BigLaw is a boy band. A “boy band” is formed by a record company that compiles four or five attractive teenagers and turns them into a single “artist.” The “personalities” of the members tend to follow a pattern: There’s often the “heartthrob/cute one,” the “rebel/bad boy,” or the “nerdy/shy one.” But these contrived variances don’t make the resulting product remarkable or different.
The music is trendy, digestible, and popular. Why not? It’s difficult to fail when everything the group does is meticulously choreographed and monitored: the name, attire, promotional materials, music videos, and sounds all come across as if created in a lab and approved by a focus group. Every song is written, arranged, and produced for the band. It always sounds new, but only in a generic, safe sort of way. That’s because it’s designed to mimic recent trends in the mainstream music scene. These are certainly not “bands” in any way that harkens to the likes of Guns N’ Roses.
BigLaw – a nickname for the nation’s largest law firms – is as much a stylistic choice as it is the absence of style. Like a boy band, BigLaw should be understood for what it is: manufactured and generic. At these firms, groups of lawyers work in the same building and under the same banner. They’re pigeonholed into specific practice areas and don’t necessarily collaborate – many of them don’t even know each other. They may have attractive pedigrees, clean-cut images, stringent dress codes, and look, act, and sound like “lawyers” – as if there were a right or wrong way to be one.
BigLaw attorneys also have archetypes: the “rainmaker,” the “partner who golfs with the judge, the “quirky bow tie wearer,” the “diligent associate.” They’re all there. And more. Walking into a BigLaw castle is like going to see a boy band: elaborately choreographed office staff dance to greet you with overabundant refreshments; the stage is an impressive marble lobby; fine wood and art collections gaze austerely from the walls of the conference room as you take your seat – waiting for the presentation by your team of lawyers. And then, with incredible fanfare, the partner makes an entrance with an entourage of subordinates. There should be a theme song.
This song and dance makes people feel good, comfortable, and safe – like the Backstreet Boys shimmying in unison – but it has nothing whatsoever to do with the practice of law. The show may thrill clients, but it has little substance or value.
By trade, lawyers are thinkers, writers, and problem solvers. They’re creative, passionate advocates. And they should be putting every bit as much effort into writing the songs they perform. Real guitarists. Real drummers. A real band.
In 1987, Guns N’ Roses lead guitarist, Slash, played a random “circus” melody during a warm-up in a house while making faces at the other band members. He was just having fun. But the rhythm guitarist asked him to play it again. The other members weighed in. Vocalist Axl Rose wrote lyrics based on his girlfriend. The song was the legendary Sweet Child O’ Mine.
The song was serendipitously inspired amidst laughter by a group of writers. Why should finding the best way to write a legal argument be any different? This is the true practice of law. There’s no reason the industry shouldn’t have talented people solving clients’ problems creatively, passionately, fearlessly, and wearing whatever clothes they damn-well please.
Like boy bands, BigLaw identities are measured with reference to their ability to tap into the safety of expected archetypes. This is unlike almost every other industry, where a company’s name brand commands a certain meaning because it is associated with the distinctiveness of the products or services marketed under that banner. Not so at BigLaw, which insatiably gobbles up smaller firms in ever-expanding conquests of new cities and markets. The result is indistinguishable firms with indistinguishable names, trading on generic brands, with no internal understanding. Ask a partner in the Atlanta office what the Los Angeles office is doing. Could she tell you?
There’s a better way. Law firms need to find their own voice and should be formed with a distinct identity. By doing so, a law firm can intelligently build a team by selectively hiring professionals who inspire and complement one another. Like members of a true – rather than manufactured – band, these professionals have different talents that come together for a common purpose and breathe life into the law firm’s collective voice.
Law firms should be practices governed by their own unique abilities to provide for their clients – and clients who need a certain sound should be able to find a firm purpose-built with their specific needs in mind. After all, a client is hiring a band to compose a song. Not all clients want or need the same sound. There should always be a way to bring innovation to the music.
There are opportunities for law firms with the courage to be different. Firms shouldn’t reflexively strive to be BigLaw wannabes, but should instead find their own voices and be authentic. When these unique law firms audition for clients, they’re genuinely in a position to display their specific capabilities and style.
Welcome to the jungle: You don’t have to listen to the Backstreet Boys. Clients have a real choice when selecting a law firm that’s right for them. When the right band is playing together, its music can be every bit as popular as that safe, manufactured top-40 hit.
As we all know, most of the best songs were written in a garage.
