Broadway Danny Prose

Everyone has a Broadway Danny Prose story. One that’s been massaged and tweaked to line up with their own personal beliefs. He’s a character suited to constant embellishment. There’s the story about how he got his nickname. Madison Avenue Danny Prose was a tongueful. What’s a couple extra blocks to smooth things out? The first one didn’t roll out of the mouth the way a catchy moniker must. 

Whenever he worked on an ad, he’d close the door to his office and say, “if I don’t come out in an hour, call the police.” He was never in there for more than twenty minutes and many times he called the police himself – his uncle was on the job working somewhere in the Bronx. The man couldn’t sit still though. He’d pace during meetings. He’d hurl pencils at the ceiling for hours on end – they don’t stick if you throw the eraser side up. He loved writing, just not as much as not writing. 

I first met Danny in the late 60s or early 70s. Unfortunately, much of that time period is a blur – since I had an undiagnosed astigmatism then. This was when Danny still worked in an agency, barely holding on, barely fitting in. He was actually working on the legendary Volkswagen account when that still mattered. It was a time of unmatched creative productivity. Danny though, as was his way, insisted the team take a different tack. He didn’t like the cuteness of the ads. The pithiness of the copy. The simplicity of the visuals. He wanted to tell a longer, tougher, more interesting story. From his perspective, VW had never honestly addressed their roots as a Nazi company. The others would say, “NASA doesn’t address it, why should we?” “Because it’s the truth.” The last straw came during a big meeting. One of the executives mentioned how they were going to revamp some of the print and radio work. Danny stood up on the table and shouted, “Two wrongs don’t make a Reich.” 

He was carried out of the building by security and tossed into a parked taxi. He rode around in that cab for hours, some say days, wondering where his career had taken such a wrong turn. The cabbie became his first client. He suggested they repaint the entire fleet neon pink, since it was more striking than yellow. It attracted attention from bystanders but on a bright sunny day, you couldn’t safely look at the cars if you didn’t want to be blind. Danny later said it was a “moderate success.” 

Not all Danny Prose stories are full of self-important anger. Most demonstrate his status as a superb sloganeer. He loved changing successful lines to something slightly more inscrutable. “I Want My Maypo” become “I Want Your Maypo” after the Danny Prose treatment. He believed that conflict drove sales, and what better way than encouraging people to forcibly take someone else’s oatmeal? He called it “empowering the consumer.”

The greatest Danny Prose story doesn’t involve any histrionics or preparation of any kind. No last-minute revisions, no careless rewrites on the way from the elevator to the conference room. Because by this point, Danny wasn’t even writing copy or making ads anymore, he was a grunt, an errand boy lucky to still be in the industry. He was on staff as a final favor from one of his only friends left. His sole task was to pick up the concept boards from the printer a couple blocks away. He did that, but then, in Danny Prose fashion proceeded to slip on the sidewalk - some indeterminate liquid was the likely culprit - landing right on his tailbone. The boards flew into the middle of the street, promptly run over by several city buses in a row. But that wasn’t fatal – they were still salvageable. That was until a hansom cab passed and deposited some organic material onto the first, second and then third concept. The only thing looking worse than the boards was his career. 

Danny walked into the office, downcast and forlorn, like a man approaching the gallows. That’s when he saw a few blank large boards in the copy room. Black on one side, white on the other. He entered the conference room with all the heavyweights seated. Everyone was wearing a suit or dress. Danny was in his ancient tweed coat with ripped patches and mustard stains. He nodded and walked over to the easels, making sure the black sides faced out. Then he just started talking.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

No one could stop him, so out of fear of embarrassing themselves they let him run the show. His quips worked, his jokes landed, he was a hit. One-by-one he turned the boards to the white side. At last, he had their full attention.

“Is this some kind of joke?,” asked the ultimate decision maker in the room.

“Certainly not. Just hear me out,” said Danny. “You’re looking at your next campaign. Look closely. Anytime someone sees a blank wall, a gap in the sidewalk, a gap in their teeth, or a hole in the street, they won’t see a void, they’ll see your company. Let their imagination run wild and picture all of your products instead you arbitrarily picking and choosing which ones to focus on. You have a chance to own negative space in a positive way.” 

The room went silent. They were skeptical but they had to admit there was something provocative about it. It was like nothing they’d ever come across. Literally. It was nothing. Word was then ran the campaign for years. The data folks were angry since it was hard to determine exactly who'd seen it. Here was Danny Prose’s finest hour. And he got the highest honor an ad man can receive. Credit. 

Too bad nobody remembers the company or the campaign. Blank walls tend to blend in.