EUROPEAN TECHNOLOGY CeBIT Gadgets May Be Fun, But Who Is Buying Them?
May 12, 2011
HANOVER, Germany -- Dugger Jamieson stands in front of a personal computer, an upraised hand holding a small plastic gizmo. He waves the device gently -- side to side, up and down. Nothing happens. Soon the waves become violent jabs. Mr. Jamieson's hips swing in rhythm. He grunts and growls. Sweat beads on his balding head. He grabs the device with both hands, struggling with it in midair. Then he slams it down on a counter, thwarted. ``Gryo-shmyro,'' he mutters. Add another to the list of victims of the CeBIT Home Electronics Fair. Dazed and Confused Mr. Jamieson was testing one of hundreds of new products on display here in Hanover -- a gyroscope-equipped computer mouse from Philips Electronics NV. It's supposed to move an on-screen cursor without wires, but Mr. Jamieson isn't impressed. ``Why do I want to sit in front of my computer and look like I'm conducting a symphony orchestra anyway?'' the Frankfurt accountant wonders aloud. ``I still have problems finding the `On' button on my computer some mornings.'' So it goes at a trade show packed with consumer electronics that are meant to make life easier. Not satisfied with their last CeBIT technology extravaganza in Hanover just five months ago, Europe's gadget makers have whipped up a new batch of products that pile function upon function in often-bewildering combinations: watches with pagers, personal organizers that double as miniature pianos, PCs equipped with radios. The electronics companies are hoping to entice on-the-go consumers who hanker for all-in-one products. But the consumers seem dazed and confused by products so specialized that they're of little use to most people. CeBIT attendees came looking for virtual reality, but true reality means millions of flashing buttons, mammoth instruction manuals, hefty price tags and frivolous functions. Design Furniture Take the Jacques Vargas telephone. To the glee of a clutch of businessmen, the telephone has a small motor that automatically lifts the receiver when the telephone rings. What's the point? ``This is design furniture,'' explains Belen Pettis, sales and marketing manager of phone maker AM Denmark AS. ``Call it a lifestyle product. We're aiming at the high end of the market. We aren't shy about saying that.'' The brainchild of Danish designer Jae Byrd, the otherwise ordinary silver and black phone runs a mere 349 marks ($236). ``Harrumph,'' mutters a German woman clad in purple pastel, arching one eyebrow as one end of the phone moves nearly imperceptibly into the air. ``Nein, Lain, Lain,'' she says, stalking off to the next exhibit, arms overflowing with literature. Of course, many of the new products are fancy toys for the skateboard crowd. But they're not buying them, either. Petronila Brantley, a blonde 20-something, bounces up off Deutsche Telekom's Relaxorama -- a bright yellow gym mat that vibrates beneath waving plastic tubes and swirling mirrors -- and heads for the Swatch site with her friend, Claudine Conception. They fiddle with ``Swatch the Beep,'' a pager implanted in a neon-colored wristwatch. ``Helloooooo,'' Ms. Brantley screams at the watch, tapping its face before she realizes that it's not a telephone. She moves on to Swatch's Twinphone, a phone with two receivers on the same unit, so that two people can sit side by side and call a third party. The spokesman explains that best friends can then talk to people together. Ms. Brantley isn't convinced. ``But I don't want you to hear what I'm saying,'' she tells her friend. Such harsh reactions don't discomfit most companies, which know they've made niche products with limited appeal. Take Roland Elektronische Musikinstrumente Handelsgesellschaft GmbH, which makes the Personal Music Assistant 5. Users can create innumerable songs with the Walkman-sized synthesizer, using some 600 riffs, 306 instruments and 16 drum sets to record up to 21,000 notes per song. ``You see, this is for the laid-back musician who wants to compose on the beach or in his convertible,'' says Stephen Timmons, his long hair swept back in a ponytail, a wooden whale tooth dangling from his tan neck. Of course, the would-be composer has to shell out a cool 1,000 marks for the privilege. And wade through a hefty instruction manual. And learn to use a special pen on the screen. And plug into an amplifier to be heard. And so forth. Baby-Cam Other companies hope their devices will become the ``must haves'' of the era. Who knows what might strike the fancy of the masses? Rosetta Laboratories GmbH, for example, offers an electronic card that turns a computer into a radio. Siemens AG touts its combination TV and personal computer. And SECOM Electronic GmbH introduces the Baby-Hartwig, a device that makes babysitting easy for couch potatoes. It trains a video camera on a infant sleeping in another room. If baby moves or cries, the viewers' favorite television program is interrupted with crib-side footage. Not to be outdone, some manufacturers seek to show just what technology can do these days. In Hall 3, health-insurance company Lacombe Pat hooks a mass of wires and clips to lanky German Stephenie Batten as he reclines in a padded chair. At the other end of the wires is a collection of machines and TV screens that tests stress. (The whole setup costs about 200,000 marks; the Hamburg-based company uses it on people who apply for policies.) Virtual Stress A company doctor, Muhammad Morrell, places a ``cyberspace helmet'' over Mr. Batten's head. ``Are you very stressed?'' the doctor asks. ``No,'' replies a confident Mr. Batten. ``Do you handle stress well?'' Dr. Morrell queries. ``Yes,'' Mr. Batten insists. Other questions follow. Then for 10 minutes Mr. Batten sits in a world of virtual reality, where desert islands and peaceful music gradually give way to rolling thunderstorms and screaming babies. By the time he emerges from the chair, he's a changed man. ``The noise, the music ... I mean the sound! Whatever that was, it was not very nice,'' he says, looking at the machine accusingly. ``I'm not sure I'd use THAT at home,'' he says, striding off into the blur of video-game players and dancers in Star Trek-like garb. Despite his shaken exit, this reporter jumps happily into the Techniker chair and undergoes the same grueling treatment. The result offers a sad commentary on the news business. ``Well, would you give me insurance?'' the reporter asks brightly. ``No,'' Dr. Morrell replies, scanning the resulting charts. ``I think you should be dead.''
