Marshall Field's: 1865-2006
by Bob Cook
When word came Tuesday that Federated Department Stores would strip the Marshall Field's name off its Chicago locations and replace it with Macy's, the city reacted as if it had been ordered to start putting ketchup on its hot dogs. Even those who hadn't stepped into a Field's in years expressed shock that a name which survived the 1871 Great Chicago Fire couldn't survive the 2005 Great Cincinnati Merger.
Never mind that Marshall Field's hadn't been locally owned for 20 years, that the production of its signature Frango Mints had long been shipped out from downtown to Pennsylvania and that Hizzoner Richard M. Daley himself declared that his populace was just going to have to accept that times change (even if the mayor's last name doesn't).
To hear Terry J. Lundgren, Federated's chairman, president, CEO and all-powerful overlord, all this emotion is feigned, anyway. Lundgren made it clear when he announced the name change, effective next year, that surveys showed most Chicagoans would miss the Field's name as much as Cubs fans miss Steve Bartman. Lundgren got to play God with Field's when his Cincinnati-based company acquired Field's parent, St. Louis-based May Department Stores, in February in a $12 billion transaction.
Plus, it's not like the 62 Field's stores were the only ones being Macy's-fied. Lundgren's strategy at Federated has been to recast his doddering department stores as either Macy's (middlebrow) or Bloomingdale's (highbrow). So Florida, say good-bye to Burdine's. Hope you liked Kaufman's, Pittsburgh. Filene's will be but a Basement in your memory, Boston. Field's actually got special treatment — Lundgren waited a few months to announce its name change, after lowering the boom on every other store upon the merger.
On the surface, Lundgren's strategy make sense. While Federated's $30 billion in sales make it the third-largest retail chain after Wal-Mart and Sears, the department store industry has long been considered a retail dinosaur. Actually, given that Sears hasn't been so hot itself — another Chicago retailer acquired by an upstart out-of-towner who merged it with the even-more-struggling Kmart — the big retail scene is looking like the sales contest from the movie version of "Glengarry Glen Ross." First place is a Cadillac Eldorado, second place is a set of steak knives, third place is you're fired.
Lundgren is preaching the mantra of branding, figuring that by reducing the multiple names down to Macy's and Bloomingdale's, he can get the beloved economies of scale in purchasing both merchandise and advertising. And he can cut jobs, too — 6,200, as announced Tuesday. These are the sorts of moves Wall Street loves.
Main Street might not be so kind, however.
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Perhaps Lundgren figures that getting rid of the old warhorse names means being able to reshape his stores as places other than where Your Mom shops. On the other hand, these venerable nameplates have a long history, and even those who don't shop there have an emotional attachment to them. Your Mom shopped there, as did Her Mom, as did Her Mom. Maybe a younger generation wants its own stores, but then again, department stores continue to get shoppers as one generation of loyal buyers introduces the next one to their favorite store.
The department store industry isn't a dinosaur just because it's a lumbering beast compared to Wal-Mart and Target on the low-price end, and various specialty stores and boutiques on the high-price end. It's also a dinosaur because for years its management neglected to adjust to the changes going on around it. Ask the people running Nordstrom and Von Maur whether the department store business is a dead end.
Lundgren's strategy will cut costs, but it won't thrill hearts. Macy's and Bloomingdale's won't have the emotional cache of the old names. Outside of a few areas, Macy's is just a place that blows up giant cartoon-character balloons for a Thanksgiving parade.
So why not keep the local names? Is there not a way to consolidate the back-office work, yet give each individual department store chain its own local flavor? With some innovative thinking, Federated could use the existing brand loyalty of the local names and turn it into something bigger, a feeling that you're shopping at a local store with local people. Instead, every store is just one more link on a chain.
If Lundgren wants an example of what happens when you mess with a presumably dying but well-known institution, he should look at the Indiana high school boys' basketball tournament. The state high school athletic association, citing falling attendance and interest, in 1997 announced it would split the state's famed single-class tournament into four classes. Attendance and interest have since cratered. At least the single-class tournament had a history to it. Four classes made the tournament no more special than any other state. It was a Macy's-fication gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Plenty of Chicagoans are already vowing never again to darken the door of a Field's, er, Macy's, whether it be in a mall or the old downtown palace on State Street. Chicagoans, as personified by the self-loathing Second City nickname, have an aversion to all things New York. For them, turning Chicago's premier department store into an outlet with a New York name is like Giordano's and Gino's East dumping their deep-dish pizzas in favor of knishes.
Lundgren, recognizing Chicago's deep feelings for Field's, says he's thinking of bringing the Frango Mint production back to the downtown store. Alas, little chocolate candies aren't going to mask the sour taste of once and for all killing the idea of the local department store.
E-mail Bob Cook at bobc@flakmag.com.
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photo by Dave Kropf (dave at davekropf dot com)
