Crutchfield Audio: A Company That Understands Customer Service

We drive old cars. The newest vehicle in our family fleet is a 2001 Honda Odyssey with manual sliding doors. Our budget is tight, so we tend to keep our cars until they have to be sustained by extraordinary measures (something other than duct tape and wire hangers). As long as the old girl can get us from point A to point B, we’ll hold on to her, even if she’s wheezing and limping a bit. This requires a lot of self-maintenance, but the absence of car payments allows us to throw a heftier chunk of our monthly income at other things—such as a more spacious house, healthier food, educational expenses, cigars, single-malt Scotch, and other necessities.

My son gets around in a 1995 Honda Accord graciously donated by his grandparents. It’s still in good shape, but the factory stereo system lost its appeal some time ago. With a built-in cassette deck, no smartphone hookup, and speakers that do to music what a coffee grinder does to beans, it entered its twilight years when “W” was in his first term. So we decided to embark on a stereo-upgrade journey.

First order of business: Determine a budget. My son would be spending his own money, so he wanted to stay under $400 for a decent system (head unit and four speakers). Next, obtain some advice on how, what, and where to buy. The last time I purchased an after-market car stereo, I was a teenager—long before the invention of the Internet, electricity, tools, or the wheel. I would require some guidance this time around. When starting from scratch on a purchase like this, I usually consult a few “buying guides” on the Internet. Buying guides don’t tell you everything, but they’re great at providing the big picture of the process, as well as the main considerations you need to mull over before shopping. Think of buying guides as the wide end of the shopping funnel. Just be sure you consult a current guide; otherwise, you’ll miss out on the latest products, features, technology, and trends.

To further narrow our options, we started with the professional- vs. self-installation question. Since we wanted a quality name-brand system for the lowest possible price, we decided to self-install. We opted, therefore, to confine our search to online retailers, since we assumed the prices would be better than at brick-and-mortar venues. We were slightly anxious about tearing into the dashboard, yanking out a wad of wires, and reconnecting everything correctly. The last thing we wanted was to switch on the stereo and receive a blast from the heater, especially in summer. We hoped, however, to find some online help with installation as well as with products.

Amazon was our first stop. Our thinking was that even if we didn’t buy from them, the reviews were thorough and plentiful, and we could at least see what was popular. Same with Best Buy’s site, which we also included in our search. It didn’t take long to whittle down our list of options (again, thanks to a limited budget). We avoided touch-screen systems, built-in GPS, and expensive component speakers. We found that for $350 to $375, we could acquire a name-brand head unit with HD radio, CD player, Bluetooth, auxiliary connector, station preset buttons, connectors for an amplifier (if we wanted to add one later), and other useful features, as well as a set of four two-way coaxial speakers.

After several hours of perusing products and reviews, though, it seemed like something was missing. The process felt disjointed, for one thing. We were jumping around a lot, cobbling together a system in no particular order—like shopping at the grocery store without a list.

You’ve done this, right? You scurry off to Wal Mart with an idea of what you need, but then you end up hopping all over the store, backtracking and hitting the same aisles. If, however, you use your handy grocery app, which lists the items you need by aisle, you start your journey at one end of the store and finish at the other—flowing through the task without wasting any effort. Smooth. Seamless. Streamlined. Simple. So far, that wasn’t our experience.

Part of the problem was that we weren’t 100% sure the products we were interested in would fit my son’s vehicle. Some of the information was sketchy regarding which products fit which cars. Additionally, after-market installation—especially on older cars—often requires adapters, harnesses, head unit cages, speaker brackets, and other items for a a flush and functional fit. Did our car need any of these items? Which ones? How many? Where should we look for them? We didn’t know.

That’s when we ran across Crutchfield Audio’s website (www.crutchfield.com). Man, these guys know what they’re doing! Their entire site is ostensibly built around two primary goals: 1) helping customers find the exact products for their specific vehicle and 2) alleviating customers’ angst about self-installation. Navigation is intuitive, components are easy to find, and a knowledgeable and helpful agent is only a chat window away if you need some input. There’s also a Learning Center replete with product demos, installation videos, and downloadable guides.

But here’s the real clincher: That fragmented feeling I described earlier? It disappeared on crutchfield.com. Our shopping experience was smooth and seamless. We began by entering our vehicle make and year into the Outfit My Car wizard, and up popped a page that listed the Accord’s existing factory components, including the size of the head unit (single DIN, double DIN, etc.) and the configuration (location and dimension) of the speakers.

From that page, we were able to jump into the shopping flow for head units, speakers, whatever we wanted to see—and we were only shown  products that were compatible with our vehicle. We were able to view summaries, stats, reviews, photos, and more.  And, again, the chat option was always there if we had questions along the way.

We actually visited crutchfield.com three times before ordering, chatting with a different agent each time. Immediately after each visit, we received a friendly thank-you email from the agent, along with a full transcript of the chat. When I finally placed the order online, I was prompted to select the agent who helped me (I assume, for the purpose of assigning credit for the sale). I simply reviewed the transcripts and selected the agent with whom I had chatted the longest.

As I assembled my online shopping cart, I noticed that some items had been added that I didn’t remember selecting, i.e., a trim kit for the head unit and electrical harnesses for both the head unit and the speakers. These pieces were necessary for installation in my specific vehicle, and they were added automatically. I would have paid around $30 for these if I had shopped for them separately, but Crutchfield included them with the order at no extra charge. Then, when my order confirmation arrived by email, there was an attachment labeled Master Sheet. This contained step-by-step installation instructions—again, for my specific vehicle. We were able to review these before the system arrived.

Once we started installation, if we hit a snag that the Master Sheet didn’t address, we called Crutchfield’s tech support line, which is set up to help the customer unravel installation quandaries. I must have called this line half a dozen times, and I don’t remember waiting for an agent more than a minute at most (which was also the case, by the way, with their Customer Support department). Every person I talked to was articulate, knowledgeable, helpful, and seemingly appreciative of my business.

Nobody, however, is perfect. Mid-installation, we discovered that the pair of oval 6 x 9 speakers we ordered for the rear deck wouldn’t fit (even though the website said they would). I could have made them fit, if I had been willing to engage in a major construction project, which I wasn’t. I called Crutchfield’s tech support line to see if there was an easier customization solution, and there wasn’t. The tech agent and I decided together that the best option was to install the same 6 1/2″ speakers in the rear that we had installed in the front door panels. He immediately put in an order for these (note: this was taken care of by the tech support agent, without his having to transfer me to the customer service department) and emailed me a return authorization and shipping label for the oval speakers. The new speakers arrived in a couple days, and as soon as the returns hit Crutchfield’s dock, they credited my son’s account $50, since the new speakers were less expensive than the ones we originally purchased.

So, the stereo is installed and the tunes are cranking. And thanks to Crutchfield, we felt as though the entire experience—from initial shopping to screwing down the final speaker cover—was all about us. Sure, we could have acquired the same system from another online retailer for $30-$40 less. But the quality of service and the free installation equipment we received more than made up for the difference. No surprise that Crutchfield has been in business for 40 years!

We drive old vehicles. But thanks to Crutchfield, one of them now has a new lease on life. My son would tell you the same thing . . . if I could ever get him out of the car.

The Lost Treasure of Customer Service

As a consumer who appreciates — but only occasionally experiences — excellent customer service, I can relate to archaeologist-adventurer Indiana Jones. In the quest for the rare jewel of outstanding service, the moments are few and far between that I actually get to curl my eager fingers around that elusive treasure. Sad, because customer service was once something companies expected their employees to provide, and something consumers expected to receive. These days it’s so uncommon that, when we do receive it, it’s as though we’ve stumbled in the sand and inadvertently unearthed the bust of Nefertiti.

I’m not talking about an elaborate red carpet treatment. Or fluff. Or bells and whistles. No one expects to be handed a free latte’ when they walk into Walmart, or even to have their groceries carried out for them (although there are still a few places that do this). And let’s be realistic. Not every department store is going to feel like Nordstrom. Nor will every online merchant attain Zappos status. But could we at least have, gee, I don’t know, a few employees who give a rip about whether or not we found what we came for? How about a clerk who rises above mere mumbling and engages in semi-intelligent conversation? Can we please get a salesperson who knows something more about his product than, “We’re out of those.” Is all this too much to ask? Apparently, most of the time, it is. Customer service providers who genuinely care about their customers are ostensibly as rare as Aztec gold.

Lest you think I exaggerate, allow me to share a recent shoe-shopping experience. My son was in dire need of new footwear. He required running shoes, a pair of cross trainers for court sports, and some brown slip-ons to wear with jeans or khakis. For some odd reason I still can’t explain, he wanted me to come along as a wardrobe consultant. You’ll understand my perplexity when I tell you that I long ago entered the “comfort over style” stage of life. My motto is, “If it feels good, looks like it might have been designed for a human, and doesn’t get you arrested, wear it.” Nevertheless, we set out to brave the local mall.

At our first stop, an upscale sporting goods store, we instantly spied a pair of New Balance cross trainers that looked pretty good. Nice and snug. Low arches. On sale. We snagged ’em. Running shoes were another story. My son’s feet aren’t the easiest to fit. He has virtually no arch, and one foot is considerably longer than the other. Since he was going to be pounding the concrete for thirty minutes or more five days a week, they had to cradle his feet just right. We had found his last pair of running shoes after a week-long excursion to every shoe store in the area. We didn’t see that particular model on display, so we asked a salesman for some input.

Without asking a single question about my son’s biomechanics (e.g., “Are you a mild or severe pronator?” “Do you usually run in a guidance shoe or full support shoe?”), he simply asserted, “You’ll need a support shoe; I’d go with one of these.” Wow, a confident recommendation without any probing or discussion about what we wanted or needed in a shoe. Listening between the lines, I heard something like this: “We’re crazy busy, guys. I really don’t have time to discover your needs or preferences. I don’t even really care what brands you’ve tried in the past. Just buy something — preferably one of our most expensive models — and be on your way.” We opted to hold off on running shoes until we could visit a local running store, where the salespeople typically know something about, you know, running and shoes. To that guy’s credit, though, he at least made eye contact and spoke to us, which is more than I can say for the next employee we encountered.

With cross trainers in hand, we approached the cash register (still in the sporting goods store). The line wasn’t short; we waited a good ten minutes to reach the cashier. My son, a friendly guy, greeted the cashier with a smile and a “Hello,” and handed over the box. No response. Crickets. The cashier scanned the box’s code, mumbled the total, bagged the merchandise, and handed the bag to my son. He never asked if we found everything we were looking for, how our day was going, etc. No “Have a nice day,” “Come back and see us,” nothing. I’ve received more human interaction from Siri.

At our next stop, a major department store, we wound our way through a labyrinth of loafers, until my son found a pair he wanted to try. There was not, however, a salesperson in sight. Granted, it was a Saturday, so the store was busy — but we were the only two people in the shoe area. Then we figured out the problem. The men’s suit department was adjacent to the shoe department. Apparently, a suit try-on session had attracted the attention of several employees, including the shoe salesmen.

We walked over to the crowd of onlookers, my son holding a display shoe in his hand. Finally, one of the employees turned and looked at us. That’s all, just looked at us. Apparently he was waiting for us to utter the secret password that would initiate customer service. “Do you have these in a size nine?” my son asked. The guy took the shoe from him, looked inside it, and responded, “This is a nine.” That’s it. That’s all we could get out of him. I’m not making this up. As we continued this little game of Make the customer guess what the salesperson is thinking, I asked, “So you want him to try on the display model?” “Yes,” was the single-syllable answer.

Stay with me; it gets better. As my son sat down to try on the display shoes, it was obvious that he was having trouble getting into one of them. The same guy, Mr. Chatty, noticed my son struggling and started towards him. At last, I thought, we’re going to get some attention. When he finally arrived (he was in no hurry), the salesperson thrust out a long shoehorn and said (again, I’m not making this up), “Here.” That’s it. Not “Let me give you a hand with that” or “How about a shoehorn; much easier that way.” Nope. Just “Here.” Well, we catch on pretty quick. We concluded that other questions we might pose, such as, “Do these come in black?” would drive this dude’s conversation meter into the red zone, causing his head to explode. All was not lost, though. This encounter gave me a great idea for a screenplay: Zombie Shoe Salesmen. They’re here to serve you — for dinner.

Off to store number three, another department store, where we did happen upon a salesperson with a pulse. “Do you have these in a nine?” asked my son. “Let me check for you,” replied the employee. Hope was kindled, and then extinguished. He returned to announce, “We don’t have that size; sorry,” then immediately turned to assist other shoppers. Once could almost hear the air rushing out of our balloon. Good feeling gone. We looked at a few more display models, but most of them were made in China and looked like they would hold up pretty well until you actually walked on them. Apathetic service. Anemic selection. Time to move on.

Our last stop for the day was yet another department store. It wasn’t Nordstrom, but it did exude a friendlier atmosphere than the previous stores. We knew we were in for a different experience when the salesperson smiled, said “Let me check on that for you,” and headed for the stock room. Back she came, balancing a teetering tower of boxes. “We don’t have your size in the shoe you wanted to see,” she said, “but I brought out a few similar styles in your size and price range that you might like.” After a day of dealing with employees who elevated apathy to high art, here was someone who really cared about meeting our needs — and who knew how to engage customers. After comparing several styles and fits, my son settled on a pair of classy brown slip-ons. We complimented the lady on her excellent service and went on our merry way, lamenting the scarcity of such positive experiences. That lady was a real treasure. But treasures are treasures, because they are so rare.

If our shoe-shopping odyssey is a microcosm of the shopping experience in general (and I think it is), why is good customer service the exception these days? I’ve come up with several reasons, most of them based on observation rather than hard data. I’ll save a thorough treatment of those for another post, but I have to think that near the top of the list would be reasons like our culture of self-absorption, a technology-induced devaluing of conversation, and the erosion of common courtesy.

Whatever the causes, the effects are palpable, and companies everywhere are missing countless opportunities to stand out from the crowd and train their employees to engage and delight customers. Aha! New screenplay idea: Indiana Jones and the Trainers of the Lost Art. Maybe? Possibly? Anyone?

Crickets.

Thinking outside the Big Box

Today’s lesson on creative customer service comes from a place you might not expect: Costco. To me, Costco and other “big box” stores have always been about two things—volume and price. I frequent the cavernous retailer because they stock stuff by the pallet, and because most of the items I use are more-than-reasonably priced. I really don’t expect to be pampered there. Nor do I expect the company to go out of its way to make me happy. Just stock what I need at a decent price, hire competent people to point me in the right direction, and don’t stalk me with in-store specials (no, I do not want to buy the Stamp-zilla deal–a pallet-full of Forever postage stamps that locks in the price of mailing a letter until the year 2099, or until the use of paper is illegal, whichever comes first). 

Last Saturday, however, Costco pampered me. On the way to shop there, my wife and I pulled into the Costco gas station; we were running on fumes. When I got out of the vehicle, a friendly attendant greeted me. He said, “I just want to let you know that we’re out of regular; all we have is premium.”

Disappointment ensued , and my brain started to run through a list of options: 1) leave immediately, and hope I had enough gas to get us to the store and then to a station that had regular gas, 2) put in a gallon or two of premium to last me until the next station, or 3) try to convince the attendant that, since I’m paying more for gas than I had planned, he should fill the tank, clean my windshield, and check the oil.

An option that never entered my mind was filling the tank with premium gas . . . until the attendant finished what he wanted to say. “Because of the inconvenience,” he went on, “we’ve marked down our premium to $2.99.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just”—Whoa! Did he just say what I think he said?

“Best deal in town,” he continued. “Premium  for less than regular.”

He wasn’t kidding. There it was, right on the pump: $2.99 a gallon—for premium! I don’t remember the exact figures, but I think regular was about $3.19, and premium was running around $3.39. So, they were offering premium  for 20 cents less than regular!

Let that soak in for a minute. Imagine how other businesses might have responded to this dilemma: “Sorry, we’re out of regular” (no other options), or “All we have is premium” (again, no offer to appease), or possibly “ Sorry, we’re out of regular, but we’ll sell you premium for the same price as regular.”

I would have been happy with that last option. But Costco even went beyond that. They surpassed what the typical shopper would expect and swung for the fences. And it paid off for them, at least in my case. Because of our budget, and what I knew we were about to spend on groceries, I hadn’t planned to fill up my tank. If they had lowered the premium price to match the regular, that’s the price I was going to pay anyway. But at $2.99 a gallon—for premium—I’m filling that puppy to the brim!

Let this be a lesson to companies who take a “bare necessities” approach to customer service, who respond to every problem as though it’s the customer’s fault, or who organize their days around what’s easiest for the company but not for the customer. At least on this particular day, Costco made me feel as though the experience was all about me. They went beyond what I expected. They surprised me, delighted me. They did what every company should do—go the extra mile (or the extra gallon) to create a superb and memorable customer experience.

Because of that experience, I’m not just a customer; I’m a fan. A promoter. A cheerleader. Heck, I even wrote an article about it.  Come to think of it, I might drop a note to the president of Costco. Now, where did I put those stamps?