An object that is better than all of the other ones in it's category.
After years of searching I've found that elusive butterfly of my adolescent automotive dreams. No, not a Corvette, Trans Am or Porsche. No, those weren't for me. I didn't even want a Mustang or a Camaro. No, sir. The automotive apple of my eye, the Farrah Fawcett, Jacklyn Smith and Barbi Benton of my car loving youth was, a Chrysler New Yorker Brougham. Coupe.
Throughout my life I've attempted to alternate between feigning embarrassment and ambivalence towards my appreciation of big luxury cars from the 1970's. I've given up and now I am unapologetically telling you that I love them all. Especially these big NYB's. If you don't understand them there's nothing us cognoscenti of rim busting girth can do to convince you otherwise. Does this car remind me of my youth? I guess...but I hated my childhood. Why would I swoon dramatically over anything that reminded me of it? Sometimes...you just like a car. So, let's pass on the childhood melodrama and get a closer look at this sweet, delicate flower.
First, some history about this make and model. From 1955 through 1974, Imperial was Chrysler's (the company) prestige division and was a separate division from Chrysler (the division). When Chrysler (the company) did away with Imperial after 1974, the "all new" for 1974 Imperial Crown moved over to Chrysler (again, the division) and was, for 1975 only, known as the Chrysler Imperial Crown. In 1976, Chrysler dropped the Imperial Crown nameplate but moved it's distinctive front and rear "fascias" to the New Yorker Brougham. Thus, giving birth to a legend.
When I was a kid I thought this interior was the most luxuriously decadent thing I had ever seen. By the way, when I was a kid I also thought that padded toilet seats were luxurious so everything, as always, is relative. The inside of these massive automobiles may have been even more memorable than the outside. If you're so inclined, you will count 48 lovely, leather tufts on the front sofas alone. Tufts that wouldn't look out of place on a wedding cake. You don't sit on but sink into these unsupportive thrones that, come to think of it, would not at all be unlike sitting on a wedding cake itself.
Having driven many a 1970s dreamboat, I don't need to drive this beauty to tell you that behind the wheel, this car is not the sublime experience driving a Mercedes or BMW of the same vintage is. Driving this car is more like, literally, piloting a boat. Somewhat comfortable but the controls are slow to respond, sluggish. The steering over boosted, the brakes not strong enough, the engine, in the case of this car the 400 with the two barrel carburetor, unresponsive yet alarmingly thirsty. Reality begins to rear it's ugly head when you start asking yourself, "what exactly was the point of this thing anyway?"
Like just about everything, the memory of something is always better (or worse) than it actually was. Best that our minds work that way otherwise the anti depressant industry would be even more lucrative than it is. I don't want to own one of these for the simple reason that there's no way it can live up to what I want it to be or wanted it to be. Better to want than to have and be disappointed. Sigh. The anticipation is always better than the participation.
Alvetersain, my love.
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