit of a wake-up call—that there are things that may happen in the world that may impact you outside of your category. Not necessarily always pandemics, but other things. So I think that put the idea of culture more on the map.Yeah, I mean, I do think a lot of people are using the term without necessarily describing what they mean by it. And it seems to mean lots of different things to different people. In some circles, when you talk about cultural insights or cultural marketing, it kind of means youth marketing, maybe, or sort of early adopters and influencer-type stuff. Other people will think of it as being to do with the arts. Other people might think of it as being to do with DEI-type topics as well. I think that’s come up quite often.So yeah, lots of different definitions. I mean, what we were at Crowd, we always thought of it as being to do with shared meaning—you know, the sort of Stuart Hall-type end of the definition. We loved doing youth-related work, style-related work, but we also wanted to do work to do with families, to do with people of all sorts of different generations. So we wanted to have a slightly broader perspective on what culture meant.But it was—it's an interesting challenge, getting clients’ heads around culture. I think you have some clients that just get it. You don’t have to explain it to them. And you have a whole set of other clients where you have to work out the best ways to make that kind of work, I guess, viable. Yeah, of interest to them.Yeah, I would love to hear more on that. I’m always reminded in this conversation about culture—are you familiar with Grant McCracken?I am very familiar. Yeah.Yeah. I mean, I’ve been a fanboy forever. But I remember he wrote a book called Chief Culture Officer. I think I’m talking out of school, but I remember him sort of bemoaning the fact that everybody saw that title and just—the sort of, what he was saying was that the corporation couldn’t help but think it was talking about them.Yeah, it was corporate culture.It didn’t—yeah. He was trying to make an argument about accessing, being porous, and bringing the outside in. But the corporation couldn’t help but see it as an opportunity to talk more about me, me, me.Yeah, absolutely. Yeah, that’s very correct. That is another definition of culture that comes up a lot when you talk about it in a business context—it's about the company culture, corporate culture.Yeah. Another thing I love about Grant’s work is the fast/slow.Yes.I don’t know if that was his or if he borrowed it from somewhere else, but I think that’s such an interesting and really nice way to break down this kind of large and messy topic. And it feels—so many times for the client, if they’re struggling to get their bearings around culture, to talk about how there is all the fast stuff—media and food and music and fashion. And then you have the slow stuff, the stuff that’s less observable, that moves under the surface. And depending on the brief at Crowd, sometimes we were really sort of keying into the fast culture side. Other times it may be the slow culture side.Yeah. You mentioned Stuart Hall. And I have this question I like—did you have any mentors or touchstones? I don’t know, I treat this as one question. Any mentors in your career that you really draw on or return to over and over again? Or even concepts that you kind of return to over and over again?Yeah, I find the whole idea of mentors really interesting. I love being a mentor. I’m not sure I’m that good at it, but I love doing it. And I do a lot of it these days. When I was kind of starting out, so to speak, I don’t think we had mentors back then. I just don’t even think the term existed.You know, I remember when I was first writing for magazines, you would hang out with other journalists, but no one would ever talk about—no one would ever give you advice whatsoever. The only way you kind of knew if you were doing the right thing was when you got more phone calls. You know, if you submitted work and you got phone calls, you kind of assumed you were writing the right kind of stuff. If you submitted work and you didn’t get phone calls, then you kind of assumed you weren’t writing the right sort of stuff.That said, there are lots and lots of people who have influenced me. I’m not going to name them all one by one, but yeah, I can think of lots of people that I’ve taken things through from over the years, for sure.Yeah. And you mentioned Stuart Hall, right? What’s your definition of culture? What did you mean—can you tell me more about Stuart Hall and how that influenced you?Yeah. I mean, I think his work is—I mean, obviously, it's widely used, widely reported on, and he might be slightly apoplectic about the fact it’s being used in the context of brand work.But I think the idea of shared meaning—that that is what culture is, this sort of operating system—I like that kind of language. I think that always landed really well with the Crowd team as well. And then how that manifests itself, whether it's through the conversations we have, the codes and the signals, media, advertising, products, and so on.So yeah, I think it's a good place to start when you're building out a perspective as an agency that wants to work in the cultural space. When I look at all of the agencies these days that talk about culture and use words like “cultural relevance” and so forth—without necessarily, I think, having a lot of depth there—I kind of feel they’ve got to go one of two ways. They’ve either got to really go deep into culture and articulate it in stronger, more cogent ways, or they should maybe move away from using that word and try to come up with a different language set. I think there are too many agencies that are talking about culture in a slightly vanillary, hope-for-the-best sort of way at the moment.At the risk of asking too many questions—I often ask this because my newsletter is called That Business of Meaning, and you just talked about shared meaning—what are we talking about when we talk about meaning? How would you articulate the distinction you just made about, you know, if you're going to talk about culture, really talk about culture, talk about shared meaning? How do you think about what meaning is? Sounds like a ridiculous question.Yeah. I mean, in the context of work, I suppose it’s how people relate to brands—that’s through meaning, isn’t it, really? I guess it sort of comes down to fundamentals. When you buy a Mercedes, you want everyone else to also have a shared meaning of what a Mercedes is. You're not just buying it because of its amazing engineering; you're buying it because of what it says about you and your place in the world. So you need everyone to have, I guess, some sense of a shared meaning of what that Mercedes is.Tell me about—there are two things I feel like I’ve learned about you through LinkedIn. One is the book. I want to hear about Selling the Night. So let’s start there. How did that come to be? And how is it going?Yeah. So I guess when I came out of the end of Crowd, I was looking for things to do. I spent one week sanding down the kitchen table on a January week, and I think I found I needed some projects. I was, I guess, trying to reclaim a bit of my identity again. And one of the projects that bubbled to the surface—I had a few things I was thinking about—was writing a book about dance music and club culture, and its relationship with brands and advertising and the wider creative industries.And I guess within that, for me, there are sort of two directions of travel. One is brands moving into dance music to act as sponsors and endorsers, and all of the challenges that come with that around the value exchange and so on. And the other direction is all of the ideas and the people that have emerged out of club culture—the sort of DIY creativity that it manifests—and have gone on to influence everything from travel to advertising to fashion and so on.So that was the remit I set myself. It took me about nine months to write it. Everyone says that was quite quick. For me, that felt like quite a long time. It was a fascinating process. I consider myself a pretty experienced writer, but writing 160,000 words was definitely a kind of next-level challenge.It came out in April of this year, and I guess it's been a project of two halves, really. The first half was writing—it was relatively solitary. I spent about two months in Venice, in L.A., on my own for most of it, writing it. And then the second half has been getting out there, talking about it, which has been lovely, really. I’ve got to meet all kinds of interesting people, travelled to interesting places, had a whole bunch of different conversations. So I’ve got to talk about this book in all kinds of interesting settings.And I have another book project on the go at the moment called No Way Back, which is more of a curated project, so less typing involved with this one. It’s bringing together lots of pieces of music journalism and subculture from other eras and trying to explore ways to... I guess it is about nostalgia, because it’s about the past, but we’re trying to make sure it’s about what you learn from it. We’ve got this line about “learning from, not longing for the past.” We don’t just sort of wallow in the past—it’s: what can you learn from these backstories that can help shape what comes next?So that’s been great. That’s out as well—it’s been out for a few weeks—and I’ve had a lot of fun, actually, over the last couple of days racing around New York, seeing it in the flesh in places like Casa Magazines and Iconic Magazines on Mulberry Street. It’s lovely looking, and it’s lovely selling it via your own platform, but there’s still something quite cool about actually seeing it in situ in a retail space.Yeah, that’s got to be amazing. You mentioned in Selling the Night that there were these two patterns: brands going in and then artists coming out. Can you tell me a story or example of the artists that came out of that culture?Well, I suppose it’s not specific—it can be about artists—but I suppose it’s as much about the creativity that comes out of it. So it could be around boutique hotels. You can trace the birth of the boutique hotel back to disco culture. Ian Schrager is on record saying that his ideas for boutique hotels—and he essentially created the boutique hotel—came out of what was going on in New York disco, and creating those kinds of aspirational spaces. That’s one example.I think travel was another really interesting one. Travel has been just revolutionized by the idea of people going clubbing—whether it’s Berlin for three days, where people don’t actually bother booking a hotel, they just book a flight and go clubbing for three days—or Ibiza, or Goa, you know. Etc., etc., etc.It’s sort of reinvented fashion a million times over. It’s changed drinking habits a million times over. I spoke to Ben Kelly, who designed the Hacienda nightclub, about how Virgil Abloh was incredibly influenced by the stripes that featured in the Hacienda club. And he kind of openly admitted that he borrowed those stripes for his Off-White brand.When Ben Kelly first heard about this, he was pretty irate—this guy was nicking his designs. But then they became the best of mates. In the five years up until Virgil Abloh’s passing, they worked on all kinds of different creative projects together. So yeah, there are endless examples of the kind of creative strands and the through lines that have come out of club culture.And I think there’s something quite interesting about the creativity it offers. It often comes from a kind of place of necessity. It often comes from quite marginalized people. I don’t think it’s the kind of creativity that you could cook up in daylight hours, in studios and creative agency environments.Yeah. Maybe this is associated with the other thing I see you doing quite a bit on LinkedIn—really advocating for access to planning. You often highlight job postings that are very exclusionary. I really appreciate it. I mean, I'm an American and I'm not in England, so I know culturally it’s very distinct, but it seems you’re very consistent in calling this out. How would you describe what you're doing? What’s the problem you're addressing?Yeah, I mean, I guess it’s one of my personal bugbears. And obviously it comes from my own experience. I didn’t go to university. No one in my family had been to university. My daughter is the first one in my family to have gone to university—or still is at university.I just think it’s very unfair, and a bit absurd really, that it should be the only way people are judged on their appropriateness for roles. And I guess it falls into two categories. One is entry-level roles, where you have no chance unless you've been to university. But maybe education didn’t suit someone. Maybe they had health or mental health issues during that period of their life. Maybe they had to care for someone else. There are lots of reasons why people may not have been able to go to university but might be a really good fit for that kind of work.And then you get the roles which aren't entry-level, where they ask for a whole bunch of experience—which makes complete sense—but then they also throw in the requirement for a degree, which just seems a little bit nonsensical to me. It feels like lazy thinking—or non-thinking.So I have written about it in a couple of newspapers. I’m involved in a campaign that’s taking shape. And I’ve been doing my kind of LinkedIn call-outs, which is really interesting each time. I’m staying in my lane with insight agencies, because it’s the world I know. But if I see adverts that make having a degree mandatory, I (hopefully relatively politely) call it out and question it.It’s really interesting what happens after that. I always get people messaging me from the agency in question, agreeing with me. I sometimes have people in the top brass of the agency contacting me and agreeing that they need to update their policies. I think I’m running at about 10–3 now: 10 agencies that have agreed to change their policies, and three that have so far not. So yeah, it's good. It's nice. It’s direct action.Yeah, beautiful. Does it feel particular—I mean, you have experience in other cultures and other cities, right—does it feel particular to the UK? Or is this more broad than that?I think it’s more broad than that. As I understand it, I think the problem is probably worse in the US, isn’t it?I mean, I’ve been on my own for so long, independent—I wouldn’t even know.I think it is. I think it’s worse in the US, I guess. And I have called out agencies in the US. I suppose in some ways, it feels easier—again—to stay in my lane, understanding UK culture. But yeah, I think it needs to change. It was something we definitely tried to change at Crowd DNA.I mean, no one’s going to discount education. This isn’t to suggest that education has no meaning whatsoever. And I’m also very mindful that there are lots of people who go to university who don’t actually come from a privileged background. If you're the first in your family ever to go to university, it’s an incredible achievement. And you don’t need the likes of me coming along and poo-pooing that achievement.So it’s not to say that education isn’t a relevant factor—but I don’t think it should be mandatory in whether people get accepted for roles or not.Yeah, yeah. I mean, I appreciate it so much too. I mean, especially the way you were talking about club culture, right—that it is sort of the fringe, it is a place that’s sort of outside. You know, the kind of creativity and the kind of understanding that comes from there is so fundamentally different to what’s available within the conventional pathways.It’s bonkers. What are you doing? You’re sort of restricting, you’re prohibiting yourself from it—or you’re restricting yourself from access to this really unique...You are, totally. And as you’re saying, I think people learn really fast in those kinds of worlds, you know. And you become very entrepreneurial, and you do join the dots between lots of different things. And if you’re excluding those people, you may be excluding people that are super resourceful, and super good at joining the dots.And I think you end up creating more kind of monocultural—this is really—and it always feels very starkly at odds with the kind of messages that these businesses are generally putting out elsewhere, about how they respect all perspectives. Particularly if you’re a research agency. If research agencies aren’t allowing people in from different backgrounds, that seems kind of weird.Yeah. Yes. I'm not sure—when did you come in? I feel like we are maybe peers. But I remember—I mean, I was early–mid-’90s guy. And the first firm I applied to also seemed kind of like a rock band to me. Like, they were super cool. And I was an English major, you know? I mean, I had no business experience whatsoever. And they were like, “We want you here,” because—for that same reason—this is a creative endeavor.And, you know, that’s what this is about. So I felt a little bit like we were always outsiders from the corporate culture, which was VA-driven, and just so MBA-driven, it really didn’t understand culture.So it’s interesting with that. But really—was it Tomato? Was that the firm?Yeah, Tomato.It was like a Gen X moment happening.Yeah, I think it probably was. No, they were just—they were just very cool. You know, they never really explained exactly what they did. Was it even a business? Or was it kind of a collective?Yeah.Projects seemed incredibly diverse. As I say, you definitely didn’t get the sense they were on a sort of treadmill of waiting for the latest RFP to come in. They were carving probably more unique opportunities with their clients.Yeah. So yeah, I think when you think about business in that sense, it starts to feel like an appealing place to be.Yeah. What you mentioned before—what are you doing now? I mean, there’s the book, you left Crowd, but are you still in the cultural strategy space? Are you still active? What are you working on?Good question. I mean, I suppose I’ve come out the other side of Crowd. And it’s really interesting—when you’ve been doing the same thing for 16 years. And, you know, whether you mean to or not, you do become quite indoctrinated in this thing that you were doing.I guess to me, having come out the other side, it feels sort of two-thirds super exciting, wide, wide open horizons: “What am I going to do next?” One-third existential crisis: “Oh my god, what am I going to do next?”Yeah. I suppose at the moment it’s a lot of projects. It’s the two books. We’re working out how we can maybe make more of No Way Back, how we can maybe start doing events as well—other types of media that may emerge from it.I am working with the Museum of Youth Culture, which is exactly that—it’s a museum about youth culture back in London. It’s existed in pop-up form for a few years, but it has its first permanent home opening in Camden in the autumn. That’s exciting.I work with a few charities—particularly one called 2020 Levels, which is around Black representation in various lines of work, various industries.I’m doing a bit of consulting stuff behind the scenes. I can’t really work in insight at the moment. I’m effectively serving a long-term ban with my restrictive covenants and non-competes. But that’s cool. You know, I feel like I’ve kind of done that.And I'm talking to some people about other business ideas as well. So yeah, it's kind of fun. Whether I go for it with another business or not—or sort of settle into a life of projects—yet to be decided.As you look around, is there anybody—I always think—is there anybody, any projects or brands that seem to be really doing things well or right, that kind of excite you? You know what I mean? Where you feel like, “Oh wow, they're operating in culture in a way that seems interesting and correct,” according to how you enjoy things?Yeah, I probably should have a good answer to that. I see various strands of brands doing good things. I can't necessarily pinpoint one that is nailing it all at present. I think there are some quite interesting agencies emerging at the moment. I like agencies that are playing more on the fringes and not settling into the standard modes of market research or being a creative communications agency.I think there are some interesting new mini, niche holding companies emerging—ones that feel a little bit more curated. Not just smashing together as many agencies as they can, but being more thoughtful about the range of businesses they bring together.But yeah, it’s an interesting time to have departed that world, I suppose. I guess I was leaving just as AI was entering. And when I speak to people still in the world of market research, it does feel like it’s a bit of a challenging place at the moment. Quite a lot of uncertainty out there.I’ve put a few posts out around this topic—of whether even the ethnographic, trends, semiotics, or the more cultural end of market research—should even be part of the market research industry anymore. Should it break free from the world of analytics and panels and start to reframe itself as a different kind of industry?I think that’s an interesting inflection point right now, where you could argue that people doing that kind of work—work that is maybe a bit more human, a bit more cultural, maybe a bit more journalistic in style—maybe that should move away from the other end of market research.100%. How has that position been met? What kinds of conversations have sprung up around that?I think it strikes a chord with people. It’s kind of strange—under the wider umbrella of market research, I think it sort of encourages those doing the ethnographic and cultural work to be kept in their corner. Maybe if they broke free and were able to premiumise the work they do and charge in a different way, they could start to build up a new language and a new position for that kind of work—rather than being seen as a bit of a nice-to-have alongside more mainstream market research.Is there anybody you see that looks like they’re taking that shape now, close to that kind of positioning?Yeah, I won’t name names, but I can definitely see different agencies emerging that are changing the language, I suppose, around how they talk about the work. I think the language used is really important. I'm not really that interested in people coming up with brand-new methodologies per se. I'm more interested in people who change the way they talk about the work, and therefore, the relevance the work has.So yeah, I think there are some people doing that. It does feel like there are too many agencies at the moment—it’s a very saturated space. But at the same time, I think it’s probably a good time for some people to come through and do some different things. It’s time for a bit of a freshen-up as well.Yeah. How would you describe the role of qual and qualitative research and the benefit of it? I always feel like it’s a little bit of a narcissistic, self-interested question to ask all of my guests to explain the value of qualitative research. But what do you think? What’s the role of it, and what’s the value you think it brings?Yeah, I mean, I guess for me, when I think qualitative research, I probably think as much about ethnographic research. I’ve never been that big on focus groups. I mean, we had to use them on plenty of occasions, but the idea that you put people in a room, feed them Twiglets, pay them £30, and try to get them to remember things from two weeks ago—doesn’t seem the best of routes.For me, it’s about being out there with people, really. Whether you're asking the questions or observing them, it’s being with them while they cook that meal for their family, when they go on that commute, while they buy that beer with their friends. I think you just learn so much from that sort of sense of relatability, really.And I think it’s interesting—everyone in our world wants to be the strategic person. I always feel the “strategy” word is quite a loaded word. Everyone wants to be more strategic than the other person. But I think there’s a lot of value in just being the person who can tell the stories really well. Whether you're doing the strategic piece or not, just telling stories in a way that allows people to empathize with them—and therefore to make good, strong business decisions off the back of them.Yeah. Telling research stories, basically.Yeah. I mean, I guess all of my work, in a way—whether it’s working for magazines, where you go out and tell a story about subculture and present it in a magazine, or whether you go out and do what’s happening in subculture and tell it to a boardroom—in a way, there’s a similarity to the process that’s going on there.Yeah. I feel like I learned that really, really late—that when I was presenting work to a client, just the story I would tell about an interview, or an ethnography, or an observation—that was itself the whole thing. I thought I was doing something else, but the story smuggles in so many other things. It’s sort of transformative.Absolutely. And I think more people then leave that room and go and do things that work.Yeah.If you can switch mode from research to story, and wrap it in story, then I think even people who don’t like market research—and there’s a lot of them out there—when it turns into stories, they’ll go and do good things with that work.That’s right, because we’re obsessed with people—we can’t help but be interested. Well, Andy, I want to thank you so much. I really appreciate you accepting the invitation—number one, out of the blue—and then just spending the time.It’s been a pleasure.Thank you, Peter. It’s been great to talk to you. Get full access to THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING at thatbusinessofmeaning.substack.com/subscribe

Diana Lind is a writer, urban policy specialist, and founder of The New Urban Order newsletter. She is the author of Brave New Home: Our Future in Smarter, Simpler, Happier Housing (2020) and has held leadership roles at Next City, the Penn Institute for Urban Research, the Chamber of Commerce for Greater Philadelphia, and the University of Pennsylvania. A Visiting Fellow at Johns Hopkins’s SNF Agora Institute, Lind has written widely on housing, cities, and urban futures.I start all these conversations with the same question, which I borrowed from a friend of mine. She helps people tell stories, tell their story. And so I borrowed this question from her because it's so big and beautiful. But because it's big and beautiful, I kind of over-explain it the way that I'm doing right now. And so I ask it. I want you to know that you're in total control, and you can answer or not answer any way that you want to. It's the biggest lead-in ever. But the question is, where do you come from?Oh. Well, I think of myself as coming from New York City. I feel like—growing up—I grew up in Manhattan in the 1980s, and I feel like—actually, I was just talking about this with my husband this past weekend—how your childhood just sticks with you for such a long period of time. It's so formative.So I really think of myself as coming from that city very much, even though right now I'm joining you from Philadelphia.What part of being a child in Manhattan in the '80s sticks with you? What were you talking about?Oh, I mean, just so many different things. I feel like—I grew up on the Upper West and then Upper East Sides, kind of both times on the edges of Manhattan. So in a part of where—it was very dense but also not too chaotic.And I think also, what's interesting to think about is that New York—even though people complain about how New York hasn't built housing and whatnot—so much of New York has gotten so much denser and more crowded since then, in the 1980s. I think about how it really just, for me, set the bar in terms of retail, restaurants, how people pick up ideas, what style looks like, what city life could possibly be like—all of that.And then, just in terms of other aspects of childhood, I think just the way in which so many—so many of your memories of your family life, your relationship with your friends—all of that kind of stuff sticks with you. And actually, I have a parent who has dementia, and so a lot of his childhood memories are things that he still talks about.And I think about how it's just like the innermost core of your brain. So that was a little bit about how we were thinking about childhood. And I'm joining you just after a really nice summer break in which I felt like our kids had a couple of peak childhood moments of just hanging out with friends and running around and all that kind of stuff.And it felt really good to see them experiencing that, even in times that are very different from when I was a kid. But it did feel like it was still the same kind of good stuff that you might have had in the 1980s.Do you have a recollection of what you wanted to be when you grew up?Yeah. I mean, I think from a pretty early age—beyond the initial idea that I wanted to be an astronaut or something like that—from a pretty early age, I wanted to be a writer. I just loved magazine culture and just loved that sense of seeing the world through the perspective of a writer.And even now, when I do bedtime with my kids and I read books to them, it just really brings me back to how much I get really immersed in these kinds of stories.So I think from a pretty early age, I knew that I wanted to be a writer. Initially, I think I felt like I wanted to be writing fiction. And then really, it's sort of a strange turn of events. When I went to college, one of my closest friends was an urban planning major. He also grew up in New York—but he grew up in Brooklyn—and was just very set on that. And he was a little bit of an influence. And then when I was in college, 9/11 happened. And aside from the profound sorrow and life-changing aspect of 9/11, the revitalization of downtown Manhattan was something that was really interesting to me. That was also a period of time when star architecture was also kind of at its peak. So things like the Guggenheim Bilbao and the Calatrava Milwaukee Museum, and these kinds of big buildings that were being leveraged as a way to revitalize cities. I just really fell in love with that.And when I graduated college, I had an internship that turned into a full-time job with Architectural Record. And so it was just this perfect marriage of interests in a combination of architecture and urban revitalization. And I think I eventually leaned towards being more interested in urban policy issues than architecture. But I still think that architecture is one of the most interesting kinds of art forms because of the practical nature that you have to grapple with in it.And yeah, I think if you'd asked me when I was 15—and I thought I was going to be the next Ernest Hemingway—that I would be writing about urban policy issues, I wouldn't have quite seen it that way. But I do feel like that kind of childhood in New York City prepped me well for the things that I ended up being really interested in and covering in my writing.Yeah, you mentioned magazine culture. What were the magazines that were—what was—what magazines were you thinking about and spending time with to inspire you to kind of become a writer?Oh, man. I mean, I just—I grew up in a household where my dad also—he really loved magazines and newspapers and stuff like that. So we just had everything around—everything from New York Magazine and The New Yorker to, they would let me subscribe to whatever. I think I loved things like Entertainment Weekly, and I subscribed to a lot of women's magazines like Vogue and Glamour and stuff like that, too.I definitely then also was very interested in literary magazines—eventually things like n+1 that people might know about now. But I loved the tactile nature of it. There were also smaller ones, like Paper Magazine, that were more interesting in terms of their design and their aesthetics.Eventually, the first thing I did when I was out of college—I was working for Architectural Record—I was also doing an MFA in creative writing, thinking I was still going to be a novelist or something. But I also launched my own magazine, which was called Work Magazine.That was, in some ways, a culmination of just wanting to give something back or to share my perspective on things. It was a magazine about what people do for a living, and I wanted to look at that from the perspective of everything from being a rodeo champion to somebody working in a cubicle—and to look at it not just through stories, but art and photography and all that kind of stuff as well.It was very short-lived—I think we did three issues—but it was super fun. I loved the collaborative nature of it, of working with other people who were freelancers and designers and stuff like that.That was like 2004 and 2005.It was a really fun time. You would still have launch parties, and I remember we had launch parties that brought out hundreds of people.I remember being somewhat friendly with Shoshana Berger, who was the founder of Readymade Magazine, and being part of Independent Press Association events with people from B***h Magazine, and just these small little magazines. I loved that culture of independent entrepreneurs. It’s a really different world—things like magazine distribution, trying to get people to subscribe with postcards and all that kind of stuff.But it was still not a crazy thing to do in 2004. It definitely would be now, but it was not that crazy then.So catch us up. You say you're in Philadelphia. How did you come to be in Philadelphia? And how do you talk about what you do now? What's your work?Sure. So I moved to Philly in 2008 to work for another small magazine. It was then known as The Next American City, and it was a print quarterly publication. Now it's known as Next City, and it's a daily website, a nonprofit media organization. So Next City had its offices here. I moved here in 2008, and I was with the magazine—or the organization—for almost seven years.Nowadays, I’m really splitting my time between being an independent writer—I run my own Substack called The New Urban Order, where I write about post-pandemic cities and how cities are changing at this particular time, when there’s been so much dramatic change in terms of how people experience cities and what they use them for—how they live in them and all that.I also do consulting work, and most recently wrapped up a fellowship with Johns Hopkins, where I was looking at the politics of accessory dwelling units.So I’m at this point in my life really just exploring being an independent writer and enjoying that after many years of working in full-time positions. It’s kind of a full-circle moment for me, because for about 10 years, I was in a variety of nonprofit roles that didn’t have a media focus—working for the University of Pennsylvania, working at the Chamber of Commerce—and all of those roles were really focused on policy issues and cities, but not in a media context.Now I’m firmly back in the space of writing for a living and being a bigger part of media conversations.Yeah. And that's where I found you—on the Substack. And everything that you've written has been really just amazing. I'm a total rookie, amateur. I’m a guy who had an urban planning awakening here in this tiny city of Hudson and have sort of become, I guess, interested in that same question. I love how you said it: the post-pandemic city.And I'm wondering, how do you think about that question? Like, how do you start a conversation about the changes that have happened and how we live in cities, and what we ask of cities in 2025 that wasn't true in 2018 or even 2020?Yeah. I mean, I think it's just still such an evolving story. And I think that's why I'm so interested in it.I think certainly in 2020, there was this kind of big conversation, like, are cities dead? And in fact, just yesterday, I was on Bloomberg.com's website, where they had an op-ed by Alison Schrager about, like, is the age of the big city over, right? So maybe it’s not that all cities are dead, but big cities are officially, you know, dying—which I don’t believe at all. But it's still an ongoing conversation.I think there are a number of different factors at play here. Certainly the issue of how cities have had to grapple with remote work—it's still a huge issue. The number of days worked remotely has pretty much held steady at something like 28% of workdays being done remotely, which is a huge jump from where it was before the pandemic, when it was in the single digits.So that just has a huge impact on how people navigate cities. Do they take transit or not? And if you have a drop-off of a fifth or more of your transit users, what does that mean for the ability of transportation networks to survive? What does it mean for places that used to have lunch service? What does it mean for stores, etc.?And then beyond the remote work aspect, I think over the past few years, there's been this transition to remote life writ large that definitely was accelerated by the pandemic but was maybe already starting to happen more than remote work was. People not going out to movies as much, streaming more things at home, ordering groceries from home, shopping online rather than in stores.So then it just kind of starts to beg this question of: what's the point of these places anymore? And who wants to live in them—or who can live in them?I think there's this larger tension. There's this idea that people don’t want to live in cities anymore, that they'd much rather live in suburbs or small towns or even smaller cities. And that may be true, but if it were really true, you'd start to see housing prices dramatically decline. And that also is really not happening. So there's still this hunger, but I think there's a different set of—there's a different kind of math that you have to run to figure out if the cost of living in a city is worth it.Certainly, I’m very interested in the idea of how can you make cities—because I still, and this may be going back to that 1980s New York background—I still think cities are amazing places.I was out of town for two weeks. I came back, and just by virtue of walking down the street, ran into five different people. I'm at a co-working space today and saw five other people that I haven’t seen. And it's just like—you don't get a chance to do that, I think, in a lot of other places where you just don’t have the density of people.And I do believe that the density of interactions—for some people, it’s not for everyone—but for some people, it can be tremendously exciting.So figuring out that kind of math for people is also really interesting. And how do you make it a place that is going to contribute to broader prosperity, so cities don’t end up becoming a place where only the wealthy can live and a servicing class also lives?Yeah, I feel like I’m rambling now, but that’s kind of how I start. That’s the base level of how I think about the post-pandemic city, and then I draw from there a lot of different topics that I’m interested in.Yeah. What do you love about the work? Like, where’s the joy in it for you? What do you really thrive on?In the writing about this kind of stuff?Yeah, I guess in the work you do—what’s your favorite part or where’s the joy in it?Yeah. I mean, I feel like the favorite part for me is that I’m just constantly walking around. I’m like a walking op-ed generator, walking around constantly having an argument with an imaginary set of people. And the joy is actually putting it down and synthesizing: what am I trying to say here?So, one really fun thing I’m working on right now is an op-ed I’m writing with somebody I met through one of my subscriber events. We didn’t know each other—met in San Francisco. And that was one of my most successful events, in the sense that I ended up then collaborating with some subscribers on a design competition, and we won an honorable mention.Fantastic.But anyways, we’re working on an op-ed right now. And I think what I really love about that is just being in conversation with people who are also thinking about these things. Because, you know, a lot of the writing I do is solo, and I enjoy that, but I also enjoy the collaborative process of writing with someone else. It kind of brings something out in the ideas that maybe wouldn’t come up if you were just in your own head about it.And then I think I just love walking around cities and looking at how people are living and thinking about, you know, what kind of assumptions are being made about the ways that we’re supposed to live, and how are people actually living. Where are the tensions, where are the gaps? I think that’s really where I get a lot of joy and curiosity from.And sometimes it’s a little thing, like seeing a sign on a store that reflects something that’s shifted in the culture, or seeing a place that used to be something and now it’s something else, and just thinking about why that happened and what that says.And yeah, I think the joy is really being able to notice those things and then build something out of them. That’s what I love.And it's just been really fun because we started out with this sort of idea, and I was like, I'm not sure this is really turning into something that is useful or interesting. And we just kept going back and forth. And now we’ve finally figured out: what are we actually trying to say here? I love that process of continual editing.And in fact, I would say that a lot of people talk to think, but I really write to think. That’s how I’m able to think clearly about things—through that editing process and writing things down. Maybe I’ve trained my brain that way, but that’s how I make sense of the world.So yeah, it’s like—I don’t want to call it therapy, because it’s not about getting over an issue—but it’s like that analysis and synthesis of ideas. It makes me feel like, okay, I understand the world now. I figured that little thing out that I was thinking about.And that is—I think there’s some part of that that is joyful. And then there’s a lot of it that feels just sort of satisfying. And then there are also times when you put stuff out there and you’re like, cringe. Why did I write that? That happens too. But yeah.Yeah, I’m curious. You said—and I feel like I’m identifying as well—that you're walking around engaged in some sort of argument with imaginary figures, or maybe they're just the projection of imaginary figures. Do you have any idea who you're arguing with? Do you have foils that you're in dialogue with in your head?Yeah, I don't necessarily feel like there's particular people who I'm in dialogue with, but I often feel like I'm trying to respond to something that I’ve read or something someone has said to me.One of my pieces—probably one of my most popular pieces—was about sending your kid to an okay public school, and why that is potentially a good thing to do, or why you should try it. It was pretty much: just give it a chance, as opposed to the prevailing idea that you should move to the district with the best possible school for your kid.And that was a direct instance where I was at a conference. Someone made a comment about living in a part of Philadelphia, the suburbs, where they have really good schools, and she moved there. And it was just sort of like, well, obviously, you move to wherever is the best school. And this was a counterpoint to that argument. That was an example where someone said something, and I just had my internal argument in my head and eventually wrote it out.There are other times, like this op-ed I’m writing with a friend—it’s a response to the conversation about abundance and Zoram and Dani’s primary win. I feel like it’s in response to this big conversation people are having about the future of the Democratic Party. There’s not one particular person I’m trying to influence, but it’s more like, here are some ways we’re thinking about this and what it means.Yeah. Where do you fall out on this? I’m curious to know where you are on this. I mean, of course, I’m going to look forward to reading it. What are your thoughts on the conversation about abundance and Dani? Abundance in particular—I’m curious about that.Yeah, well, I’ll just speak for myself here and say that I think both the socialist idea and the idea of abundance are really compelling ideas and visions. But they seem to forget that most people have zero confidence in government. And in fact, go beyond feeling skeptical—they’re antagonistic toward government.So the idea that—both of these are very much centered on how government is going to get us out of our current problems. Those are the visions. And I’m a believer in the capacity of government, but I also feel like people need to have more trust in government first. And actually more trust in their fellow man. People need to believe that our communities are governable, and that the mission of government is to use its scale for the public good and to provide public goods to all people.You need to have more trust, faith, and interest in your fellow man in order to believe in that role for government. So I feel like there’s a lot of work that needs to be done before either of these two very bold visions for the Democratic Party could really succeed.And maybe I’m wrong, and I don’t want to be cynical. Now I feel like I am—like I’m an older person who’s saying, no, you can’t do that or something.But I think just being exposed to a very purple state like Pennsylvania—which feels very—the sort of message of both of those messages, I could see very much how it would not be appealing to your average person who is, again, pretty skeptical of government and has, I think, legitimate beef over, like, well, I don't understand how we're going to build high-speed rail when right now we can't get a budget agreement for SEPTA, which is our local transit agency, and they're cutting back transit lines.How are we going to build a high-speed infrastructure beyond that? It just feels kind of fantastical. So I think for me, there's some first-level work that hasn't really been done, and that is a little bit more about what that might look like.Yeah, I love it. Can you articulate—how do you describe abundance to people? I guess both of them. What’s your sort of shorthand for these two approaches? And I'm really excited by what you articulated. I feel like I connect—maybe that's why I've connected to a few of your pieces—about the trust, everything around the trust.And living in a small town, I feel particularly maybe exposed to that. So I’m curious, how do you articulate—what’s the abundance promise and what’s the Mamdani promise as it relates to—because I really appreciate how you articulated that there’s sort of—I’m just going to try to restate what you said. Do you understand my question? Have you heard a question?Yes. Well, first, just saying that I don't feel like I'm an expert on either socialism or abundance. The way that I would describe it is—abundance is this idea that we have been approaching so much of our built environment as a situation of scarcity, where we're fighting over what can or can't get built. And instead, we’re a country that has this opportunity to be building more for everyone that would bring us into the 21st century.I see abundance as— a lot of the prescriptions are focused on trying to get rid of some of the barriers to building more, whether that’s housing, clean energy infrastructure, or other things. A recent example of an “abundance win,” if you will, is the rollback of CEQA in California, which was a piece of legislation that essentially enabled endless lawsuits that would prevent housing and other kinds of buildings from actually getting built. I think even Governor Newsom called out abundance in doing this.That policy move—reducing barriers to building things and making housing and infrastructure more affordable and feasible—I think their vision is that this brings greater prosperity to all by making things less expensive.The more socialist side of things, I see as using government to, in some ways, correct the market where the market has really failed to provide equity. So ideas like free buses, freezing rents, or government-run grocery stores—these are ideas that say the market has not been able to appropriately deal with inflation, public transportation, or housing, and we need to use government as a lever to make the city more equitable.In both of these cases, I almost feel like—I feel like, good luck. I wish you well. These are great ideas if they could happen. Sure. But I often see how stuff doesn’t happen.As a first step, it would be awesome if we could instead show how—let’s just say—the government could provide adequate bus shelters for people who are waiting for the bus, rather than free buses. Or public bathrooms. Or properly maintain parks and public spaces. Any of these kinds of things that feel like they're sort of the Maslow's lowest level of survival for cities.And to do them in a way in which people feel less like they need to retreat into their own personal spaces, but that actually, because of government, they’re more engaged in their community. And it's not just the private sector that is always responsible for getting people out of their houses and into community, but instead it’s actually the government that is helping to support that.I think that would go a long way to proving to people like, yes, we can do this, and then we could take on some more of these challenges. And I actually think there's a lot that can be done relatively quickly. I think Americans are—perhaps rightfully so—pretty impatient when there are big ideas about how you're going to build new infrastructure and it doesn't happen for 20 years or something like that.That's just too long a wait time. So I think also one of the key factors here is: what's going to show that government is effective faster? I think that’s a critical question that needs to be contemplated for Democrats. Because, yeah, we've got midterms next year.And this seems pretty universal. I mean, I'm, of course, always going to reference my own experience here in Hudson, which is a small town that really has pretty much every big city problem in a very strange way. And it seems like you say that these cities fail to deliver basic city services at a pretty fundamental level.And I think it's this kind of—and again, I'm going to expose my lack of expertise here—but like, Strong Towns, this movement. I feel like there's a big conversation about how the country has changed and the economy has changed, and why our infrastructure is so neglected in a way.And it's certainly the social infrastructure. I think there are a couple of things bouncing around in my mind. One is—I think the piece that you wrote that I responded to most was the idea of claiming this term “pro-social,” which is an experience that I also had. In my efforts in Hudson, it was always to try to bring—help us have a conversation with ourselves, really thinking about community engagement and civic engagement and how that happens, and how counterproductive that is often around regulations like SEQR and stuff like that.And discovering that there are models for pro-social behavior, but also diagnosing how our anti-social digital lives are the fundamental problem—the obstacle to really getting anything done.Because we talked about—we shared Josh McManus as a colleague—and talking to him, he's very explicit about his work with cities. That the biggest change—and this is what I loved about Abundance, I haven’t read the book, but just the idea of it—is ambitious enough to raise our eyesight a little bit, to think that we could do something.And I heard an interview with Ezra Klein done by Marginal Revolution—I’m not going to remember the guy’s name—he asked a wonderful question. He said, what’s the critique of your book you feel most vulnerable to? And Ezra Klein’s answer was “voice.” And he just said, we don’t know how to engage each other around the possibility of abundance, which I think is also sort of particularly universal in a way.So maybe—I don’t know what I might’ve just said that sparked something for you—but what I heard you talking about is proving the efficacy of government by building public social infrastructure, just to restore trust before maybe some of these more ambitious ideas about what’s possible.Yes. So that is actually—that’s the thesis of the op-ed, right? And I hope my colleague Amy Cohen is not upset, depending on how fast we turn that around and this comes out. But yeah, that’s basically it.It's like, we need to build pro-social spaces so that people can reconnect with each other. And pro-social means that—in some ways—it’s the opposite of anti-social, right? But it's also kind of about: how do we actually get people to connect with one another and encourage positive behavior?So many of the things that we build in cities are, in some ways, almost intended just to prevent bad behavior. A lot of benches in a park will be built to discourage a homeless person from sleeping on it. But what are we actually doing to encourage positive behavior there?I think the idea that many people are lamenting—people’s social isolation, particularly children spending all their time on their phones—but we’ve given people zero excuse or reason to spend time out in their communities with one another. And we’ve certainly not built those spaces either.So why should we be surprised that people have no concept of reality?Coming from the space of media for so long—I worked for The Philadelphia Inquirer for one year—and there was, obviously there and in many other media organizations, a big conversation about media literacy. And no one is in local news, and people aren’t getting local news and don’t know what’s actually going on.I think that’s completely true. But also, a big part of the reason why people don’t actually know what’s going on is because they’re at home. They’re not actually out in spaces. They don’t see what is happening in their city in the ways they used to in the past.So I think being able to build these kinds of spaces is a great way to restore trust in each other, and also restore trust in government—and saying that government can build and maintain this stuff, and can also find a way to reap the dividend of it. Because I think a lot of people are completely aware that it’s great if you have government that’s going to spend money on various social goods, but if they can’t figure out how to maintain it and pay for it long term, that’s going to be a problem for the city as well.To your point about not having a voice for these kinds of questions, or figuring out how to talk across these very polarized times—I think that, for me, is really my main concern with ideas like abundance, and some of the ideas that are in the Socialist Party or part of the Democratic Party.I think, how do you find a way to talk about these kinds of issues that will affect someone who doesn’t think about this stuff all the time? Who’s not a policy wonk? Who’s just trying to live their life and feels frustrated by government?I mean, the majority of Americans—even if they didn’t like Elon Musk or how Doge was actually executed—the majority of Americans do feel like government is inefficient and did think that Doge was a good idea.So how do you flip someone’s mind on that kind of perspective?I think people need to be doing a bit more listening, because I don’t know that some of these concepts are really resonating with people who are— I think about just average Philadelphians who would never previously think of themselves as Republicans, but haven’t been able to find a message that feels like it’s actually resonating with them.Yes. You mentioned listening. And another one of your pieces—I feel like I align completely on so much of what you're observing—the idea that no one really knows what’s going on.And that’s definitely my experience in Hudson. There’s so much that’s happening, and nobody has any time to pay attention. And then even if they try to pay attention, it’s sort of incomprehensible and antiquated.What inspired me, in terms of my involvement in Hudson, was around Citizens Assembly. It’s something I discovered because Bard College is nearby. And it felt like this really powerful way to bring people into the process and invest them in decision-making in an amazing way.I remember someone I met there talking about how radically our technology has changed, how radically our media has changed—and how our government institutions, even—especially—at the local level, have fundamentally not changed. The structures of the meetings, the formats of the meetings, the spaces that we come together in to create... I love how you talk to this shared reality. The spaces we have to create a shared understanding are really challenged. Do you have that experience also, or am I—Definitely. Yeah. I mean, I just think that the idea of these upstart groups that are at least trying to change who shows up at these kinds of meetings and how they're digested and shared with the community—that, to me, is really important work. In Philadelphia, there's something called the Fifth Square, which is an urbanist group focused on transportation and housing and other kinds of related issues here. They organize people to speak at city council hearings, and they also report out what has been discussed and passed and things like that.Should we require government to be innovating in and of itself? I'm not so sure. But I do think that is a place for nonprofits or concerned citizens to step up and think about how to better communicate what's actually going on in their town.I think the issue of people not really knowing what's going on—I'm also trying to figure out how to write about the police takeover in Washington, D.C., and I feel like that's a really good example of the problem when people don’t really know what’s going on. Like, is there really a crime problem in D.C., or is there not a crime problem in D.C.? Is this excessive? Is this not? What information should we be relying on? How is the government sharing its voice about what is going on, what they want to see happen?All of that feels like it’s coming to a head in D.C. It feels very confusing. And I, as an outsider, am trying to get a sense of what's going on. I’ve texted with and talked to a few people I know who live there—they also seem kind of confused as well.I don’t know what more to say about it, but it doesn’t bode well when a possible scenario is an armed takeover of your city because you’re disagreeing about whether there’s a crime problem or not. I don’t know. It strikes me as potentially pretty bad.I’m trying to figure out my particular angle on it and learn a little more about what’s going on there. But there are consequences to not having a shared reality and to having a government that’s not particularly good at explaining what it’s doing or how it’s doing it.Yeah.This has occurred to me recently, because I think about this quite a lot. And I’ve spent enough time playing around with AI and the implications of AI for creative storytelling and all that stuff to realize just how under threat the shared reality is—and the ways that we create a shared understanding. It becomes—tell me what you think about this—but it becomes a media problem in which face-to-face is the media that we need.And in that way, it becomes almost exclusively a local opportunity or responsibility, right? Because every other media is vulnerable in a way. Is that an extreme interpretation?I do. I mean, it’s definitely something I’ve thought about, which is that we are actually approaching this age where you have to see it with your own eyes to believe whatever it might end up being.Yeah. I hope we kind of don’t get there. I do think that one of the other flip sides is that media is so distributed at this point that the key is recognizing there are many different voices and perspectives on a particular thing, and ensuring that there’s not just one—that you're not only relying on a few sources to understand what is actually going on.But I do think that face-to-face—I think also, even more so—in fact, people... I had a conversation with a friend of mine who is also a writer and maybe had never actually, because of the pandemic, might not have actually met her agent in person.Maybe they had met once before, but she was just saying they’d had conversations going back and forth on the phone and email for years, and just recently met up for lunch—either for the first time ever or the first time in many years. And it was just—what a difference it makes to actually meet someone in person.I think people are increasingly realizing that. Maybe for your immediate social circle, who you see frequently in person all the time, you don’t necessarily feel it. But for so many other types of connections and people, actually being in person is dramatic.It seems like it should be completely the same as a Zoom call or whatever, but it’s actually really quite different. You get so much more information almost immediately when you’re with a person—about their essence as a human.I think that’s sort of the same thing about—whether it’s experiencing a... I think another good example of this is when the National Guard was called into L.A.—not for the wildfires, but for protesting ICE—and the sort of cherry-picked moments of chaos that were being shown on the news versus a lot of other people showing calm neighborhoods and no real reason for there to be a National Guard presence.I think this is going to be an ongoing issue—what are we actually seeing, and can you rely on these dueling viewpoints that are being shown to you on a camera? And also, just people recognizing that in-person experiences not only have a truth to them but also a value that virtual ones simply can’t replicate.So we’re near the end of our time, and I guess I would be remiss—I wanted to end maybe on a forward-looking note. Your Substack, The New Urban Order—when you look ahead and think about cities, what are you most excited about? Are there models out there that inspire you or make you feel positively about the direction we’re going in, in trying to address the way that we live now?Yeah, I do feel like I'm fairly optimistic about American cities, in fact. I think one of the reasons I went to San Francisco at the beginning of the year is that I felt like the city was really primed for a turnaround. It had sort of reached its bottom and is going to come back.So I’m very interested to see different cities that are charging ahead—whether it’s a San Francisco or Detroit. I feel, in Philadelphia, in fact, we’ve been so undervalued for so long, and I think there are a lot of other undervalued cities in the country that are having a moment to shine.What do you mean by undervalued? What does it mean—undervalued?Just like, you know, both literally undervalued in terms of—our housing is incredibly cheap here, right? And I don't think that it’s been as desirable as a lot of other cities. Like, I don’t even know—like Jacksonville or something like that. Why is Philadelphia cheap compared to Jacksonville? I don’t know.I just think it has so many incredible assets here and such a good quality of life that people haven’t quite recognized yet. And I think that is starting to shift.I think also, just in terms of—I’ve lived here now for 17 years—and just seeing how there is, I think, a pretty healthy scene of creative destruction and renewal that continues in the city. Like, we recently had a small arts college go bankrupt very quickly and publicly. And then a number of the buildings were sold off and are being repurposed—one into both housing and maker space for artists. And it's just interesting to see how that kind of happens in the city. And it's happening in this one example.But I am excited for a number of different cities that are in this upward trajectory of interesting new development. I think I’m also optimistic about cities really rethinking their streetscapes and getting way smarter.I mean, just the past year, in terms of new legislation around housing and making housing easier to build, is all very exciting. And so all of that, I think, really just kind of bodes well for more livable cities.And yet, at the same time, I’m also very concerned about things like the destruction of public transportation, the loss of federal and state funding for everything from food banks and research to housing and everything else. I feel like the fallout from that is going to be really difficult to watch.So I’m also really keen to follow—where are the smart ideas for ensuring that we come out of this still with places that are working for everyone, and not just for the people who are tax advantaged in the big, beautiful building, and so on?So yeah, it’s a combination of feeling both like there are many cities around the country that are witnessing population growth, interesting developments, new clusters of jobs and innovation, and interesting cultural institutions—all that kind of stuff. And then also just feeling very concerned about the infrastructural level of support for people and places, just throughout the country.Beautiful. I want to thank you so much. This has been a lot of fun. And I really appreciate you accepting my invitation to begin with. And then, yeah—just thank you so much.Oh, totally. I really appreciate the chance to have a chat with you and get to know you and your corner of Hudson a little bit better. And I hope we do get a chance to meet up in person.Yes, definitely. Get full access to THAT BUSINESS OF MEANING at thatbusinessofmeaning.substack.com/subscribe

Adam Talkington is Head of Ethnography at Further&Further, a strategy and research firm known for immersive cultural insight work with brands like Spotify, Boston Beer, and Adidas. Trained as a sociologist, Adam began his career in academic research. He now leads a team focused on helping brands uncover deep human truths—and isn’t afraid to challenge client comfort zones in the process.So I start all these conversations with the same question—which I actually borrowed from a friend of mine who helps people tell their story.It’s a big question, and I tend to over-explain it, like I’m doing now. But before I ask it, I want you to know you’re in total control. You can answer however you want—or not at all. The question is: Where do you come from?I come from California. And I come from a lot of tragedy, I would say. I mean, I’m a conversation analyst, so I’m interested in the way you asked that question—not the words, but how you asked it. We could talk about that.But yeah, I’m originally from LA. And I come from a pretty broken family. I think both of those things have been really important to who I am.It’s funny, even the question “Where do you come from?”—that’s something I sometimes get on the street. I've lived in really, really white places ever since I’ve been an adult. And as a sort of ethnically ambiguous brown guy, people will walk up to me like, “Where are you from?”And I’ll just mess with them—“I’m from California.”And they’re like, “No, no, no, where are your parents from?”And I say, “California.”So in some ways, California is actually a really important place. It’s a huge mix of people. LA is such a fascinating and amazing, diverse place—you’ve got Latinos, white people, Black people, Koreans, whatever. A huge diversity of people. That’s really important to who I am.Understanding those roots has been a big journey for me—something I wasn’t really able to close the loop on until a couple years ago. So yeah, the California part is really important.I’m also pretty open about the fact that I was a foster kid. I lived with my grandparents when I was two, and I was taken away from my mom when I was four. I grew up in the foster care system until I was almost 13.A lot of that time, I lived with my aunt and uncle, which was really privileged and fortunate. They gave me a kind of stability and sensibility I probably wouldn’t have gotten in other homes.But I also lived in a lot of stranger homes—foster homes, that is. It was an important part of my story. It was a kind of lonely and weird feeling for a long time. And I ended up studying informal foster care for my dissertation in sociology.So it was something that—once I realized how many people go through these non-traditional and somewhat traumatic childhood experiences—I saw it was a thing nobody really talked about. But it was something we could try to understand.That realization became not only a major focus of my PhD, but also something that helped me make sense of my own experiences—not as something isolating, but as something that could be a bridge. A way to see what others are going through, and to understand the particulars of their stories.Yeah. I'm trying to think of what to ask. I'm curious—what does it mean to you to have been raised in foster homes? And when did you first realize that was your story?When did I realize the meaning, or when did I realize I was raised in foster homes?Probably a little of both.Yeah. I mean, I was four when I was taken away from my mom. So I remember everything about it.It’s deeply imprinted in my psyche. I think there were a whole series of realizations over time. But I remember living with my aunt and uncle—we were in a tiny little mountain town in Northern California. My uncle worked at the lumber mill, and we lived just behind it.So even though I had traumatic experiences in childhood, I also had some really beautiful ones—growing up in the woods, getting lost for an entire day behind the lumber mill while my uncle worked.I remember wanting to ask friends if they wanted to have a sleepover. Or they'd ask me, and I'd say, “Yeah, let me ask my mom.” But then I’d catch myself and say, “Oh—I mean, my aunt, my uncle.”So there was this kind of linguistic difference in how I talked about things, and that started to shape how I experienced myself and my story as a kid. But yeah, it’s something I knew kind of from the start.Do you remember what you wanted to be when you grew up? What did young Adam imagine?I had no idea. I remember having this thought—this sort of projection—of what I’d look like as a college-aged person.I imagined myself as gangly, with acne... I don’t know, I think I had this 90s sitcom version in my head of what I’d look like and be like. Maybe that’s fairly normal. Maybe that says something, I don’t know. But no, I couldn’t have told you what I wanted to do for work or in life.So catch us up. Where are you now? Where are you living, and what are you doing?I live in Portland, Oregon. I did my PhD in sociology, focusing broadly on social interaction. Along the way, I did research on how testing and diagnosis happens for kids on the autism spectrum, and also on informal fostering among relatives.So I had this very serious research program that I was deeply invested in. But as I neared the end of grad school, I saw that even my brilliant colleagues—people I really admired—were struggling to get jobs in academia.And with the experience of the pandemic layered on top of that, I started thinking seriously about doing something else.I remember reaching out to Eve Ejsmont, who was a research director at Further and Further. I just asked her how someone gets their foot in the door in that industry. And it kind of snowballed from there.I ended up meeting Ian Pierpoint and Meg Weisenberg, who lead Further and Further, and eventually joined the agency. It’s been this amazing unlock—bringing my particular skills into a new industry. New for me, at least, even though I’m not new to research.It’s been an incredible arena for collaboration and figuring out how to do better and better work with people.Yeah, yeah. I know—I’ve met Megan. And I’ve always admired Further and Further from a distance. That’s how you ended up on my radar, actually—through LinkedIn and the things you share. I’m curious to talk about that a bit. You’ve described yourself as a conversation analyst, and your PhD was about social interaction. You have a very specific way of talking about what you focused on. How do you describe that work? What do the terms “conversation analyst” and “social interaction” really mean?I’d say there’s almost a hierarchy there. You’ve got the broader field of studies of social interaction.For me, in grad school, I very quickly fell in with Alice Goffman—who’s the daughter of a really famous sociologist, Erving Goffman. He died when she was a baby, so she didn’t really know him, but she comes from this sort of academic royalty.In any case, Goffman represents a whole approach to the study of mundane life. He really popularized the idea of understanding social interaction and public behavior by diving into what Thomas and Znaniecki called the definition of the situation.A lot of people who took sociology in college probably read his book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, where he presents a kind of dramaturgical view of society—we’re all playing roles.But the roles we play are constantly shifting depending on how we define the situation. No one person has the sole authority to define it; we do it together, in concert.It’s a kind of working consensus about what the situation is. Like right now—this is an interview. We both understand that, and we’re doing “interviewee-type” things that sustain that shared understanding.Goffman was famous for diving into the mundane particulars of life. He studied institutionalized life in asylums—he actually spent time with people who had been institutionalized and looked closely at the process of being socialized into that environment, and what it did to people psychologically. So “social interaction” can be really broad. And yes, Goffman was an ethnographer—a quintessential one.Is that right? I didn’t know that was the case with Erving Goffman.Oh yeah. His dissertation was done in the UK—he studied farm life. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life actually came out of that dissertation. Asylums was based on his time in mental institutions, looking at that process firsthand.But he also wrote a lot about public behavior. He took copious notes on things he saw happening in public life. There’s his work on Interaction Ritual, for example. The ritual element is a huge part of his larger theory—he took Durkheim’s ideas about ritual from The Elementary Forms of Religious Life and scaled them down.Instead of looking at rituals in a grand, religious sense, he looked at how ritual happens between people in everyday, concrete experiences. He was mapping that all over life.His big thing was about looking at public life. Because when you think about it, when you come across a stranger, there’s so much you have to be able to do and communicate really quickly—at least in the world he was studying.But yeah, he was an ethnographer. One of his most famous pieces was about the interaction order—this idea that you can explain what’s happening with exactly what’s present in the local environment, rather than resorting to abstract concepts from somewhere else.That framework is something a lot of people in social interaction studies draw from, including conversation analysts.Conversation analysis itself is a specific approach. It was actually pioneered by one of Goffman’s students, Harvey Sacks, along with Emanuel Schegloff—and, oh my God, I’m blanking on her name. It’ll come back to me.But conversation analysis is a way of looking at the common-sense order of things. It started with research on suicide hotlines. The practical issue was this: people would call in, but they wouldn’t give their names. And that was a concern, because clearly something serious was going on—they felt the need to reach out—but there was no way to follow up with them.So the researchers wanted to understand how those conversations worked—and whether there was something they could do differently to encourage people to share identifying info.Harvey Sacks and Manny Schegloff started analyzing those conversations and realized: there’s an order to this. They published a paper on turn-taking—that was the first structure they picked up on. From there, a whole beautiful architecture of how conversation works began to unfold. And when you think about it, conversations—across cultures, globally—are organized by turns.What’s amazing is that turn-taking requires you to listen closely enough to my turn to know when a unit might be ending—when it’s going to end in a way that invites you to take over, or to offer a nod, or a “mm-hmm,” or any number of small signals.Those responses—what conversation analysts call “continuation markers”—can be encouraging or discouraging, they can show agreement or alignment, or create distance. Later researchers dug into how those signals shape interaction, like showing agreement with a story or challenging a point.Another key feature is adjacency pairs—like question and answer.So, for example, if you ask, “Where are you from?”—that question makes a certain kind of response conditionally relevant. It creates a field of possible next turns.And the way you ask the question shapes how I hear it—and how I respond. We’re shaping each other through the interaction. And here's the key: if I don’t answer your question, you can hold me socially accountable.How would I do that?Well, imagine this. You say, “Adam, where are you from?” And I reply, “Well, I just had a bowl of yogurt and put raspberries in it—because raspberries are so delicious.”What would you say, Peter?That’s interesting. I mean, as someone who’s really spent a lot of time interviewing, I’ve trained myself to follow where people go. But I think… what would I do? I’d honor the response. I’d probably say, “Oh yeah, man, right. I love raspberries. That’s great.” And then—I’d return to the question. I’d ask again.So that’s the accountability piece. You’d repeat the question, and you might do so in a way that suggests—explicitly or tacitly—that maybe there was an issue with audio, or with hearing, or understanding. So you reformulate the question again, now with different information, or with different intonation. You might stretch things out in a certain way.When we do conversation analytic exercises, we work with these really dense transcripts of everything that happens in communication. And you're not looking at how one person uses language to get their meaning across—you're looking at how both parties involved in the interaction are co-producing meaning.Because neither one of us gets to steer the ship alone. We have to do it together.Yeah. Oh man, I love this stuff.This is the most exciting stuff. I don’t have any of the academic background you have, but I find it really thrilling. I’m thinking about so many different things.And I always come back to—maybe you can explain this to me—the Ursula Le Guin essay. Have you ever read Listening is Telling? The one with the diagrams she draws?I don’t know it, but Ursula Le Guin is from Portland.Oh, no way.Yeah, it’s one of our claims to fame. But I’ll have to check out the piece. Tell me about it.Oh man, it’s amazing. The hypothesis is—it’s called Listening is Telling. And she actually drew two diagrams. One describes the conventional way we think about communication: two boxes—you’re a box, I’m a box—and there’s a tube between us. I’m the sender, transmitting bits of information through the tube to you. And you’re the receiver. We take turns passing info back and forth through the tube.But she says: anyone who’s actually been in a real conversation knows that’s not how it works at all. Instead, she presents amoeba sex as the appropriate metaphor for human conversation—because it’s intersubjective, it’s reciprocal, and we get lost in the telling. Everything you’ve been describing. She follows that logic and says, basically, listening is the same as telling. They’re part of the same process.That really blew me away. I’d been doing research for a long time and had my own unstructured experiences of what happens in conversation—but I hadn’t heard it articulated like that before.It made me think of conversation as a place—something you enter into with someone. And you can also not be in that place, even when you’re trying to. And not being in that place, while trying to be in a conversation, is horrible.Yeah. Thank you for the recommendation—that sounds really interesting.We used to call it the conduit model of communication. And I think that underlies a lot of what we’re grappling with now—especially in questions about AI and intelligence. That model misses some of the fundamentals.Because when we think about information and how it gets produced, the conduit model conflates communication with transfer. And that’s the model Ursula Le Guin was trying to take apart and replace.It also sounds really familiar—one of the most relevant connections for me is John Dewey, the pragmatist philosopher.Oh yeah.You might’ve read this, or maybe not, but he has an essay on what he calls the organic circuit.Oh, no—I don’t know that one at all.It’s really resonant with what you were just describing. Dewey was close with William James, who wrote the first book on psychology and was also a pioneering figure in pragmatist thought.James had this model of stimulus and response. He gives the classic example of a child touching a flame and then pulling their hand back: the flame is the stimulus, the movement of the hand is the response.But Dewey, in this fairly short essay, just completely takes that model apart. He argues it’s not just a matter of stimulus and response—there’s a projected action, a kind of movement that’s already happening before the stimulus occurs.The understanding of the stimulus only makes sense within the framework of that movement—like the movement of the hand.So what he’s doing is showing that things are part of a coordinated whole. It’s so powerful. And you can apply it to communication, but also to how individuals operate. Eventually we’ll probably get into the current work I’m doing, but to me, this is foundational.When I think about how people work, I think about all these layers of ongoing “projects” in their lives—small, personal ones; bigger ones shared with people they’re close to; shared projects within communities; and even large-scale societal discourses.All of these things shape the trajectory, the channel of coordinated action, within which any stimulus has to be understood and interpreted. That’s the essential work.Yes. Your description of the Dewey piece feels like a complete takedown of conventional market research—the focus group, the whole practice of extracting people from their lived experience, stimulating them, and then somehow evaluating their response as if it exists outside of their life project.Yeah, I mean—market research, for sure. But I think a lot of research in general.I kind of cut my teeth in a really amazing sociology department. Wisconsin has one of two Institutes for Research on Poverty—do those even exist anymore? I don’t know what the current administration has done with them.But I got to spend time around amazing demographers, economists, and other people really leading their fields—just incredibly smart folks.And I found that the smartest ones used those tools with a kind of awareness. Like, yes, you can build constructs, find relationships between variables, work hard to construct them in more valid ways. But at the end of the day, there are limits.Because if you don’t know that what you have to explain are things that actually happen in the world—not just things that happen in your dataset—then you’re missing something fundamental. When you're trying to explain things in the world, you can't remove people from their real lives. Everything is understood through that lens.How does this work show up in what you're doing now? Can you tell me a little bit about the work you do at Further and Further?Well, Further & Further—Ian and Meg started it based on the limitations of that traditional focus group model. You know, the model where you bring people into a strange room, give them a sandwich and a hundred bucks, and ask them a narrow set of questions.They realized—especially through their experience with documentary filmmaking—that if you follow a person’s story, you get a much richer understanding of who they are and how that relates to the core question.So I think Further & Further was built on that realization. You’d have to ask Ian and Meg to get their version of the origin story, but that's how I understand it.Now, our mission is what we call Five Day Brands. The idea is to spend as much time with people as possible—to really immerse ourselves in their world, their relationships, their moods, and everything that changes across those five days.So when we do ask critical questions, we’re not asking them in a vacuum—we already have a sense of who this person is, spread out over the context of their life. That gives us a kind of ecological validity. That’s the term I would use.What I think is amazing is that Ian and Meg come to this from very different backgrounds, but we all coalesce around trying to understand people’s stories from the first-person perspective—with the understanding that this is valuable to the work on the other side.So a lot of our projects are foundational strategy—positioning work, for example—but increasingly we’re doing innovation work too, or digging into specific target audiences.I love it when people light up during a debrief—especially creatives. I don’t know if you’ve had this experience—you probably have. When you give people something rich about a person—their story, these lived details—you see a creative in the room go: “Oh... I can do something with that.”I love giving people insights that feel genuinely usable and informative. So I’m always thinking about that practical edge—how to take this deep, rich exploration of people and their worlds and make it usable for the people we're working with.What do you love about it? Where’s the joy in the work for you?There’s a lot of joy in a lot of places, to be honest, Peter.Coming out of academia and into this work, I found the collaboration here so much more rewarding. In academia, everything is tied to your name—you want your name first. You’re competing with your peers for a small number of slots at an R1 university.Even though I really liked and admired a lot of the people I worked with, structurally speaking, we were in competition with one another.Now, I’m doing this work where we’re just throwing our best ideas, observations, and insights at the problem—trying to get somewhere that’s both the truest possible and the most useful to someone else.And I love meeting people. It’s literally my job to meet people—like this—and then go out and spend time with them in their lives.So a typical project for us might start with an online board stage, where we get to know people and their stories. We get a sense of what a week with them could look like. Then we travel to a location—maybe three or four people in that city—and split up our time over the week, spending time with each of them. We have documentary filmmakers on staff, and throughout the work, I get to meet all these people. I think that’s amazing.Trying to figure out new aspects of life to appreciate in every person you meet—it’s such a beautiful way to experience the world. I feel really privileged. And there’s collaboration at every point.Researchers working with other researchers in different markets, collaborating with filmmakers—so I’m doing the research part, trying to understand and spend time with people, while we’re also creating space and time to make a film that moves people. A film that brings a person’s story to life, to help convey that story to clients in a way that informs their work. So yeah—there’s a lot to love.I always like to get to the elemental questions. Like: What is qualitative research to you? What makes it important? I ask partly because I’m always trying to make the case for my own career—but also because I think it’s just a vital question. How do you explain what makes qualitative research useful? Why is it so important?Yeah. Well, I think the world only happens where it actually happens, you know?There’s this conventional idea in research that something is more true if you can say a larger number of people do it. But the only way you get to that understanding is that somewhere, someone is filling out a survey. Or someone is clicking something. And there's an apparatus that captures that behavior.All of those are situated activities. So I think of qualitative research as a way of either circumventing the middleman, or just getting into the context where you actually see behavior happening.The reason to do qualitative research is—you know, Erving Goffman wrote this great essay called Where the Action Is. He was studying casinos, I think, at the time. He was breaking apart probability structures.Like, if you say something is “up to chance”—like flipping a coin—it’s only because you haven’t accounted for all the variables. But if you studied the coin’s exact asymmetries, the weight, and everything else, you'd better understand how it’s going to land.Take that framework and apply it to any other kind of probabilistic outcome you might research. You go where the action is—where things are actually happening. That’s how you come to understand things on their own terms.And when you’re dealing with people, that becomes even more important. Because the one thing you don’t want to do is build an understanding that’s inconsistent with how people experience and understand their own lives and stories.The other question I like to ask—and I’ll admit it’s self-interested, since the newsletter is called The Business of Meaning—is this: Do you have a sense of what we mean when we say “meaning”? What is meaning?Meaning... I think what’s so interesting is—we’re never really doing it alone, are we?Even when you think you’re having a private, subjective experience, you’re still borrowing from society to have that experience.That’s what language is, you know? And to stay at the more esoteric level—think of Wittgenstein and his idea that there’s no private language. That’s one of his famous lines, I think from the Brown Book.So even language itself—going back to the conduit model of communication—raises the question: Do we have these pure thoughts and experiences that just get transmitted through a tube?Or is it that language gives us a kind of resource—a set of tools—for building an understanding of what it is we’re actually doing? When you look at stories, and the role of narrative in people’s lives, I think it becomes even more clear.I don’t know if you follow a lot of the neuroscience work on this, but so many people seem to be saying the same thing: stories are essential for survival. It’s about understanding what you’re doing, where risk is, how you avoid risk, and how you make decisions that help you survive in the long term.You need to be able to catalog and interpret different kinds of experiences in ways that inform your future decisions. So I subscribe to that very evolutionary understanding of meaning.But—God—we live in an amazing world now, one with so many more layers than just basic survival. We’ve built this wild cognitive architecture that lets us create all kinds of atmospheres and environments.Meaning, to me, is how that architecture gets applied across this huge tapestry of coexistence we’ve created with one another. And the frontiers of that are still expanding—we haven’t explored all of them. So there’s always more to discover and understand about what things mean from someone else’s perspective.Yeah, that’s beautiful. It reminds me of the idea of evolutionary value—of meaning or significance. It makes me think of Stephen Asma, who wrote The Evolution of Imagination. He was one of the first people I interviewed because I found his work so inspiring. He touches on some of the same ideas as Ursula Le Guin—challenging the model of the purely rational, self-interested actor. He proposes a whole new way of thinking about imagination. He calls it mythopoetic cognition.It’s a very academic but also deeply human case for meaning that’s mythic—not constrained by this obsession with being hyper-rational. We seem to have this cultural prejudice against imagination, emotion, and what’s often dismissed as unreason.And yet, as you said with the neuroscience, that’s who we are. Yeah—Lakoff calls it imaginative reason. He talks about how we split these things apart, but in truth, we move through the world shaped by both. So honoring imagination—and all the heroic, symbolic, or emotional stuff that comes with it—that’s necessary.Yeah, and now that you’re bringing this back, you’re reminding me of one of my favorite ethnographers, Jack Katz, who’s at UCLA—I think he’s emeritus now.He wrote this incredible book called How Emotions Work. The first chapter is called Pissed Off in L.A. Each chapter focuses on a different emotion, and that one is about anger.He had student ethnographers spending time with people in traffic in L.A., trying to understand the process. His whole theory of emotion has this three-part structure, and you could easily apply it to meaning too.He focuses on the fine-grained, interactional aspects of experience—like the shaking of the fist, the way a car moves in traffic, all of it. He’s showing that these physical, social cues are part of the emotional process.Here’s your lightly edited transcript section, cleaned up for clarity and flow while preserving the original tone and meaning:And then it’s related to your own personal project. That person in the car—they’re literally going somewhere. And they understand themselves as moving within a story: this is where I’m going, this is what I’m doing.I was just in L.A. doing a research project and spoke with someone who’s a yogi. She teaches yoga—now mostly online—but she used to teach in person at studios all around L.A.It was so funny—she told this story about how she would teach a calm, grounding class, get everyone into a peaceful headspace... and then have to jump in her car and drive through L.A. traffic to the next studio. And then she’d have to reset and reenter that same peaceful, mindful headspace.So you think about that story—literally “where I’m going” becomes the container she uses to make sense of the particulars of her experience. And then there’s the community level of that story, too. She also knows what it means to be in L.A. traffic—and there’s a shared, communal narrative about that.That narrative might also connect to something bigger—a broader cultural story about life in the U.S. right now.So there are these different levels of storytelling that shape her meaning-making. And in How Emotions Work, Katz explains emotion as the process of metamorphosis—it unfolds in relation to these three layers of meaning.How about your own work—how have you grown or changed as a researcher? How do you carry these theories with you into your work, and what have you learned about how you learn?I mean, yeah—I’ve been doing research for a long time now, probably 13 years. I started out doing drug court evaluation research. I don’t know if you know about drug courts—they’re for people who’ve been convicted of a crime, but where substance use was seen as the core issue.So instead of a standard sentence, the judge assigns them to a different kind of program. I would find people on probation or parole, and I did interviews with folks in prisons.Then I shifted into the social interaction work, which focused more on children. And now I’m doing this research where I hang out with people for a week—for brand projects.So I’ve had really different research experiences. And I think a lot of that is about growth. I don’t think it’s all about the knowledge—the frameworks or theories, even though I love that stuff.For me, those ideas help articulate things I already feel are important. But the deeper learning is about something else. We have an intern right now at Further and Further who’s about to do some interviews, and I was giving him advice.I told him: the first thing you have to do is really know yourself. Because when you’re talking to someone, you have to come across as yourself.And you’re going to adjust—you’re going to show different versions of yourself depending on the context. Because you’re a distributed self. You’ll show up a little differently to different people, in different situations.So to really have this understanding of how you come across, right? We started out talking about how I’m Californian, kind of ethnically ambiguous, I talk too much, my name is Adam Hockington, I’m a conversation analyst—which is funny in itself. I’m very emotional, I’m a Cancer.There are all these different aspects of who I am. And I think now, growing as a researcher hasn’t meant going deeper and deeper into theory.I’m giving myself more space to talk about theory with you, just because this seems to be a podcast about research methodology, ideas, and all that. But in practice, the growth has been more about thinking carefully about how I come across to people—and how that brings out different kinds of things in them.In anthropology—my background is in social anthropology, even though it's technically within sociology—there was this move to acknowledge your own social position.It was this reflexive moment. For a while, you’d see it in all the articles:“I’m a straight white male, working in an indigenous community,” and so on. They’d list these identity categories.But I think the real point of that wasn’t just to check boxes—it was to ask:How does who I am, and the way I show up, influence what I can see or not see in a particular experience or social atmosphere?So when I think about how I’ve grown as a researcher, it really comes down to that: Getting sharper and more honest about who I am. What advantages does that give me in this situation? What disadvantages?Being honest about the mix of those things—so that with any person I’m interacting with, I have the best chance of learning the most about them on their terms. And understanding how my presence might be shaping those terms—so I can at least try to control for it.That’s wonderful. Well, listen—we’ve very quickly filled our time. I just want to thank you so much. This has been a blast. I really appreciate you accepting the invitation.Yeah—it’s been wonderful to talk to you. 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