Bottle Service: How Snapple Took Over the 1990s

David Paul Morris, Getty Images
David Paul Morris, Getty Images

For many consumer brands, the ultimate sign of success is being the subject of an urban legend. In 1985, Procter & Gamble had to refute accusations that their moon and stars logo was somehow representative of Satan worship. In the 1990s, Kentucky Fried Chicken’s publicity department fielded questions about raising eight-legged chickens with no beaks in order to satisfy product demand. In the trifecta of brand disparagement, a rumor circulated in the early 1970s that “Mikey,” the spokes-kid for Life Cereal, had died after mixing Pop Rocks candy with Coca-Cola to produce a combustible blend that blew up his stomach.

In 1993, it was Snapple’s turn. For months, word had circulated in California's Bay Area that the massively popular iced tea and fruit drink brand was secretly funneling money to the Ku Klux Klan organization. The reason? A small “K” appeared on the product label. The rumor persisted to the point that Snapple took out ads in California newspapers to declare they had no involvement with the group.

That such a rumor existed was a kind of testament to the brand's market dominance. Originally founded in Long Island as a regional manufacturer of alternative drinks, Snapple had grown from $13.3 million in revenue in 1988 to $774 million in 1994. Positioned as a healthy alternative to soft drinks, the company used clever marketing, homespun consumer relations, and a relatable spokeswoman to become one of the biggest consumer success stories of the 1990s.

Unfortunately, Snapple’s problems went beyond being falsely affiliated with a racist hate group. Despite their raging success and a $1.7 billion valuation, the company lost sight of the marketing strategy that had catapulted them to a leading position in the beverage market. By 1997, consumers were losing their taste for the “best stuff on earth."

 
 

Arnold Greenberg was running a health food store in 1972 when two old friends joined him in a new venture. Leonard Marsh and Hyman Golden were brothers-in-law and owned a window washing business. On the side, they partnered with Greenberg to create Unadulterated Food Products, Inc., peddling fruit juices, eggs, and produce to other health food stores in and around New York City.

The men intended for their flagship product to be a carbonated fruit juice, combining the fizz of a soft drink with natural ingredients. Their first try, apple juice, fermented in the bottle and exploded, popping off caps and ruining their inventory. The drink was abandoned, but the name—Snapple, a mix of “snappy” and “apple”—stuck. (A company in Texas happened to have already trademarked the name. The three men bought it for $500.)

A bottle of Snapple sits on a table
chrisjtse, Flickr // CC BY-ND 2.0

Unadulterated Food Products did steady business for much of the 1980s selling to bodegas, delis, and other food service locations where people could pick up a bottle to go along with their lunch. In 1987, they had a breakthrough with their approach to iced tea. By bottling it hot, the company was able to avoid adding preservatives, which bolstered their all-natural claims. And by offering it year-round instead of just in the summer, they appealed to consumers who enjoyed the drink in cooler weather.

Snapple embraced their homemade identity. Sipping tea from their wide-mouth bottles was not unlike sipping from a piece of glassware on a porch somewhere; their labels were haphazard in design, the graphics a little lopsided. Compared to the corporate perfection of Coca-Cola, Snapple seemed scrappy.

 
 

Despite the company’s commitment to a casual aesthetic, Greenberg and his partners were taken aback in 1993, when advertising firm Kirshenbaum Bond presented their newest idea for a national ad campaign. They wanted to film the company’s mailroom lady, Wendy Kaufman.

Kaufman had arrived at Snapple in 1991 after getting a referral from a friend’s father who also happened to be a close friend of Greenberg’s. Working in the shipping department, Kaufman took notice of the many letters that were pouring in to the company’s Valley Stream, Long Island headquarters. She asked a supervisor if she could begin responding to them. From there, Kaufman’s job developed into more of a public relations representative.

The ad firm’s idea was to maintain both Snapple’s simplicity and Kaufman’s unrehearsed appeal by shooting a series of television spots that would feature her reading real letters from behind a desk and then following up with the correspondent. One kid wrote in saying he’d make a good mascot; Kaufman showed up with a film crew and took him to mascot school. Another asked Kaufman to be his prom date; she accepted.

For Kaufman, it was an opportunity to distance herself from a self-admitted coke addiction (not the carbonated kind) that had started in 1980. For Snapple, it represented a chance to further their brand identity by passing up the kind of rock star endorsements common in the beverage industry. The 37 commercial spots, shot between 1993 and 1995, were enormously popular, and Kaufman became a mascot on par with Tony the Tiger. She made personal appearances, storming dorm rooms with cases of Snapple. She sifted through 2000 letters a week. Sales jumped from $232 million in 1992 to $774 million in 1994. Snapple was on Seinfeld, on the lips of radio personality Howard Stern, and celebrated for its unique marketing approach.

Then “Crapple” happened.

 
 

In 1992, Greenberg, Marsh, and Golden agreed to sell a majority stake in Snapple to the Thomas H. Lee investment firm, with Marsh remaining on as CEO. Then, in 1994, Snapple was sold to the Quaker Oats Company. As successful as Snapple had been, industry observers were excited to see what a global conglomerate could do to carry the brand further.

As the Harvard Business Review would later point out, fostering an already-successful brand is not as easy as it appears. Quaker Oats had enjoyed an explosion of support for its Gatorade sports drink brand and believed it could apply some of those same strategies to Snapple. Bottles got bigger, from the standard 16 ounces to 32 and even 64-ounce containers. Gone was Kaufman, no longer a good fit for Quaker’s polished promotional plans. They also cut ties with Stern, believing the controversial entertainer didn't reflect Snapple’s growing maturity in the market.

Bottles of Snapple line a store shelf
David Paul Morris, Getty Images

In retrospect, Quaker had erred on all counts. Consumers had little interest in vats of iced tea in 64-ounce containers, preferring to sip smaller bottles at work. They missed Kaufman, who was synonymous with the brand’s irreverence and homegrown feel. And Stern, who could be caustic when he felt minimized by sponsors, began using his considerable airtime to roast Snapple, calling it “Crapple.” The rants were beamed to millions of his listeners at stations around the country.

Quaker had, in effect, misjudged or mistimed Snapple’s graduation from plucky beverage upstart to a dignified institution. The company sold the brand to Triarc for $300 million in 1997. They had paid $1.4 billion for it just three years earlier. Following the sale, Quaker CEO Bill Smithburg resigned from his post.

 
 

Though Snapple’s heyday may have passed, there was still considerable consumer enthusiasm for its more adventurous flavors (like Diet Kiwi Strawberry Cocktail, which was allegedly a favorite among some horses at a Seattle stable) and for a return to less aggressive marketing. In 1997, Triarc invited Kaufman not only to come back and shoot a new commercial but to allow her face to be stamped on every bottle of Wendy’s Tropical Inspiration. And instead of limiting distributors to certain flavors, they shipped out more varied assortments and let consumers decide what they liked.

Triarc’s success was as notable as Quaker’s failure. The company sold Snapple to Cadbury Schweppes in 2000 for $1.45 billion. As part of the Dr Pepper Snapple Group, the brand changed hands once more early in 2018, selling to coffee cup giant Keurig, part of the JAB Holdings investment group, in exchange for $18.7 billion to shareholders.

It’s been a roller coaster of a ride for Snapple, which started in a small health food store, became a part of popular culture, was nearly done in by a misguided marketing plan, and was finally restored to its former glory by a company willing to get back to the basics.

As for that hate group involvement: The “K” on the label never had any connection with Klan activity. It stood for “kosher.”

When the Commodore 64 Ruled Personal Computing

Conor Lawless, Flickr // CC BY 2.0
Conor Lawless, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

In the early 1980s—when the average cost of a personal computer was $2700, and the average American earned just over $14,500 per year—Jack Tramiel decided to do for computers what Henry Ford had done for cars with the Model T: roll out a model that could be manufactured cheaply and efficiently, allowing more people to have PCs in their homes. “We design for the masses, not the classes,” Tramiel once famously said.

The result of Tramiel’s effort was the Commodore 64, a personal computer that brought home hardware from the sterile aisles of specialty stores to mass market retailers like Kmart. Priced at $595 in September 1982, it quickly fell to $400, then $300, and eventually $190. Unlike most PCs of the era, the Commodore 64 could play games. Like the Model T, it didn’t have the sexiest aesthetic—the boxy keyboard housed its guts, while a separate monitor quickly crowded one's workspace—but it was cheap enough to sell 500,000 units a month. To this day, it remains the best-selling single model of computer of all time—an impressive statistic for a machine that sold Dragon’s Lair on cassette tape.

A Commodore 64 computer is set up for public display
afromusing, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

Tramiel, often considered the “anti-Steve Jobs” for his lack of interest in design elegance, was born in Poland in 1928. Nazi occupation forced his family into Auschwitz, where the camp's infamous SS captain/physician Josef Mengele hand-picked Tramiel and his father for work camp detail. His mother survived, but his father died under circumstances that were never confirmed. Tramiel later said he believed Nazi experimenters injected him with gasoline.

Tramiel, who was fascinated with all things mechanical, learned to repair typewriters in the Army. Upon discharge, he opened a typewriter shop in the Bronx before relocating to Toronto in the 1950s. His interest grew to calculators, and by the 1970s, his business—Commodore, named after the Opel Commodore car that he admired—was involved in the burgeoning personal computing field.

Tramiel’s aim was economy, and he bought his own chip manufacturer, MOS, to keep costs down. The result of their efforts was the 6502 processor, which could be rolled out inexpensively and rapidly. After the success of Commodore’s VIC-20, a $300 PC that had a color monitor (unheard-of at that price point), Tramiel focused all of his company’s resources on the Commodore 64.

The C64 had 64 kilobytes of RAM, a speedier 6510 processor, and a music synthesizer. While not quite in the league of the most expensive computers of the era, it outworked the Apple II and its 44 kilobytes of memory. Tramiel hoped it would be a kind of gateway computer, capable of introducing home users to BASIC programming language while amusing them with a library of educational and entertainment software. Programs were sold on floppies—which were invariably slow to load—or on data cassettes that could be played with the addition of a $75 peripheral.

Tramiel was so enthusiastic about the potential of the C64 that he rushed it to market, cramming its parts into old VIC-20 cabinets and prompting a quarter of the shipped units to arrive defective. It didn't do much to undermine the launch; Tramiel sent clear instructions to retailers telling them to exchange bad units without hassle. The machine took off, selling for $595 and promising an eclectic end-user experience. Opposing machines like the Apple IIc, Apple Macintosh, and IBM PC Junior, Tramiel’s model cost just a fraction of the price and, subjectively at least, was far more entertaining. Software titles expanded into the thousands, from licensed games like Ghostbusters to Boulder Dash to quasi-adult offerings like Strip Poker. Serious users had Microsoft spreadsheet programs or desktop publishing.

As manufacturing costs dropped—the unit cost Tramiel about $135 to produce—so did the price of the C64. Tramiel offered a $100 trade-in allowance for people who brought in old hardware, and even allowed retailers to accept old video game consoles like the Atari 2600. By 1984, the Commodore 64 represented a staggering 30 percent of the home computing market.

While the price point was appealing, it was Tramiel’s distribution strategy that surprised competitors. Rather than stick to computer stores, the Commodore 64 was stocked at mass market retailers in much the same way television and game systems had broken out of their hobbyist markets. Seeing a Commodore 64 display at Sears helped normalize the idea of home computing.

But not all users were satisfied customers. While the price kept plummeting, consumers realized that the central hardware was only part of the puzzle. A dot-matrix printer, cassette deck, modem, and other accessories could add hundreds of dollars to their investment. At $50, software wasn’t inexpensive, either. Even at its lowest price point of under $200, a fully expanded C64 setup could run $1000 (which would be just over $2600 in today's dollars).

Still, the Commodore 64 managed to permeate an incredible number of U.S. households. By some estimates, 17 to 20 million units were sold through the early 1990s, at which point PCs with greater processing speeds and more attractive design elements became the norm. Commodore tried upping the ante with the Commodore 128 and other models, but consumers were no longer in need of training wheels. With the presence of a home PC having been normalized and other manufacturers bringing costs down, Commodore fell behind.

Tramiel, who had resigned to run the ailing Atari corporation in the mid-1980s, died in 2012. While his creation doesn’t have quite the same popular recognition as Apple, it might have been the single most influential piece of hardware to come around in the nascent home PC era. A “retro” mini version is due in fall 2018. Naturally, it comes with 64 games.

No Strings Attached: The Puppet Satire of D.C. Follies

Courtesy of Shout! Factory
Courtesy of Shout! Factory

At one corner of the bar, Jack Nicholson is seducing Margaret Thatcher. At another, Richard Nixon is reconsidering the sins of his presidency. Before the night is out, Sylvester Stallone, Oliver North, and Dan Rather will all make appearances, each sporting slightly exaggerated features and misshapen heads.

For two seasons between 1987 and 1989, a fictional Washington, D.C. bar was the setting for this unlikely assembly of political and entertainment figures cast in foam and orbiting around the show’s only regular human performer, actor Fred Willard. D.C. Follies might have been the most peculiar thing to come from the minds of famed television duo Sid and Marty Krofft, and when the hallucinogenic H.R. Pufnstuf is on their resume, that’s saying something.

A screen capture from the 'D.C. Follies' television series
Courtesy of Shout! Factory

The satirical, syndicated half-hour series might not have been paying licensing fees to the UK’s ITV network, but there’s a good argument for why they should have. In 1984, the channel began airing Spitting Image, a sharp, cutting take on world affairs created by Peter Fluck and Roger Law that used hypnotically repugnant puppets to represent political figures and members of the British royal family. The altered reality allowed for skewering, with jokes and actions that would have seemed too mean-spirited in live-action made permissible by the fact that they were embodied by living caricatures. In one sketch, then-Prime Minister Thatcher wondered why the poor didn’t just “eat their own bodies,” while newspaper employees at reputed tabloid outlets were depicted as literal pigs. At the height of its popularity, Spitting Image was viewed by 18 million viewers weekly.

Although other UK comedy exports like Monty Python's Flying Circus had found success with American audiences, Spitting Image was strikingly topical and resonated best with British audiences. A series of American-oriented specials for NBC that aired in 1986 and 1987 did well, but not well enough to commit to a series. At the same time, Sid and Marty Krofft—who had made their last name synonymous with Saturday morning kid TV culture in the 1970s—were working on a show that would emulate Fluck and Law’s approach. Thatcher would take a back seat to Oliver North, Dan Quayle, and other sometimes scandalous figures in then-contemporary U.S. politics. With Willard cast as the bartender, D.C. Follies got picked up in 90 markets for syndication beginning in September 1987.

The Kroffts had experience with parody puppets, having crafted Elvis Presley in felt as far back as the 1950s and mounting an elaborate live show, Les Poupées de Paris (The Dolls of Paris), that featured topless puppets. Not quite as appalling in appearance as the Spitting Image cast, the near-life-size foam stand-ins cost between $1500 and $3000 apiece. Political cartoonists like Bob Myers, who contributed to the New York Daily News, would offer a design that puppet makers could use as inspiration for a sculpt. People with easily identifiable features, like the drooping lip of Stallone or the shock of bright red hair sported by Jim Bakker's mistress Jessica Hahn, were ideal.

Unlike Fluck and Law, who typically targeted elected officials, the Kroffts had to be more cautious when it came to legal consequences. While political figures were largely powerless to complain or litigate over puppet counterparts, celebrities tended to exercise more caution over their likeness. D.C. Follies got away with using Woody Allen, Dolly Parton, and a host of others, but Frank Sinatra threatened to sue if he showed up cast in foam. The show eventually added a disclaimer at the end reminding viewers it was meant to be taken in jest.

There was also the challenge of remaining topical in a fast-moving news cycle. Unlike most scripted series, D.C. Follies was taped just three days prior to air to avoid time-worn jokes. Marty Krofft told the press that a puppet could be crafted in just 36 hours if needed, making it easier for them to comment on that week’s headlines.

D.C. Follies premiered the weekend of September 26 and 27, 1987, an auspicious debut for a syndicated offering: It was the same weekend Star Trek: The Next Generation began airing. Often on late at night and sometimes opposite Saturday Night Live, Follies invited a number of human guest stars—Martin Mull was the first—who tried not to be upstaged by the vaguely disfigured effigies surrounding them. Marty Krofft allegedly recruited some guests simply by threatening to make a mocking puppet of them if they didn’t agree to appear.

A screen capture from the 'D.C. Follies' television series
Courtesy of Shout! Factory

Each week, Willard—who was apparently hired for his ability to make conversing with puppets seem plausible—lent a sympathetic ear to the problems expressed by his satirical patrons. The blend of characters and real guests made for some odd pairings: The real Mike Tyson once appeared to box a puppet George Bush. Freddy Krueger (Robert Englund in his familiar makeup) saddled up to the bar to help plug a new Nightmare on Elm Street movie. Krueger's nightmare: Quayle becoming president.

Mostly, though, the puppets walked in and out of frame in non-sequitur sketches. John Madden might accost Pope John Paul II; Jimmy Carter, Richard Nixon, and Gerald Ford were seen playing Trivial Pursuit, with Nixon admitting his Presidential Library was a Bookmobile; Madonna, Sean Penn, Jesse Jackson, Ted Koppel, and dozens of others also passed through.

Follies earned a second season while still filming its first, but ratings were never strong enough to warrant a third. (Late last year, Shout! Factory released the full series on DVD.) The Kroffts went on to produce similar puppet productions like Red Eye Express and Krofft Late Night. Nothing, however, seemed to endure quite like Spitting Image, which ran for 12 years in the UK and is currently being considered for a U.S.-based revival. Based on today’s political climate, there should be no shortage of material.

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