Last week, I spent my time shuttling about the Ozarks with my wife, our kids and my wife’s family. Specifically, we all convened in Branson, Missouri, for a communal vacation. Why Branson? Because some of us could not afford to fly a family of five to further flung locales and Branson was in driving distance of most attendees.

I grew up about four hours north of Branson in Independence – a suburb of Kansas City (Missouri) best known as the home of President Harry Truman and a righteous cruising strip called Noland Road. I went, not of my own volition, to Branson a couple of times as a youth. Once with my parents and once with a high school group that was doing something educational like tagging and releasing Bald Knobbers.

My last visit to Branson was some 17 years ago when, at my first job, my agency employed Boxcar Willie to sing a version of “Folsom Prison Blues” that I had written for a Jiffy Lube corporate video. (Please, control your jealousy.) The town had long since become a tourist attraction of surprising proportions, with theaters filled with redneck tenors and violinists and non-Elvis Presleys and Russian comics. Also, go-karts. But, not surprisingly, the place had little allure for me as a twenty-something ad writer with the standard-issue jaded streak boosted with a hypercynicism pack.

Branson was not cool.

I am not going to tell you that Branson is now cool. It is not. And, frankly, that is what I found so refreshing about it. Because the town, its people and its attractions were all the one thing that every brand now strives to be and every marketing wonk prattles about while hawking their books – authentic.

Sure, many of the expected stereotypes of the town and region presented themselves without inquiry. A few People of Walmart moments at, naturally, Walmart. Chainsaw art. Lots of words purposefully spelled with apostrophes and backwards letters. And a traffic system that consisted of no urban planning, two lanes and a low speed limit populated by people who naturally drive ten miles under the posted limit anyway. (There was, however, a surprising lack of Ozark Waterfalls as inverted bobs have supplanted femullets as the ladies’ hairstyle of choice.)

So while you can find your fill of kitsch, fried food, SUVs, sleeveless shirts, frozen custard and four story-high go-kart tracks (which I dominated, thank you), there’s one thing you won’t find much of in Branson – cynicism. No, Branson was full of two things sorely missing in many places and many lives:

Honesty and joy.

I saw it at Danna’s Bar-B-Que & Burger Shop whose claims to having the best burgers in Branson turned out not to be the usual flirtation with marketing hyperbole, but actual truth in advertising.

I saw it in the eyes of the Chinese acrobats – who spend nine months of the year in the middle of the Ozark Mountains – as they thanked people after their show.

I saw it at the “Six” show when veterans were honored en masse to rousing applause. A moment that was, of course, planned, but far from calculated.

I saw it, yes, at the go-kart track where people bumped, passed and spun around without resorting to a torrent of curse words or payback. Unless the payback was in the form of a James Brownie Funky Jackhammer.

I saw it when we rode the Duck, an amphibious vehicle piloted by one Captain Hoot. The good captain could give many copywriters a run for their money.

While money flows through Branson like white lightning through a hillbilly (sorry, had to get in one reference), I always got the feeling that the money was the result of a job well done, and not the motivation that forced people to approximate a good effort. People put on shows because they love to entertain. They sell pies because they love to bake pies. They give you free parking at Silver Dollar City because, well, they don’t charge you to park at the mall, do they?

From a vacation standpoint, Branson certainly isn’t for everyone. It is not a beachside resort. It does not offer gambling unless you consider riding zip lines as such. It is not technically a foreign country. It is unabashedly family centric (we were there for a week and the worst thing I had to worry about my kids seeing was when they swiped the remote and stumbled upon the Oxygen channel). And the people wear their patriotism and faith proudly on their sleeves. Which I appreciated, though your mileage may vary.

But if you’re in marketing or advertising and are wondering just what, in reality, embodies that nebulous substance we like to call authenticity, do yourself a favor. Visit Branson, Missouri, ride a go-kart, catch a show or three, ride a Duck and eat a funnel cake.

You may emerge a bit sunburnt and bloated, but with a greater understanding of what genuine authenticity really is.

Later,

Fox