Turn insights into solutions

The alcohol decline has been building in Japan since 2016 and is now statistically striking: a survey of Japanese people in their twenties found that 60% drink less than once a month, and nearly 50% abstain entirely, as beer sales dropped 9%. The standard explanations — health consciousness, cost, work-life renegotiation — are all real. But they undersell what's actually happening. Nomikai, the after-work drinking party, was never really about the beer. It was the ritual through which corporate Japan reproduced its social contract: you drink with your boss, you perform belonging, you earn your place. Cafés are staying open later, alcohol-free options are expanding, and socialising is becoming less about endurance drinking and more about conversation. Young Japanese aren't just choosing mocktails. They're declining a particular kind of obligation.

The nostalgia economy runs parallel. Bubble era nostalgia is a form of "safe rebellion" — consumed more as an aesthetic experience. The appeal of Showa retro among those born decades after the era ended as a desire for "light exoticism" — not nostalgia for the past exactly, but interest in eras as a "new culture" they have never experienced before. A generation raised on economic stagnation and demographic anxiety is buying access to a Japan that felt like it had somewhere to go.

What connects the two trends is the same refusal — of speed, obligation, and the social performance the older Japan demanded. Not drinking is opting out of the boss's ritual. Sitting in a kissaten with a siphon-brewed coffee and a chunky-font magazine is opting out of optimisation culture. Both are acts of deceleration dressed up as aesthetics. Between the relentless march of tech, global economic uncertainty, and the emotional drain of the news cycle, these throwback trends offer comfort and control. That's not comfort culture though. That's a fairly precise diagnosis of what's been lost.

There's a peculiar logic to Coach's resurrection: it got cool again precisely by staying affordable. While LVMH was busy telling the world that luxury means pain at the checkout, Coach was asking out loud whether anyone should really save four months of salary for a bag.

The real strategic move wasn't the rebrand or the celebrity campaigns. It was the decision to stop lying to themselves. They closed the outlet stores, killed the 20%-off-everything coupons, and admitted that discounting isn't a sales strategy — it's a slow brand funeral.

What followed is a case study in how to use heritage as an asset. The Y2K revival didn't happen to Coach — Coach happened to Y2K. They had the archive, the craft story (a baseball glove, of all things), and the patience to wait for the cultural moment to arrive. When Gen Z decided that old-is-new and customisation is identity, Coach had the charms, the brooches, and the Tabby bag ready to go.

The number that should make luxury conglomerates uncomfortable: demand up 332% year over year, double-digit sales growth for two consecutive quarters, while LVMH was reporting declines and blaming "the affordable luxury consumer." Coach is that consumer — and apparently, that consumer is doing just fine.

The risk now is the oldest one in fashion: winning so visibly that you forget why you won.

Wendy's starting roasting customers back in 2017 was a breach of protocol. A brand that size replying like a person genuinely confused people. That confusion was the value. It took a few years for every fast-food chain, airline, and snack brand to adopt the same register.

Nutter Butter posts distorted, chaotic TikToks with no product logic. Dunkin' builds a flirtatious spider character. Netflix captions its Instagram posts with meme templates any brand could use. Different companies, different categories, identical behaviour. Sprout Social's Q2 2025 Pulse Survey found that only 23% of consumers consider unhinged brands "bold" — while 50% said the boldest brands are simply the most honest ones. Rachel Karten, who consults on brand social strategy, put the problem plainly: go to the comment section of any viral post and all the brands commenting sound exactly the same. Personality became a style guide item, not a strategic position. Even Apple — a company that until recently barely acknowledged social media existed — launched the MacBook Neo with absurdist TikToks so chaotic that commenters asked if the account had been hacked. When the most controlled brand on earth starts posting lemons receiving FaceTime calls, the format has fully standardised.

Ryanair is a case worth separating from the rest. 2.7 million TikTok followers built on self-deprecating humour about the very things customers complain about — cramped seats, hidden fees, the bare minimum. The personality works precisely because it doesn't pretend the product is something it isn't. That's not unhinged branding; it's radical coherence with a low-cost proposition. The difference between Ryanair and Nutter Butter is that Ryanair's tone is tethered to a product truth. When it isn't, personality is just decoration.

The counter-examples sit in a different category entirely. Costco has kept its hot dog combo at $1.50 since 1985, barely advertises, and charges you a membership fee just to shop there — Gen Z and Millennial sales are up 12% year-on-year, and young shoppers are pooling memberships and bulk-buying in groups just to get access. Decathlon is the world's largest sports retailer with no celebrity endorsements and near-zero marketing spend — it sells a hiking backpack with a 10-year warranty for the price of a cocktail, and lets that do the talking. Monzo passed 15 million customers in 2026, with two-thirds of sign-ups coming from word of mouth — no campaign, no character, just instant spending notifications that most high-street banks still can't match. None of these brands have a social media personality worth mentioning. All of them have a product behaviour worth copying — which, as it turns out, is harder.

For decades, consumer confidence was a reasonable proxy for what people would do with their money. When they felt bad, they spent less. That relationship has now broken, and the break looks permanent.

The finding sitting underneath the headline is the sharper one. It isn't just that pessimistic people keep spending — it's that they've developed a new internal arithmetic for doing so. Cross-category trade-downs are becoming standard behaviour: more than one-third of consumers surveyed say they've traded down in one category while planning to splurge in another. The more striking figure is that 19 percent plan to cut back on a non-discretionary category — groceries, utilities, essentials — specifically to fund something more discretionary. The consumer who skips the branded pasta to pay for a weekend away isn't irrational; they've just decided that value lives somewhere else this week, and somewhere different next week.

This has a consequence that the data only hints at. When consumers stop browsing and start executing — buying to a mental list, trading down with surgical precision, splurging on exactly the things that matter to them — the old model of brand loyalty via shelf presence starts to erode. Being widely distributed is no longer enough if you're not already in the consumer's head before they open the app. The competition isn't the brand next to you on the shelf; it's the decision made three categories away.

The Gen Z data adds one more wrinkle. Half of US Gen Z consumers say they couldn't sustain their current lifestyle for more than a month on savings, yet they remain the generation most willing to splurge and take on debt to do it. The financial insecurity isn't moderating the spending; it may be accelerating it. Delayed gratification requires a stable future to delay toward, and that future doesn't feel particularly stable right now.

The slogan has been running for 54 years. The woman who wrote it is only now getting a documentary. That gap is the whole story, and to the film's credit, it doesn't flinch from it. Specht didn't write "Because I'm Worth It" as a brand strategy — she wrote it because she was angry at a roomful of men who thought the ad should show a woman standing near an open window with the curtains blowing. The line was an act of irritation, not inspiration.

But irritation needs a platform. Specht struck a nerve, and L'Oréal's reach is what let it travel — across countries, decades, generations of women who recognised something in four words that most campaigns can't achieve in forty. The line and the brand are not separable. Without L'Oréal, it stays in the room.

"Because I'm Worth It" keeps working not through repetition but through relevance — each new generation finds the line and makes it their own, because the feeling it names remains unresolved. Specht's irritation turned out to have a longer half-life than most strategies. The documentary L'Oréal commissioned to tell that story is, of course, also a campaign — which doesn't make the story less true. It just means the line is still working, fifty-four years later, in formats that didn't exist when Specht wrote it.