What do a pair of Levi’s 501s, a Filofax planner, and a can of Coca-Cola have in common?
None of them set out to become cult brands—but they did.
Welcome to the world of accidental cult brands, where myth meets marketing and products transcend their purpose. In the pantheon of brand icons, two tribes dominate. The first includes products repurposed from their original use by unexpected consumers; the second, those whose flaws became their greatest strengths. If the first category is inherently difficult to replicate, the second has been, and continues to be, replicated with success.
It all began in the 1970s, when a handful of Madison Avenue mad men dared to flip the script. They broke the rules. They flirted with provocation. They turned marketing into subversion. Their big idea? Highlight what made a product imperfect—and make that the very reason people wanted it.
Take Volkswagen’s Beetle. It was famously marketed as small and ugly. Consumers were told, bluntly, that people bought it without excitement. This technique quickly spread to other brands, whose stories are still told—and imitated—using that same foundational approach.
But unlike these storytelling techniques that can build a successful narrative ex nihilo around a product, true cult brands are born from unpredictable—and nearly impossible to replicate—moments.
The Levi’s saga stands as a shining example here. Let’s talk 501: three numbers, one myth. A red label on the back pocket, copper rivets reinforcing the seams, fabric that’s raw and rugged for the purists, then offered in a spectrum of blues for the adventurous—these are its defining features.
The denim itself? Tough as nails. Dark on one side, pale on the other. But it wasn’t destined to become a multigenerational icon. It was workwear. Until something happened that completely changed the script.
The word “jean” entered the English language as early as 1567. It traces its roots to the city of Genoa, where the fabric was used to make clothing for Italian fishermen. Originally spelled gean, it gradually became jean. When denim fabric and jeans—both initially produced in England—arrived in America, they fused into one and the same product: a rugged, all-terrain garment, whether sturdy trousers or hard-wearing work overalls.
Then came Levi Strauss, a young German immigrant in San Francisco, who saw gold not just in California’s rivers, but in the clothes worn to mine it. His denim trousers outfitted miners, farmhands, railway workers—men building America from the ground up.
But the true transformation came not in the factories, but in the streets. When workers went on strike demanding fair pay and union rights, a political elite of student activists joined in protest. And, as a statement of solidarity, they wore jeans.
The pants leave the factories, the mud, and the grease behind. They become a symbol of protest and difference. Levi’s, by a stroke of providence, continues to capitalize on this shift in the same way. The elites—and the jeans that had become their emblem—give way to ranch culture and rodeos. Jeans are now worn by cowboys, in the arena and in the stands. Female spectators want in. They want to dress like the men. And they do—but not just in any jeans. They choose the pair Levi’s designs just for them: the ancestor of today’s iconic 501.
In 1935, these decidedly unglamorous but outrageously comfortable pants make their debut in the pages of Vogue. The magazine gives them a tagline: “Worn by the knowing.”
The rest is history.
What else?
Frédérique Brengues-Rolland
is an author and journalist specializing in trends and international advertising creation. She is dedicated to studying brands and the images they project. She currently contributes to Story School as an expert.
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