Cadillac, “American Standard for the World,” may be making a mistake in its slick and glossy magazine ads. In the foreground we see the latest 1975 model looking for all the world, give or take a chrome strip or two, like the 1974 and 1973 and 1972 models. (We've come to a pretty pass when all Cadillacs look alike, but there's the pass, and isn't it pretty?) In the background is displayed a Cadillac from the early 1930s representing a phenomenon impossible to explain satisfactorily. Why in the depths of this country's worst depression were the truly classic US cars being produced? The Pierce-Arrows, Duesenbergs, 12 cylinder Packards. Lincolns and Cadillacs of that era were marvels of elegance and luxury in a time when 15 million Americans were unemployed.
The “old” Cadillac shown in the latest ad is a 1931 phaeton whose spirited and rakish style puts to shame the “new” ads, which simply appear lumpish, oversized and lacking in imagination. The 1931 model is long and lean, its aristocratic profile set off by a graceful, flying radiator ornament. With its sidemounted wire wheels, its great chrome lamps, the luggage rack and true white sidewalls, this car is alive, even now, with romance, the lure of the open road, the promise of adventure.
It exemplifies what the experience called “motoring” as opposed to just getting there was all about. Built at a time when most people couldn't afford even a used model T, these great automobiles represented Detroit's finest hour. They were a shining goal to strive for “when our ship comes in” and the “bad times” were over. Americans still believed prosperity was just around the corner in the dazzling form of that 1931 Cadillac phaeton.
Cadillac: pinnacle of the American dream (since subject to change) and symbol of having Made It. What ever “it” was. A very recently barefoot boy with cheek from Sacramento, I found myself buying my first Cadillac much to my amazement in 1921.
Oh, unforgettable day: I was driving up Van Ness Avenue in my used 1940 Buick when I saw the dream car in the window of Don Lee, then the Cadillac distributor here — a bottle green convertible with a vast tan top, green leather upholstery, a proud chrome prow topped by a full breasted chrome lady, hair streaming in the wind. I parked (parking was easy in those days) and walked inside to admire this unattainable perfection at closer quarters. The price tag: $2,250.
Don Lee's chief, Fred Pabst, strolled through the showroom just then. “Why don't you buy it, kid?” he grinned. “Can't afford it,” I sighed. “What are you driving now?” he asked. When I pointed to the faded Buick he said, “I've got to be crazy, but I'll give you $1,250 for that car. Do you have $1000? I nodded dumbly. (Actually I had $1,037.) “Okay,” said Fred, “write me a check for $1000 and you can drive it out of her in this Cadillac right now.”
I did so. All this and $37 too!
No car since has given me such a boot. I drove straight to the Marina Green where I parked and got out to study this incredible work of art, I sprawled on the grass, igazing at its multifaceted perfection. I walked across the street to admire it from afar. It was love. “It's perfect,” I said to myself. “I will keep it forever. Nothing could possibly be better than this one. I will never change it.” Since then I've said the same thing about wives, friends, houses and other cars, meaning it is sincerely every time.
My generation may have been the last star-struck one where cars are concerned, or do I mean car-struck? The annual auto shows of the late 1920s and 1930s were great events with elaborate shows headlining Paul Whiteman, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Maurice Chevalier, Eddie Cantor. Incredible as it seems now, the models changed every year — completely. We could hardly wait to see how the 1929 Chrysler compared with the 1928, how different the 1932 Buick would be from the 1931, what new tricks they would come up with at Franklin, Graham-Paige and Marmon.
The decline and fall of the car as symbol has been particularly traumatic for most of our crowd. In our salad days there was no television, radio was in its infancy and only the car and the movies symbolized glamour and excitement. In our dreams, the top was always down on the raciest car ever built and we were behind the wheel, the cigarette dangling insouciantly from our lips, Constance Bennett (or Clara Bow or Laura LaPlante) snuggling at our side.
The dream dies hard. The car today is more enemy than friend, even though we are still addicted. Worse, they all look alike. The cigarette is a killer. Constance Bennett turned out to be fickle and the world is running out of resources. And yet — we are still being urged to buy Cadillacs. I can resist. After all, I had the best back there in 1941.
Be First to Comment