As a result, the Thunderbird–although not much bigger than a Cutlass or Skylark–tipped the scales at 4,500 lbs. It was overbuilt to a fault, which left a lot to be desired when you had to (or wanted to) do anything beyond serene driving. In the pre-computer, unit-body age, achieving the isolated splendor expected of American luxury cars required using much more metal than was necessary. In truth, all of those modern, luxurious Thunderbird features rode on late-Fifties underpinnings. I exaggerate, of course, but not by much. We can forgive this swinging mansion-on-wheels for having the driving dynamics of a 40-foot motor home. In any case, you experienced things in a well-trimmed place featuring luxury-level fittings and equipment and the most modern of mobile attributes, including an eight-tack tape player, disc brakes and toggle switches that made you feel like you were, well, piloting a plane instead of a mere car–and especially not a mere Ford. Instead, it’s all about an “experience”, one not too far removed from the vaunted “Cadillac experience”. “The Private World of Thunderbird” barely calls this car a Ford, or even a Ford product. Neither definitively feminine nor masculine when done up in the Landau package, it has the visual impact of Dennis Rodman wearing a wedding dress and marrying himself. Taken element by element, it isn’t necessarily beautiful, or even cleanly styled. Ten years after the Thunderbird’s birth came the 1965 model: ridiculous, porcine–but utterly commanding of attention. Still, the Thunderbird’s special brand of zany overwrought luxury kept it ahead of the pack in sales. In its next incarnation (the oh-so-James Bond-themed Flair Bird), the Thunderbird finally faced some actual competition from the formidable Buick Riviera and Studebaker’s last-ditch Avanti and Gran Turismo Hawk–never mind the bucket-seat bombs offered in the forms of loaded Impala SS’s, Grand Prixes and Starfires. Suburbia has always embraced all the little, pretentious ways of making things in your house or driveway appear a little bit better than the neighbors’: In this case, some ridiculous chrome trim gave buyers just enough incentive to splurge, as over 12,000 1963 Landaus were sold. “I can make death cool! I’m the mystical bird they call Thunderbird! I upset everything! You love me for it!” What’s so absurd is that at some kind of pretentious level, it all works. Then came the Landau, sporting a textured-vinyl top and a piece of chrome trim, commonly associated with hearses, that was every bit as ridiculous as that 1956 Continental kit. The combining of such fantasy with sheet metal as bold as the dream of a moon landing by decade’s end created a heady mix. There were no turbocharged Cadillacs, nor were Impalas fitted with ComfortTemp Climate Control. While early-’60s General Motors products tended to throw in a lot of wizardry, it wasn’t limited to one model. At the time, its standard power steering and power brakes were luxuries normally reserved for top-rung models, and other innovative “luxury” highlights swiftly became the wind beneath the ‘Bird’s wings. Not only was the “Bullet Bird” closely related to the definitive car of the 1960s, it came equipped almost as fully as a Continental itself. Plenty of its 93,000 sales in 1960 came at the expense of the Olds Ninety Eight, Buick Invicta and, tellingly, Mercury Park Lane as it burst open the upper echelons of the medium-price market. The Squarebird proved that you didn’t need a premium brand to sell a premium product to the (relative) masses. Say what you will about the heavy-handed George Barris styling, but that blind C-pillar defined hardtop elegance for the better part of a decade. While not the first of the breed (at least in my view I bestow that honor on the ill-fated Studebaker “Loewy Coupes”), it was one of Ford’s two biggest wins of the late ’50s. Next came the genre-defining personal coupe. Nothing says sporty like a Continental kit and opera window, right? Not enough trunk space for a set of golf clubs? Then damn the already-middling handling–throw in at least a hundred pounds more behind the rear axle! The Thunderbird’s ridiculous factor started pretty early, from where I stand. And it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my favorite is the first version to really jump the shark: Landau bars and eight-tracks, anyone? Out of all the cars that make no sense–at least on paper– I’m willing to give the beguiling bird a pass. ( first published ) The Thunderbird: So irrational, so illogical, so often successful.
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