Adam Ferrier - Stop Listening to the Customer: Try Hearing Your Brand Instead

Before We Begin, A Bit About You

Hi. Good to see you've got this book in your hand and reading this page. The thing is, I know nothing about you and I have no idea what's brought you to this moment where you are standing (Sitting? Lying?) here reading this page. I didn't do any market research, I didn't ask anyone if they wanted a book like this, I didn't even have a target market' in mind when I wrote it.

When publishing a book the publisher will always ask the hopeful author Who's the target market?'. I'm not sure what I said, but I know I lied as to the audience for this book and the motivations for buying it. You might be someone in the market research industry outraged by the title; you may be a small business owner wanting to know how to build a brand centric business; you could be a marketer or a CEO empathising with the title; or you could be my wife, Anna, supporting me. Or you might be someone completely different.

I didn't listen to the customer (possibly you) when I wrote this book, but the fact you are reading this is just the smallest evidence point to suggest I was right about not doing so.

Anyway, enough with the smug, circular arguments, I hope you enjoy Stop Listening to the Customer: Try hearing your brand instead whoever you are.

Adam Ferrier

First published in 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Australia, Ltd 42 McDougall St, Milton Qld 4064

Office also in Melbourne

John Wiley & Sons Australia, Ltd 2020

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

ISBN: 978-0-730-37057-4

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review), no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, communicated or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. All inquiries should be made to the publisher at the address above.

Cover design by Ben Couzens

Cover photo by Marcus Byrne

Photos on pages 61 to 62 XiXinXing / Shutterstock;
Deflector Image / Shutterstock;
sebra / Shutterstock

Disclaimer

The material in this publication is of the nature of general comment only, and does not represent professional advice. It is not intended to provide specific guidance for particular circumstances and it should not be relied on as the basis for any decision to take action or not take action on any matter which it covers. Readers should obtain professional advice where appropriate, before making any such decision. To the maximum extent permitted by law, the authors and publisher disclaim all responsibility and liability to any person, arising directly or indirectly from any person taking or not taking action based on the information in this publication.

This book is dedicated to Anna, Asterix and Arturo. Thank you for everything. You're my number one. Anna, I'm sorry. I should have listened to you and bought a grate for the fireplace. The hole in the floorboards caused by the flying bit of wood could have been avoided if I had just heard you. Asterix, I'm also sorry for not listening to you. That same hole could have been avoided if I'd raised my head when you warned me there was smoke coming from the floor. I'll do my best to look up next time.

On another note, I want to thank my business partners, everyone I work with at Thinkerbell and our clients. In two short years, you've given me so many great ideas to write about.

Thanks to the incredible team at Wiley, especially Lucy Raymond for liking the idea of Hey big nose' and helping make this project happen. To the brilliant and sensitive editor, Allison Hiew. To the hardcore cognitively ambidextrous Chris Shorten, thanks for pulling the whole thing together. To my co-writer Jen Fleming, who is beyond skilled at deciphering Ferrier'. This book would have been twice as long if you hadn't chopped my words.

My parents sent me to a prestigious private school in Perth called Scotch College, which is the type of school attended by today's leaders of tomorrow and where boys become men. I never saw myself as one of tomorrow's leaders. Here's a story that sums up my school experience. (Brace yourself: it's a good one.)

My mother (oh god, I'm already talking about Mum and I haven't even started the book) had what can only be described as a laissez-faire approach to parenting. I was pretty much a free-range kid with very few boundaries. I didn't wear shoes and never changed my clothes. I'd wear the same outfit for weeks on end. Yes, I slept, went to school, slept, went to school in the same clothes. Bath night was the first night of the month. Kids don't get dirty,' my mum would say, even as my skin became progressively darker as the month went on. When I came home from school, I ate cereal or a big bowl of defrosted frozen peas. I didn't do any homework. During my years at primary school, I was always in trouble because I did my own thing. My parents loved me, but my home life was somewhat unconventional. (If you're wondering why such laidback parents sent me to Scotch, my theory is it came down to the price placebo effect' the more you pay, the better you think it will be.)

Scotch College had a uniform, including a tie and shoes. Socks had to be pulled up, shirt tucked in, all of that. None of which worked for me. My uniform was a hand-me-down with buttons missing, my shirt was always out, and my tie would never do up properly. I looked incredibly dishevelled, which accurately reflected my attitude at school. I was the classic rebel without a cause, constantly in trouble and always at odds with the teachers and other students. I was smart enough, but my grades suffered considerably.

Even though I loved sport and drama, I wasn't very good at either. If you did drama classes at Scotch, you were committing yourself to years of bullying hell. Asthma made me a poor runner. A lack of self-discipline meant I couldn't stick at anything. In year 10 I made the tennis team but was kicked off for fighting with another team member.

You should be getting a picture of someone who was not at their best at school. Throughout this tumultuous period in my life, most of the teachers were blas about my performance. Thirty other kids in the class needed attention. I don't think the teachers enjoyed watching my pain, but they were certainly indifferent. And then, after five years of this mayhem (in my mind), something odd and rather cruel happened. It was the last day of school muck-up day.

For the final assembly, all 140 boys in our house squashed into a crowded science lab that's 140 boys sitting, standing, sweating a coliseum of testosterone. The housemaster was a nice enough guy, a well-known former squash champion and diligent teacher. I always found him to be reasonable, and the other students loved him. He was very athletic and sported a thick, macho moustache. On this last day of school, for reasons I'll never know, he began the final homeroom meeting by saying, Adam Ferrier, could you please come down here and stand next to me?' As I made my way to the front of the class, I wondered if I'd done something worthy of merit. When I got to the front of the room, he ushered me to stand right next to him. He then placed one hand on my shoulder and in front of a silent room, he said, Everyone look at Adam Ferrier. Don't forget him. Adam is the perfect example of someone whose parents have wasted their money sending their son to a school like Scotch.'