“NO.
IT NEEDS TO BE NOT PORN MUSIC.” Mike Cessario, co-founder and CEO of Liquid Death, shakes his head as a boom-chicka-wah-wah clip plays from a laptop’s speakers, takes a seat at a long table, and explains that his canned water brand’s new commercial spot needs a wholesome soundtrack to pair with its spokesperson, a XXX-rated celebrity.
Andy Pearson, Liquid Death’s vice president for creative, nods in agreement and hits play: “Hi, I’m Cherie DeVille, adult film star,” the actress says to the camera. “And when I want to murder my thirst, I reach for a can of Liquid Death Mountain Water. Because even though I’m into getting my [bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep], one thing I’m not into is single-use plastics.” Moments later, the spot ends with DeVille censored again: “So join me and Liquid Death, and our mission to bring death to plastic. Come on, don’t [bleep] the planet.”
“It’s a good start,” Cessario says of the rough cut. “I think it’s super close.”
Cessario, a 40-year-old former advertising director, taps his fingers on the bridge of his nose. “We need some other visuals,” he says finally. “When we bleep out, we should put something that covers her mouth so you can’t actually see what she’s saying” — maybe a Liquid Death can, he suggests.
The commercial is merely the latest transgressive turn for a brand that’s brought a punky attitude to environmentally conscious hydration. Previous irreverent tag lines have included “Death to Plastic” and “Don’t Be Scared—It’s Just Water.” Hip-hop artist and cannabis purveyor Wiz Khalifa (an investor in Liquid Death) touted it as “the finest bong water on earth.” Skateboarding legend Tony Hawk (also an investor) literally opened his veins so the brand could paint 100 limited-edition boards with his blood.
Because here’s the thing: When your product falls from the sky, flows from the faucet, and comprises up to 60 percent of your body, image is everything. So you construct a company around a construct. You build a brand about branding. You blaze a precariously narrow trail and make sure to have fun along the way. Because here’s the other thing: Even if the brand takes off, no one knows how far that will take you on its own.
headquarters, a low-slung industrial space in the Del Rey section of Los Angeles, with, , , the Grateful Dead, and Megadeth. Cessario and his senior creative team have convened in the conference room, where a giant banner demands to know: WHY SHOULD ANYONE GIVE A SHIT? In the early days, it was the defining question of the brand. “The only chance we had at survival was if someone got this in their hand, took a photo, and put it on social like, ‘Oh, my god. What is this?’” Cessario says. “Or, if it’s on a shelf, where you have two seconds, what product do people look at and think, ‘What is that?’ Once someone asks that, we’ve won.”
