And no, it's not some forgotten Jarvis Cocker B-side. I read a brilliant article over the weekend that explored how many brands are no longer drawing inspiration from culture itself, but from LinkedIn's infinite loop of case studies, pitch decks, and hot-take echo chambers.

The result? A landscape of creative work that feels increasingly derivative. Outputs of a system looking inwards, not out. It's no wonder then, when briefs sound the same and campaigns feel like AI-generated déjà vu, the culprit isn't the machine; it's the master. We've stopped looking sideways. We're too busy looking at ourselves.

Real inspiration doesn't sit in the LinkedIn feed. It lives in unexpected corners. In subreddits and community markets, in obscure Pinterest boards and cracked vinyl sleeves. It's the conversation overheard in a corner shop. The packet of biscuits that looks like 1973. The tin of sardines that looks like a Wes Anderson prop. Which brings me to Sardinecore '25, the Atlantic Edition.

Sardinecore hasn't stayed local. A trend that has built steadily each summer across Europe over the last few years is back again in 2025, and this time, it's crossed the Atlantic. In the US, tinned fish is everywhere. It's turning up on influencer snack boards, in curated bodegas, and as the centrepiece at rooftop dinners from Brooklyn to LA. High in protein, packed in olive oil, and wrapped in gallery-worthy packaging, it's the post-ironic summer snack of choice. Now, for someone more commonly associated with slow-cooked brisket, tomahawk steaks and smokehouse dreams, I'm hooked. Which, I suppose, will keep my doctor happy.

So what exactly is cooking? Or more rightly, keyed open and served with a fork? I fell down a glorious rabbit hole this week, sparked not by taste but by design. I stumbled into a world of wildly beautiful sardine tins. Vivid, expressive, nostalgic and more captivating than many brand campaigns I've seen in the last year. What began as idle intrigue has since become something of an obsession. These aren't just fish tins. They're pocket-sized canvases. Design artefacts. Cultural time capsules.

In Portugal, sardine tins are still hand-wrapped in decorative paper, often using original lithographs from the 1940s and 50s. Brands like Tricana and Nuri feature bold colours, retro typography and radiant portraits of women or fishermen, part Pop Art, part maritime folklore. Each wrapper feels like a collectable postcard from a slower, more stylish Europe.

Then there's José Gourmet, a brand that's practically the Penguin Classics of the sardine world, commissioning illustrators to create bespoke artworks for each tin. The result? A riot of whimsy and modernism: fish with bowler hats, surrealist tuna, collaged mackerel that wouldn't look out of place in the Tate Modern.

In Spain, brands like Ortiz take a more stoic route. Primary colours, serif typefaces, iconic fishermen heaving nets. Unchanged for decades, the design signals heritage, trust, and a quiet confidence. On the opposite end of the spectrum, luxury conservas brands like La Brújula or Real Conservera Española favour elegant minimalism: crisp white labels, black foil, restrained typography. Tins that look like perfume boxes.

Together, they form a spectrum of aesthetic storytelling, from full-blown vintage maximalism to sleek, understated elegance. And crucially, they speak to something bigger happening in culture: a collective longing for nostalgia.

We're in a moment where modern life feels fast, filtered, and frictionless. Every brand is shouting for attention in a digital colosseum. Amidst all that noise, slowness has become luxurious. Tangibility has become rare. Design has become a portal to emotion. Sardine packaging, odd as it sounds, hits all three.

These tins aren't just branding, they're emotional artefacts. They tap into the same psychological triggers that make people buy vinyl, wear retro football shirts, or photograph shopfronts in Palermo. They offer a visual escape to a time imagined as simpler, more textured, more 'real'. A kind of edible nostalgia.

This is the new luxury: not loud logos or gold-plated status symbols, but tactile objects with a story. Sardinecore exists at the intersection of folk culture, design nerdery, and lifestyle curation. It's a rejection of over-processed, algorithm-led sameness and an embrace of the beautifully banal.

So what can brands learn from this salty, slippery trend? (I promise no more fish puns from this point on.)

1. Design is no longer surface, it's substance.

In a scroll-heavy world, packaging has become storytelling. The tin is the gateway. The first impression. A design detail can be the difference between overlooked and beloved.

2. Nostalgia isn't regressive, it's resonant.

We're not yearning for the past, we're remixing it. The sardine tin aesthetic isn't ironic, it's emotionally intelligent. It grounds us. It slows us down.

3. Analogue has influence.

From shelfies to sardine picnics, analogue objects now thrive in digital spaces. Why? Because they're real. The most shareable things are often the most tactile.

4. Subcultures still matter.

What starts in niche food circles and design blogs can quickly jump into fashion, retail, and even tech. Sardinecore might sound like a microtrend, but its DNA is rich with macro potential.

5. Packaging can build brand love.

When something looks this good, people collect it. Display it. Gift it. Talk about it. And yes, post it. That's brand intimacy on a whole other level.

Personally, I now keep a few tins at home, some Portuguese, some Spanish. I crack one open, lay it over rye sourdough, and inevitably wax lyrical about Lisbon, not just as a creative haven for entrepreneurs, but as the spiritual home of sardine aesthetics. It's part ritual, part pleasure, part visual joy.

So, next time you're stuck in a workshop trying to "unlock cultural resonance", maybe skip the deck and browse the deli. Real culture isn't hiding in your feed. It's sitting in a tin, hand-wrapped in nostalgia and waiting to be opened. If you came here just for the fish and you want an even hotter take, then I implore you to follow daywithmei on Instagram. Her monthly "Tin Talks" capture all that's remarkable in fish tin culture.

And if you see me at a picnic, I'll be the one with the vintage tin, a crust of sourdough, and a very strong opinion on why sardines are the new vinyl. This is the Atlantic Edition. The next one already has a coastline in mind, so consider this a standing reservation.

Sardinecore (n.): The treatment of the humble tinned fish, and its lithograph-wrapped packaging, as a cultural object. A lens for finding brand inspiration in unexpected, tactile, analogue corners rather than in the LinkedIn feed. Where slowness, tangibility and design meet a collective longing for nostalgia. See also: edible nostalgia, the beautifully banal.

Asked at the counter

What is Sardinecore? It is the elevation of the tinned fish, and especially its packaging, into a cultural object. Across Europe and now the US, beautifully designed sardine tins are turning up on snack boards, in curated bodegas and at rooftop dinners. The tins themselves, hand-wrapped in 1940s lithographs or commissioned illustration, are pocket-sized canvases, design artefacts and cultural time capsules. It is a lens for finding inspiration in unexpected, analogue corners rather than the feed.

Why are heritage tins trending? Because modern life feels fast, filtered and frictionless, and slowness has become luxurious, tangibility rare, and design a portal to emotion. The sardine tin hits all three. These tins tap the same triggers that make people buy vinyl or wear retro football shirts: a visual escape to a time imagined as simpler, more textured and more real. It is a kind of edible nostalgia, and the new luxury is tactile objects with a story rather than loud logos.

What can FMCG brands learn from tinned fish? Five things. Design is substance, not surface, because the pack is now the storytelling. Nostalgia is resonant rather than regressive when it is remixed with emotional intelligence. Analogue objects thrive in digital spaces precisely because they feel real and shareable. Subcultures matter because niche aesthetics jump into fashion, retail and tech. And great packaging builds brand love because people collect it, display it, gift it and post it.