I can’t write without music. I can’t think without at least three stimuli competing for my attention, either. That’s how my brain works.
Right now, I’m listening to Crîtto de lâ Nabahâ, by Califato ¾.
On repeat. Because today, this song has chosen me to tell a story.
Let’s see where it takes us.
It starts with Holy Week trumpets. The kind that give you goosebumps even if you don’t have a religious bone in your body.
In southern Spain, during Holy Week, religious figures are carried through the streets on enormous wooden floats, decked out with flowers and candles.
A float like that weighs hundreds of kilos. A tonne. Even two.
It’s a wooden platform carrying a religious figure, decked out with flowers and candles.
The costaleros carry it, hidden underneath the structure. They walk together, in step, bearing the weight on that exact spot where you used to get smacked on the back of the neck as a kid. Right there.
The costaleros can’t see the street. They can’t see the people. They can’t even see the figure they’re carrying.
From the outside, you see something else.
The figure moving through the crowd. The flowers. The candles. The balconies. The marching band. The solemnity. The spectacle.
The song opens with the voice of the capataz, the man directing the float.
“Come on, Manuel. We’re lifting this one for all those who are no longer here.”
Then the capataz keeps giving instructions: which foot, which direction, how many steps.
The trumpets start blending with an electronic beat that keeps gaining ground. I couldn’t tell you exactly what genre it is. I don’t understand music. I’m just addicted to it.
The music moves forward, and the capataz tells them where they are, what the square smells like, how well they’re doing. Because they can’t see the whole picture.
“You can’t see it, but it’s full of orange trees.”
As the trumpets and the beat set the rhythm of my typing, I think about how easy it is to confuse what we see with what makes it possible for us to see it.
Every decision, every small step you take that ends up shaping the path.
Just like the procession.
From the street, the procession seems to move on its own. Just like that brand you’re obsessed with.
Everything is in place. Everything makes sense.
Nobody sees the feet moving together underneath. The necks carrying the weight. All those little decisions that make it possible to turn a corner or climb a cobbled street without everything falling apart.
You see the float.
On your screen. In your feed. In the brandbook.
All dressed up. The staging. What a brand says about itself. What it makes others see.
But none of that tells you how it got there. Or what keeps it moving.
Underneath, there are people.
And people need more than instructions to keep moving.
Purpose. Nice name.
That’s why I also think about how lovely a written mission looks. And how hard it is to turn it into a contagious vision.
Because the vision is that street full of orange trees.
Everyone can see it. Except those carrying the weight. And the capataz has to describe it so well that those underneath believe him without lifting their heads.
The journey only happens if the purpose is worth it. And if the capataz can make others believe in it.
Some brands are like a polystyrene saint carried in procession. Light. Weightless. They look good in a photo. But there are no costaleros. No capataz. They’re a prompt.
A powerful brand has a capataz. Sometimes it’s a founder, or a hands-on CEO.
Fine. But it’s not the person. It’s the voice.
Today his name is Manuel. Tomorrow it will be someone else. But those underneath will still know why they’re lifting the float.
The trumpets keep going. The beat blends with los campanilleros del cielo and starts to fade.
I’m still thinking about the orange trees.
And about those who can’t see them.
Lines Aja
Brand Strategist & Verbal Identity Consultant — Las Musas®
cultooruido.com