Italians are renowned for their obsessive attention to the aesthetics of pretty much everything. As a result, the country enjoys a reputation for style and flair that the marketing teams of brands like Alfa Romeo or Maserati waste no opportunity to exploit to their advantage.

Yet, few would argue that, when it comes to car design, that reputation was mainly established between the 1950s and the 1980s, the golden era of the Italian “Carrozzieri.” These were a handful of small firms located around Turin that, at the height of their creative powers, managed to exert an outsize influence on the aesthetic development of the automobile worldwide.

But it’s plain to see that those days are gone. Bertone is no more, ItalDesign is an outpost of VW, and if you want your new car to come with a Pininfarina badge, your only choice is the Battista hypercar.

So, what went wrong?

The question may be simple, yet the answer is anything but. The downfall of Italy’s famed design houses wasn’t triggered by a single event or circumstance. Instead, it was a gradual process characterized by multiple contributing factors. But to understand what knocked the likes of Pininfarina and Bertone off their perches, we first need to look at how they got there in the first place.

The postwar years weren’t kind to the European coachbuilding industry. The sector’s traditional client pool was dwindling, and as the continent’s automobile industry embraced unibody construction, so was the supply of suitable donor chassis to work on.

By 1955, many prestigious Italian names from the pre-war era, such as Castagna and Stabilimenti Farina, were gone. The few coachbuilding firms that survived this tumultuous period were those with closer ties to the local automakers. These were the strongest, most resourceful outfits that could work with unibody structures and take care of small production runs—all while serving as actual design partners, too. Genuine one-stop shops that, on short notice, could ease the pressure from an automaker’s factory and design office.

That’s because while the switch to chassis-less construction made for lighter, more efficient cars, it also made tooling up for low-volume derivatives like coupès or convertibles significantly more expensive. And that’s where companies like Pininfarina and Bertone entered the picture. Outsourcing their design and production allowed Fiat, Lancia, and Alfa Romeo to offer sporting derivatives of their regular models without investing in additional production capacity. This became even more critical by the second half of the 1950s, as a booming Italian economy sent the demand for new cars through the roof.

By the mid-’60s, these lucrative contract manufacturing arrangements had transformed Pininfarina and Bertone into small industrial empires. Both companies built car bodies by the thousands, yet their fortunes depended as much on ideas as they did on sheet metal. Being perceived as the cutting edge of automobile design was crucial to keep commissions coming in, so wowing the crowds at the Turin, Paris, or Geneva motor shows with sensational show cars was an integral part of these firms’ business. And the results were as spectacular as the cars themselves: Design commissions came pouring in from France to Japan and everywhere in between. It seemed the Turinese masters could do no wrong, but their success was due in no small part to favorable circumstances.

As we intend it today, car design was practically invented in Detroit in the late 1920s when GM established its “Art & Colour” section. It didn’t take long for each of the Big Three to have a well-funded and fully-staffed design department. But, strange as it may sound to our modern ears, during the ’50s and ’60s, most European automakers had yet to realize the essential role design played in market success. If they had an in-house design team, it was often understaffed and placed under the engineering department’s thumb. Management frequently had little understanding or appreciation for design matters and, lured by their flashy dream cars, didn’t think twice about handing the job to the Italians.

Of course, that’s not to say these people weren’t good. Unencumbered by the internal pressures the home teams were subjected to, the Italian studios repeatedly delivered the freshest, most original proposals. Sometimes, when one particular automaker was stuck in a dangerous creative rut, that outside input—think Giugiaro’s work for VW in the 1970s, for example—could even prove vital. But nothing lasts forever, and as the 1980s gave way to the 1990s, dark storm clouds were already looming on the horizon.

The first cracks began appearing right in the contract manufacturing business that had served Bertone and Pininfarina so well. Quality standards across the industry increased, while more advanced, flexible production methods allowed different cars to be made on the same line. As a result, automakers lost the incentive to outsource the production of lower-volume models. Moreover, if an international customer faltered, falling back on Fiat’s shoulders was no longer possible. Italy’s former industrial giant was all but broke heading into the turn of the new millennium and could no longer offer the support that had been so crucial four decades earlier. Few things can dig a larger hole in a company’s finances quicker than an idle factory, but the problems didn’t stop there.

By the time the last 747 full of Cadillac Allantés left Turin’s airport, design culture was much more widespread worldwide. Automotive executives were now acutely aware of design’s importance, and wanted to keep tighter control over it. Consequently, manufacturers invested heavily in their own design studios and often had multiple ones on different continents. With that, any incentive to involve third parties in the process was gone.

Especially when said third party counted most of your competitors among its customers. In an excellent biography published a few years ago, the legendary designer Ercole Spada shared a poignant anecdote from his time at BMW. He recalled how the company routinely asked each of Turin’s most prominent studios for proposals despite not intending to pursue any. But, since Pininfarina, Bertone, and ItalDesign all worked with BMW’s rivals, having these companies “compete” against its own design studio was, for the Bavarian firm, an indirect way to get a glimpse of its rivals’ general direction.

Last but certainly not least, complacency set in. There may still have been a space for Turin’s storied design firms in the modern era if they had kept their foot hard on the accelerator and their gaze locked on the horizon. Perhaps even more than in their 1960s heyday, being at the forefront of automobile design was a matter of life or death. Yet, one look at Bertone’s post-2000 output is enough to see why their phone stopped ringing.

Of course, Pininfarina is still around. Its latest work, the lovely Morgan Midsummer, shows that the company hasn’t lost its touch. But the days in which every Ferrari and every Peugeot on sale was a Pininfarina design are gone, never to return.

Nevertheless, it can be argued that what was created all those years ago in Turin continues to wield a certain influence on automobile design today. As a part of our shared cultural heritage, it’s in the back of every car designer’s mind, providing inspiration and being reinterpreted in novel ways. There are many examples out there, but the best one may be Hyundai’s brilliant Ioniq 5. It’s a resolutely contemporary and highly distinctive design, yet its design language’s roots are in Giugiaro’s “folded paper” cars from the 1970s.

Ultimately, the tale of Turin’s fallen design giants is as much about their amazing cars as it is about the fleeting nature of success. Left behind by the industry they once ruled, what’s left of the Italian “Carrozzieri” currently faces an uncertain future. What is certain, however, is that their massive legacy will stay with us for a very, very long time.

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Las Vegas is one of those places that changes you, and that’s by design. The gambling connection is obvious, but the decadent displays of hospitality are everywhere from hotels with world-class amenities to cultural ambassador-worthy restaurants, and entertainment that never fails to inspire. The same applies to the cars living in Las Vegas, at least for two owned by the legendary magical duo known as Siegfried & Roy.

As you’ll soon see, these two Vanden Plas Princess limousines are properly Vegas because of their nose jobs. While the blue Princess from 1967 sports a custom grille with a Rolls-Royce style emblem and “Spirit of Ecstasy” hood ornament, the white 1965 Princess apparently lost the emblem over time. No matter their current state, the Rolls-Royce upbadge (as it were) makes sense for sensibilities in the City of Sin. It doesn’t hurt that the Roller-style look works well on any car crafted by a coachbuilder, especially one with the English credentials of Vanden Plas.

The original grille is certainly acceptable for places with less to prove than Vegas, with a more finessed grille texture and an understated, body-colored shell. It even has a bit of Bentley flare, as the shell has a fluted face. But the Princess’ body contours are more like that of an SUV: The greenhouse lacks taper, instead choosing to move straight back from the base of the A-pillar to the beginning of the trunk. The look is more utilitarian, and this practical design even won over The Beatles as they were ergonomically whisked away from their fans.

The Vanden Plas Princess’ practical sheet metal made it perfect for the magic duo of Siegfried & Roy, either as a prop in their show or a flashy commuter vehicle for the entertainers who embodied the magic of Las Vegas. Because these two vehicles performed different tasks, their design was altered accordingly. The white 1965 Vanden Plas is likely the more appealing example to most enthusiasts.

Siegfried & Roy’s “street car” was reportedly restored in the 1980s in Germany, and the exterior presents well enough to be a show piece in any light. The Rolls-Royce grille conversion will convince most Las Vegas tourists of an elevated lineage for the star performers. Still, the whitewall tires exhibit a yellowing that is likely a sign of extended storage periods.

But this was likely indoor storage, as the interior appears to be in excellent condition, complete with a vintage color TV that could be the same age as the vehicle’s restoration. A wet bar lies between the rear seats and a sliding glass partition from the driver’s cabin, while rich wood and pale leather feel classically British. Take a closer look under the hood and you’ll see a Rolls-Royce grille emblem affixed to the valve cover of the Austin D-series engine. A curious location for that emblem, but the engine is reported to be a non-runner at this time.

Siegfried & Roy’s blue 1967 “Show Car” bears the telltale signs of being a prop for the duo’s Vegas show. While the paint looks acceptable on stage (in the photo closer to the top of this article) it’s clear that the light of day is less kind to this particular Vanden Plas Princess. There’s a significant gash in the coachwork, and the paint looks dulled by oxidation. Look closer at the rear quarter panel and it’s clear the Vanden Plas Princess was modified so a wild animal could fit in its cargo hold.

It appears a body shop made incisions at each side of the vehicle, pulled up on the trunk area to increase its internal volume, and then built filler panels to “blend” in the work. The rear window aperture also seems to be shortened, presumably to ensure wildlife can’t exit from a location unmonitored by Siegfried & Roy’s staff. While the conversion isn’t likely to raise any eyebrows at the expertly lighted performance of Siegfried & Roy, daylight proves that show props can live a hard life.

Siegfried once noted this vehicle was owned by actress Greta Garbo, but that cannot be verified. If true, the mind can only wonder what Garbo thought of the modifications done to the inside of her former limousine. Aside from the driver’s seat, the rest of the compartment has been modified for transporting an aggressive feline onto a Las Vegas stage. The pictures speak for themselves, especially the scratches where the front passenger seat once resided. But the reupholstering of the driver seat and door cards in a brown naugahyde material point to a need for durability with a dash of elegance. Too bad that elegance is only an illusion, aimed at audience members seated yards away from this Princess.

And does an illusion truly work if it sounds like an Austin D-series engine at idle? Apparently, this Vanden Plas Princess made a silent introduction on stage, as it was likely converted to an EV for the transition from Garbo-worthy transportation to Las Vegas show prop. The massive lead-acid batteries are only overshadowed by the size of the front mounted powertrain, while the dirt and corrosion present adds credibility to the claim this vehicle is also in non-running condition. Perhaps someone who has revived depreciated golf carts will find this under-hood experience familiar. Or maybe anyone who rings up the still-in-business Quick Charge Corporation can be brought up to speed with a mere visit to their website.

But buying and restoring either the white “street car” or the blue EV “show car” from the estate of Siegfried & Roy has merit, especially in America where names like Austin and Vanden Plas are overshadowed by the clout of a Rolls-Royce. I can imagine a conversation with visitors to a British car show, where they make a Rolls-Royce remark and the new owner uses it as an opportunity to mention the heritage of both Vanden Plas and the magic of Siegfried & Roy.

These cars embody the uniqueness that is American car culture, with coachwork and body modifications as “apple pie” as slot machines and lounge shows at one of the most famous cities on the planet. This is something you cannot replicate with the successor to the Princess limousine, based on the wholly conventional Austin Princess compact family sedan. Once Austin changed gears, Vanden Plas had to reinvent modern cars in the only way they knew how: chrome, curves, wood, leather, and coachbuilding.

It’s a change not unlike the Siegfried & Roy entertainment experience. The duo made famous for blowing away audiences with wild felines in magic acts started their career on a cruise ship, one that wasn’t terribly thrilled with their decision to let a live cheetah on board. Their dedication to their craft took them from Germany to Las Vegas, and both Vanden Plan Princess limousines are a testament to their legacy. But times have changed, and the passing of both Siegfried (2021) and Roy (2020) denotes a change in guard that leaves these two limos twisting in the wind, waiting for new owners at the Hagerty Marketplace.

This pair absolutely needs new benefactors, those who can embrace their previous owner’s heritage but let their spirit soar once more on the road. The white 1965 Vanden Plas appears to be an easier restoration and is currently at a $4000 high bid on Hagerty Marketplace. The blue 1967 Vanden Plas needs specialist attention and an owner who can appreciate its EV bones and show prop engineering. It’s currently going for a $2500 bid on Hagerty Marketplace, and shares the same high bidder as it’s 1965 brother. Could they meet the same benefactor when the auction ends?

We can only hope both EV and gasoline Vanden Plas sell to that same high bidder, and that these two limousines will one day impress participants in American car culture as they did when working for two legendary entertainers.

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The Packard Motor Car Company had an impressive run as a standalone company, then as part of the Studebaker-Packard Corporation (1954), making high-end vehicles in one of the best times in American history. But we aren’t here to discuss those distant memories, nor are we discussing the controversial V-12 sedan made by Roy Gullickson in the 1990s. What’s before us is a custom-bodied convertible with a 1949 Packard title, named the Packard Bayliff Lebaron.

There’s a lot to unpack in that name, as Packard stopped making cars after 1958. LeBaron is a prewar coachbuilder that made famous bodies for luxury cars before it was folded into Chrysler, after which its name morphed into a trim level for mid-century Imperials and premium vehicles in the 1980s. Bayliff is the funeral- and custom-car maker that made what you see above. Its tribute to two long-forgotten names is currently available on Hagerty Marketplace with a high bid of $35,000.

Again, Bayliff didn’t make only this Packard; it is a famous name in coachbuilding circles. Perhaps the Bayliff LeBaron was a final tribute to the company’s coach-building heritage, as it created this vehicle sometime in the early 2000s. There was precedent for such a project, as Bayliff made a similar vehicle before it sold the Packard name to Gullickson for $50,000 in 1992 for his failed attempt to relaunch the iconic brand. (How Bayliff managed to make this Packard Bayliff LeBaron without raising the ire of Gullickson remains to be seen.)

Meet the bright red “1934” Packard Bayliff Victoria (via Undiscovered Classics). This less streamlined design of this fiberglass tribute car was intended to look 15 years older than the burgundy LeBaron we are profiling today. The deeply contoured doors are the best example of the Victoria’s heritage, looking more like something from the early 1930s and less like the sleek, straight lines of the Bayliff LeBaron.

The Bayliff Victoria also appears to use fewer parts from recognizable donor cars, and it was likely made a full decade before the Bayliff LeBaron. Details are minimal and photos are vague, so this assumption is based on the audio system installed at the time of manufacture: The Bayliff Victoria’s radio looks like a 1990s vintage Kenwood CD player or similar. (The Bayliff LeBaron has a 2000s-era Sony, as seen below.)

Speaking of “recognizable donor cars,” the Bayliff LeBaron used many parts from the 1987–89 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. While the use of the LeBaron name might be coincidence, there’s no doubt this long-forgotten coachbuilder found a good home on this custom Packard.

Parts shared with the Chrysler include the cowl, A-pillars, and support structure for the glass and top mechanism. The Chrysler LeBaron’s cowl also donated key interior elements, including the HVAC system, the dashboard, the center stack for the Sony radio, and a glovebox for the passenger.

To be fair, the overall interior design feels like a worthy tribute to a classic Packard: Details like the banjo steering wheel, Lokar shifter, and upright dashboard almost feel period-correct. Only the “Packard” script pillow on the passenger side, and the “Custom Deluxe” graphics on the door panel, oversell the conversion. Perhaps some modern 3-D printing technology could make neoclassic trim panels, and a chrome-laden RetroSound audio unit could better integrate the designer’s original vision into the package?

Under the Bayliff LeBaron’s long hood is a SOHC Ford Modular V-8 displacing 5.4 liters with 260 horsepower, disguised as a Packard powerplant with an engine cover that cleverly integrates two air filters. While the Lincoln Navigator’s more assertive DOHC mill wasn’t implemented in this build, the Holley EFI Terminator X system likely keeps that motor purring like that of a proper Packard. The rest of the chassis appears to have a truck-like ladder frame with rear leaf springs. This was likely by design, part and parcel of Bayliff’s roots as a funeral coachbuilder.

None of which detracts from the elegance of this design and the delightful audacity of its creator to bring it into existence. The 1949 Packard Bayliff LeBaron is downright stunning on its massive wheelbase, with its flowing fenders and 100-spoke wire wheels. Now that the Chrysler LeBaron convertible’s demise is almost three decades in the past, I reckon the Bayliff LeBaron can stand on its own at any car show in the country. Nobody will know what’s underneath, or where it came from.

Decades later, being a Chrysler under that burgundy paint certainly helps. The fabric top is torn in places, which can be resolved for $400 or less thanks to aftermarket support. Paint chips, fading, and swirl marks are noted in the auction, but they point to an owner who enjoyed the vehicle and didn’t let it rot in perpetual storage, and driving such a stately machine is likely what Bayliff wanted in the first place.

The oldest record of this vehicle’s sale was at Barrett-Jackson in 2005, where it sold for $79,200. It then sold at RM Sotheby’s a decade later for $71,500. Where it will land on Hagerty Marketplace at the auction’s close on Friday remains to be seen, but there’s no doubt that the next owner will be part of the storied history of the famous brand. And they will be responsible for a stunning piece of automotive coachbuilding that capitalized on the best of the word “LeBaron” from multiple decades.

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When discussing the halcyon days of Italian automobile design, I don’t hesitate to define the years between 1950 and 1980 as Italy’s second Renaissance. That may seem like hyperbole, but it’s a more fitting analogy than your art history teacher might like to admit.

Much like 15th-century Florence, a unique set of circumstances in the mid-20th century turned Turin into a hub of intense creativity. This time, however, at the heart of this creative explosion was not literature or the arts, but the quintessential product of the industrial era: the automobile.

Like Florence under the Medicis, the golden era of Turinese coachbuilding saw the work of countless artists and craftsmen eclipsed by the towering achievements of a handful of legendary masters. And masters don’t get much greater than Marcello Gandini, who passed away on March 13 at 85.

As it’s widely known, Gandini was hired by Nuccio Bertone in 1965 following Giorgetto Giugiaro’s move to Ghia. Mr. Bertone had a keen eye for talent, but probably even he couldn’t imagine just how good his decision would turn out to be.

Gandini’s first project for Bertone was the car his name will forever be associated with: the Lamborghini Miura. Widely considered among the most beautiful cars ever made, the Miura’s design was a masterful synthesis of different influences. Its overall concept drew heavily from Ford’s GT40, while the surface treatment and detailing owed much to previous Bertone designs from Giugiaro, particularly the 1963 Corvair Testudo.

Although its mechanical layout was inspired by motorsport, in the Miura, function definitely followed form. It was the fastest car money could buy, but its capabilities as a vehicle were entirely secondary to visual drama. Designed primarily to drop jaws rather than seconds off a lap time, the Miura marked the birth of the bedroom poster supercar. Yet, while the rest of the world was busy writing checks to Lamborghini, Marcello Gandini had already moved on.

The Miura had boosted Bertone’s reputation to unprecedented heights, much to the dismay of its crosstown rival, Pininfarina. But there was no time to rest on one’s laurels—these firms’ thriving yet fragile business model hinged entirely on being perceived as the bleeding edge of automobile design. With that precious reputation on the line at every year’s major motor show, it was a case of innovate or die. And innovate Gandini did, big time.

First came the Lamborghini Marzàl, which landed at the 1967 Geneva Motor Show. The word “landed” is entirely appropriate, because few other artifacts embody the era’s fascination with space exploration quite like the Marzàl. Built on a lengthened and extensively modified Miura chassis, the Marzàl was a piece of art inside and out.

Its front end was a slim black slit, housing six Marchal quartz-iodine headlamp units, among the smallest available at the time. The Marzàl’s giant glass gullwing doors exposed its four passengers like mannequins in a shop window, while the mechanical elements remained hidden under a matte black, three-dimensional hexagonal pattern engine cover that looked like armor plates.

The hexagonal honeycomb theme continued in the dashboard’s instruments and controls, as well as the seat cushions and backrests, which were upholstered in a highly reflective silvery material reminiscent of a spacesuit. If Gandini’s initial works for Bertone still had a tinge of Giugiaro’s design influence, the Marzàl was the turning point at which Gandini broke away from that mold and never looked back.

When the 1968 Paris Motor Show doors opened, the Miura was less than two years old and still the hottest thing on four wheels. Yet, that didn’t stop Gandini from completely rewriting the design template for the whole supercar genre.

Based on an Alfa Romeo 33 Stradale chassis and running gear, the Bertone Carabo was a radical departure not only from established aesthetic norms but also from anything Gandini had done until then.

Inspired by the latest trends in racing car design, the Carabo was as pure a “wedge” shape as possible, achieving a low drag coefficient while minimizing the front-end lift issues that plagued the Miura. Gandini took advantage of the relative absence of mechanical hardpoints at the front of the Alfa 33 chassis to keep the Carabo’s nose low and frontal area to a minimum.

Thus, the Carabo’s visual weight was concentrated at the rear. Its profile was characterized by a single, nearly unbroken line from nose to tail, as the flat bonnet merged seamlessly with the windscreen. Gone were the Miura’s sensuous curves, replaced by sheer surfaces with minimal crowning and tight radiuses: it was the dawn of the “folded paper” design language that would dominate 1970s automobile design.

Nowadays, Franco Scaglione’s curvaceous 33 Stradale is rightfully revered as a design masterpiece. But one glance at Gandini’s creation, based on the same underpinnings, is enough to realize just how far he was pushing the envelope.

The Carabo was never meant to become a production car. Yet, in a roundabout way, it did. That’s because when it came time to design the Miura’s replacement, Marcello Gandini reused the same essential design ingredients (scissor doors included) but distilled them to even greater effect. Leaner, sharper, and with even more dramatic proportions than the Carabo due to its bulkier powertrain, the Lamborghini Countach hasn’t lost an ounce of its visual impact over half a century from its conception.

Marcello Gandini remained at Bertone until 1980. His early years as the Turinese firm’s main creative force were not only the company’s finest hour, but arguably the period in which Italian car design reached its peak in terms of international influence.

Over the following years, from a desk in his country house outside Turin, Gandini tackled everything from massive industrial programs for Renault to underfunded supercar projects like the Cizeta Moroder. Though not all the entries in his vast back catalog can be considered masterpieces, each of his efforts affirmed Gandini’s unwavering commitment to technological and aesthetic innovation.

That’s a commitment Gandini reiterated in what would turn out to be his last public appearance. In the speech he gave before receiving an honorary degree in engineering from Turin’s Polytechnic University this past January, he urged the young students to “extract from limitations and impositions a strong, stubborn, and constructive sense of rebellion.”

Addio Maestro, e grazie di tutto. Non ti dimenticheremo.

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Malta is one of the smallest countries in Europe. The main island stretches about 17 miles long and nine miles wide. I didn’t expect to see particularly noteworthy cars during a three-day trip in January, but the time I spent zig-zagging across the island proved me wrong.

Malta is a former British colony that still drives on the left side of the road, so the streets of Valetta (the capital, with a population of fewer than 6000 people) are dotted with right-hand-drive, Japanese-market hatchbacks you don’t normally see in Europe. The country’s only car museum turned out to be well worth a detour.

Located on the northeastern part of the main island, approximately half an hour from Valetta, the Malta Classic Car Museum was founded by an enthusiast named Carol Galea. He’s a racer at heart: he began building cars for local hill-climb races decades ago. His passion snowballed into a collection which later became a museum. There’s no overarching theme here—part of the museum feels like a life-sized version of those “100 Iconic Cars of the 20^th Century” books with models such as a Jaguar E-Type, a Triumph Spitfire, and a Ford Thunderbird. Dotting the facility are thousands of pieces of car memorabilia including sales brochures, emblems, and scale models, plus roughly half a dozen vintage motorcycles.

If you’re thinking “It takes more than a nice 1950s Corvette to impress me,” we’re on the same page. Luckily, Galea heeded his taste for the obscure, odd, and plain weird when building his dream collection.

One of the highlights is a 1969 Fiat 500 customized by Italian coachbuilder Francis Lombardi. Sensing a demand for a more upmarket variant of the tiny city car, the company created a model called My Car equipped with several features not available on the regular-production 500. It was offered with a full metal roof, for example, and the panel was raised to increase rear-seat headroom. We’re not talking SUV-like noggin space, but every sixteenth of an inch helps in a car as cramped as the 500.

Francis Lombardi also added a grille-like piece of trim to the front end, strips of metal cladding on each rocker panel (I’m not sure whether these helped prevent or helped accelerate rust…), and trim rings on the factory 12-inch steel wheels. Inside, the driver faced a plastic dashboard while the rear passengers benefited from pop-out windows. Metallic paint colors were optionally available as well.

Put another way, Francis Lombardi helped pioneer the premium city car. Naturally, this is exactly how Fiat is trying to position the new version of the 500 in 2024. Not many of these versions were built, and even fewer have survived; their rarity was likely not considered all that special given the humble Cinquecento underpinnings.

Crawling deeper into the Italian coachbuilder rabbit hole, the museum also houses a Vignale-bodied 1962 Fiat 600D. The coupe looks nothing like the egg-shaped city car upon which it is based. The Vignale expression stands out with a sporty-looking design characterized by a relatively long front end, a low roof line, and fin-like additions to the back end. Inside, Vignale fitted a three-spoke steering wheel and more supportive front seats. Keep in mind that these cars were highly customizable, so they didn’t all look like this. And while the museum’s example is a coupe, Vignale also offered a 600-based convertible.

Production figures are lost to history, but I’d bet the cost of a low-mileage 1990s Toyota Supra that the total number of such cars ever made lies in the three digits. Seeing one in the museum was a rare treat. Oh, and here’s a friendly secret: These Vignale Fiat 600s are seriously cheap. Auction house RM Sotheby’s sold a restored 1963 example in Saint-Moritz, Switzerland, for 23,000 Swiss Francs, which is about $26,000. Go ahead, name another rare, coachbuilt classic you can get for the cost of a ratty 15-year-old Land Cruiser.

Decades of British rule left a mark on Malta’s automotive landscape, and the museum reflects this history. It’s not just the usual suspects, though. There are several Minis, sure, but one is an interesting early pickup. The only Morris Minor displayed is a pickup as well, and there’s a sweet Ford Taunus downstairs.

Downstairs is also where you’ll find a pair of Austin-Healey 100 roadsters, including one of the 640 factory-built “Le Mans” cars fitted with a specific sport-tuned suspension system, bigger carburetors, and a 110-horsepower engine, among several other performance modifications. It’s parked right next to a regular-production 100, so the major differences between the two models are immediately obvious.

It’s the attention to detail that helps make the Malta Classic Car Museum such a fascinating place to visit. This is far more than a warehouse with a bunch of cool cars in it: The environment is well-lit and well-decorated, and there’s even a library full of classic repair manuals from around the world—even a theater room that plays documentaries about classic cars. It’s the kind of place the non-enthusiasts with whom we car geeks sometimes travel can also enjoy.

Ultimately, that’s what museums are for: sharing a passion with visitors and getting them to see their surroundings in a new light.

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In 1949, when Alan and Richard Jensen had to choose a model name for their hand-built English car, they settled on “Interceptor.” In retrospect, the choice was wise: The name is a great bit of marketing, a moniker that suggests power and speed, attributes coveted by many car buyers. Seventy-five years on, that first automobile, and the versions that followed it, continue to attract a dedicated following of enthusiasts. Many seem to be as much in love with the name as with the automobile itself.

Lars Ganesh, a Jaguar mechanic in Sweden, wanted a car to work on in his spare time—one that didn’t remind him of his time on the job—and he eventually settled on a Jensen Interceptor. “If you then add on maybe the coolest name of a car ever, it’s perfect,” he writes. “Interceptor is a name that you just can’t resist.”

In many ways, the Interceptor delivers on the promise its name suggested, with a big American V-8 engine for power and Italian styling that suggests forward motion and potency. But it took the brand a while to get the car to that point and once there, the company only hung on tenuously.

The Jensen brothers were better known as suppliers than as automakers: They manufactured vehicles for a variety of car companies, including Austin and Volvo. In between building machines for other makers, the brothers dabbled in marketing cars of their own design. These ran the gamut from the woody-like shooting brake of 1935 to a fiberglass sports car of the 1950s. The Interceptor, which premiered as a somewhat stodgy convertible in 1949, bloomed in the late ’60s and early ’70s with the production of more than 6000 pretty machines.

The first-generation Interceptor was built on an Austin A90 chassis that had been reinforced and extended. Only 88 cars were produced, 36 convertibles and 52 coupes. Like earlier Jensen offerings, the cars were powered by an engine cribbed from the parts bin of another manufacturer, in this case, an Austin 4-liter six-cylinder. With 132 horsepower on tap, it was able to propel the 3200-pound car adequately.

But one buyer wanted more. John Stricken, a Canadian rally driver, owned a Chrysler Hemi modified by Briggs Cunningham to deliver 250 horsepower from 331 cubic inches—great numbers for the time. He asked the Jensens to install it in an Interceptor. As accomplished engineers, the Jensens knew their car couldn’t handle that much power, so they got to work modifying the chassis. Today, that very special Interceptor belongs to Joerg Huesken of Dresden, Germany. It’s a nifty machine, but the sheetmetal lacks the design drama that would later come to distinguish the Interceptor.

The drama began in ’66 with the introduction of the second-generation Interceptor. In the confusing manner that characterizes Jensen, the first automobiles of that generation were dubbed Mark I, a nomenclature that ignored the Interceptor that preceded it in the ’50s. The second-gen car was more of a reincarnation of than a direct successor to the first-gen model, which had ceased production in ’57.

With a body by Carrozzeria Touring, this new Interceptor seemed heaven-sent, but not everyone was pleased. For the very English Jensen brothers, the decision to build the Italian-styled cars at Italy’s Vignale coachbuilding shop added insult to injury. The call was made by engineering and production management people whom the Jensen brothers had installed in top positions. The decision didn’t sit well with the brothers, who counted coachbuilding among their major skill sets, and they retired from the company soon thereafter.

The Interceptor’s interior featured an abundance of wood and leather and, in the dashboard, the classic Smiths gauges that have graced the best of England’s automobiles. Under the hood was a Chrysler V-8. The second-gen Interceptor was a great combination of sexy Italian design, refined English luxury, and brute American power. “It’s like a Dodge Coronet that went to college at Oxford,” Jay Leno said after viewing a restored 1974 Interceptor on Jay Leno’s Garage.

Although the second-generation car left the Jensen brothers cold, it warmed the cockles of the hearts of American car buyers who were ready for something different than what Detroit was offering. The fact that the Interceptor came with Chrysler’s potent 383 V-8 under the hood did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. Of course, U.S. sales of the Interceptor were still minimal compared to the standard domestic offerings, but with the cool name, big engine, and great looks, the Interceptor developed a bit of a cult following in America.

Several versions of the second-generation Interceptor—Mark I, II, and III—were built from 1966 to 1976 for a total of 6408 machines. Each new series was slightly modified and improved, but all shared the same basic shape, and all were equipped with Chrysler V-8s.

The most technically advanced Interceptor was the FF model. Only 320 copies of this very special car were produced from 1966 to 1971. All were right-hand-drive, so they couldn’t be sold in the U.S. where standard Interceptor models were doing well. An extra five inches of length gave the FF a sleek silhouette. A technical triumph, it offered anti-lock brakes and four-wheel drive, the first all-wheel propulsion system offered on a road-going car. Weak front axles were a major drawback—imagine what happens if you lose one front drive wheel under acceleration—but the rarity of the car and its innovations make it a desirable machine. Excellent copies can reportedly bring six figures.

The Mark III Interceptor came on the heels of the Mark II and was introduced for the 1971 model year. The 440-cubic-inch Chrysler engine replaced the 383, which had been seriously detuned by Chrysler to meet domestic emissions standards. Most cars were fitted with a four-barrel carbureted version of the engine that generated 305 horsepower, but a high-performance version with Chrysler’s “Six Pack” induction system (triple two-barrel carburetors) was offered in a special model, dubbed SP.

While the FF was the most technically sophisticated Interceptor, the ’71 Jensen SP was the most powerful. Although it looked exactly like other Interceptors, it wasn’t badged as such; it was merely the Jensen SP. Under the hood was the Mopar Six Pack 440-cubic-inch V-8, pumping out a tire-shredding 385 horsepower. While the SP was probably no quicker than the other cars that were equipped with that engine—Plymouth Road Runner and Dodge Super Bee—the sleek automobile looked faster.

The Mark III Interceptor ended production in 1976 with the company in financial trouble and the available supply of parts exhausted.

In 1983, the Interceptor name was reincarnated once again as the product of a new company called Jensen Cars Limited. It looked exactly like a ’70s Interceptor, and with good reason: It was exactly like a ’70s Interceptor. But a full rebirth was not to be, and only 14 cars were produced.

In 1990, another company had a go and built 36 copies of what were essentially Interceptors from the 1970s. Once again, financial problems threw a wrench in the works. Production ended in ’93.

While never a great financial success, the Interceptor was and is loved by many. It is a delicious combination: a proper English motorcar with a voluptuous Italian body and a stump-pulling American V-8. That mix of the elegant and brutish coupled with an unforgettable name is key to the Interceptor’s devoted fan base. Although not as large in number as the devotees of many other marques, Interceptor fans are very expressive in their love of the brand. And they can be found in every corner of the globe.

One very dedicated Jensen owner is Thomas Hoeller of Düsseldorf, Germany. Hoeller has traveled the world photographing and documenting Interceptors and has restored several. His travels took him to Carrozzeria Touring, the coachbuilder that had built the first copies of the second-generation Interceptor in 1966. He had heard that the design studies for that car had been lost, so he drove to Milan to search for the missing documents. There he found them in blueprint form and left with a copy.

Dino Fritz of Adelaide, South Australia, is another Interceptor devotee, who grew up in the ’70s and developed a passion for automobiles, “particularly the exotic ones,” he said. But the Adelaide of the ’70s didn’t offer much in the way of automotive pulchritude.

“However, one street away,” he said, “there was a home that had a Jensen Interceptor parked in the driveway. Here was an actual exotic car that I could actually see in the flesh, and I vividly remember the curves on the car and that back window.”

In 1989, Fritz had an opportunity to buy an Interceptor that had been totaled by an insurance company. He joined a Jensen car club, where he learned about Lucas electrical gremlins and the great SP model, so he upgraded the electrical, rebuilt the engine to SP spec (385 hp), and modified the interior to resemble that of the last Interceptor, the short-lived Mark IV of the 1980s. He’s now beginning restoration of an Interceptor convertible that he located in the UK.

The car is habit-forming.

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Think of the tools of a British coachbuilder. You’re probably imagining hammers pounding sheet metal, or perhaps the hypnotic turn of an English wheel.

Now think again. At Britain’s only independent coachbuilder of new vehicles, it’s all about autoclaves to cure carbon fiber, 3D printers, and multi-axis milling machines to shape parts with nanometer precision.

You won’t have heard of Allesley—at the time of writing the company didn’t even have a website up and running—but it is already working on bespoke commissions for wealthy clients, offering the kind of one-off vehicles that are beyond even OEM special divisions.

Allesley, named after a village just outside Coventry, the historical heart of coachbuilding, is a new venture from the people behind HPL Prototypes—who you probably won’t have heard of, either. HPL has 25 years’ experience in building show cars and prototypes for the most prestigious brands, including Rolls-Royce, Bentley, McLaren, Aston Martin, Lotus, Jaguar, Land Rover, and Gordon Murray Automotive.

Its expertise in developing everything from clay models to running prototypes means HPL was uniquely positioned to fill the rapidly increasing demand for unique vehicles for individuals and also short runs for OEMs, and Allesley was formed.

HPL CEO Chris Devane (above right) explains, “HPL’s reputation in supporting OEMs in the realization of their project vision through bespoke concept design and prototyping is exemplary. However, HPL has— and always will—offer a solely commercial service. We have deliberately flown ‘under the radar’, majoring on confidentiality, because that is what our automotive OEM clients require. As we celebrate our 25th year, the time is right to launch Allesley which will draw on our world-leading expertise, and with a dedicated new team, bring to life bespoke vehicles for a new audience.”

“We’re not competition, we’re actually advocates for their brand,” adds Allesley CEO Paul Abercrombie (above left). “We’re making cars that individuals want that maybe the brands may not have the ability to deliver within their schedule, and with the capacity they’ve got.”

Unlike the first coachbuilders, Allesley have to work with a fully built vehicle, rather than a rolling chassis. Customers will need to purchase the donor car in their home country to ensure it meets local regulations before shipping it to the U.K. for the conversion—whatever form that may take.

It’s a collaborative process that can take years depending on the complexity. “It could take 12 months just getting out of the clients what they want, how they want it,” explains Abercrombie. “It requires a big investment of time from the client to give you the information required to get the best results. These are very busy individuals so it can be hard to be able to get time from them, and it depends client by client. Having said that we have a client at the moment who phones me every morning at 8 a.m. for an update.”

Clients have come to Allesley with a sketch, a full moodboard, and one even took away a clay model and had a go at sculpting it himself. “The actual developing of the car will be as much fun for the client as the car itself,” says Abercrombie.

During the development process Allesley is able to provide models—up to full scale—drawings, renders and even virtual and augmented reality experiences depending on client preferences.

The firm’s fetching art deco facility, which once made parts for Spitfires and has a rich automotive history building racing Triumphs and the Rover SD1, can handle up to five bespoke builds at a time. A ballpark figure for a coachbuilt model is three to four times the cost of the new donor vehicle, but if extensive prototyping is required the numbers could run much higher.

“If someone wants to put a much more powerful engine into the car, for example, then the challenge will be is it usable power? Or is the chassis able to cope with the increase? Is it safe? What we’d recommend is that we would do a development program with a test mule and that’s going to cost a lot more.”

Allesley will reveal its first one-off customer car in 2024, a luxurious extended wheelbase SUV with a conventional powertrain, but the firm is actively looking forward to electrification.

“The skateboard chassis have to be so strong because of the batteries. It means that the cabin and the body structure give you more freedom, and the ability to use composite panels, made in our own composite center,” says Abercrombie.

No hammers required.

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With the Camaro nameplate retiring soon, we’re honoring the beloved two-door with a series of love letters, fun lists, and memories that you can follow here. Many performance cars, especially nowadays, aim for an anodyne version of perfection that only a few can afford. The Camaro is for the rest of us—and it’s always ready to party.

If there’s one thing that my obsession with automotive history has taught me, it is to be very careful with declarations of the absolute. In the annals of any long-running nameplate, there seems to always be an odd one out, an exception, an often-forgotten footnote. That’s what makes the subject so rich and interesting, and that of Chevrolet’s pony car is no exception. In the spirit of our recent love letters to the departing Camaro, here are four unique Camaros that time forgot.

1968 Camaro CS Coupe Frua

A key element of the Camaro story is the development blitz that took place after the 1965 Ford Mustang’s success caught GM off balance. Still, none of that haste was apparent in the Camaro’s refined looks. Under the stern watch of the legendary Bill Mitchell, GM Design hardly put a foot wrong with its pony car. But Mitchell was dismissive of the first Camaro’s design due to the many compromises deemed necessary for cost reasons. We’d nevertheless argue that the original Camaro looked great even in basic trim, thanks to its crisp lines, perfectly judged proportions, and deftly modeled surfaces.

Most would conclude there was little room left for aesthetic improvement, but that didn’t stop the Italians from saying “Hold my Nebbiolo.”

Presented by the Turinese coachbuilder Pietro Frua at the 1968 Paris Motor Show, the Camaro CS Coupe was a sleek 2+2 that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Maserati showroom. But while Frua’s Camaro exuded an air of sophistication that belied its humble Chevrolet underpinnings, it was far from an original design.

You see, in those days, Italian design firms had no qualms about selling variations of the same design to multiple clients. Frua’s one-off Camaro CS Coupe is one of several cars sharing a common design theme that the coachbuilder made between 1967 and 1971. Notably, this group includes the 1967 Monteverdi 375 S, the 1969 AC 429 Coupé, and even a one-off in 1970 based on the Dodge Challenger.

1976 Camaro “Europo Hurst” Frua

Nearly two million second-gen Camaros were built over the model’s 12-year production run. (There will never be enough of these around if you ask me.) Contrary to the previous model, GM designers were given adequate time and significantly more leeway. In my view, it shows.

Particularly in its purest early incarnations, the second-generation Camaro stands out as one of General Motors’ finest designs this side of a Corvette. I would say that the second-gen Camaro’s design embodies the best of both worlds. Its overall shape, stance, and details drew heavily from period Ferraris, but the final result exuded the kind of bravado that only an American car can pull off.

Pietro Frua exhibited his own take on the second-gen Camaro at the 1976 Turin Motor Show. However, the Turinese coachbuilder left most of the donor car alone this time, save from a rather slick hatchback conversion. As we noted in 2020 ahead of its sale via RM Sotheby’s auction (just $31,900!), Frua’s slick version was not your daddy’s Camaro.

Integrating a large hatch door required a near-complete redesign of the Camaro’s rear end, which lost its curvaceous haunches. Nonetheless, the result is rather graceful and could easily pass for something built by GM itself. Another neat detail: the clever use of black paint to visually connect the donor car’s window profile with the new rear quarter windows. The same can’t be said for the redesigned front clip, though, which looks rather bland and generic.

This Camaro started life as a regular coupe but was treated to a Hurst T-top conversion after it arrived in the U.S. in early 1977. Later the same year, Frua repeated the trick on a Pontiac Firebird, which was displayed on his company’s stand at the Geneva Motor Show.

1985 Camaro GTZ Concept

A childhood spent watching Knight Rider reruns means that third-gen GM F-bodies will always hold a special place in my heart.

But, besides my tender years’ fascination with The Hoff’s talking Firebird, I consider the 1982–92 Camaro one of the few genuinely outstanding designs to come out from GM during Irv Rybicki’s tenure as Design VP.

Upon Bill Mitchell’s retirement in 1977, the GM top brass wanted a gentler, more malleable design vice president. They got their wish, but the tradeoff came at a tremendous price. As GM Design lost its edge, the cars got blander, and the differences between each division’s offerings became harder and harder to spot. The latter point was put in stark evidence in 1983 by Fortune magazine, with its infamous cover featuring GM’s four near-identical A-body intermediate sedans.

But that nadir proved to be the jolt GM’s management needed. Chuck Jordan, who would succeed Rybicki as design VP in 1986, spearheaded the creation of an awe-inspiring array of show cars to demonstrate GM wasn’t brain-dead after all.

The Camaro GTZ concept car was presented at the 1985 Chicago Auto Show. It was based on a production T-top coupe but sported redesigned front and rear ends whose smooth design didn’t quite gel with the donor car’s more angular middle section, which remained unaltered. Instead of the usual Chevy small-block V-8, under the Camaro GTZ’s clamshell hood sat a 4.3-liter V-6 rated at 240 hp and mated to a five-speed manual transmission.

Contrary to other more spectacular GM concept cars from the same era, the Camaro GTZ was quickly forgotten once its auto show run ended. It remained stored at the company’s Heritage Center until 2009, after GM’s bankruptcy, when it was auctioned off along with other vehicles from its collection.

1989 Camaro California IROC-Z

As the 1980s drew to a close, automobile design had completed its transition away from the folded-paper style of the ’70s and was heading fast toward the opposite end of the spectrum.

Earlier during the decade, the trend for smoother shapes had been primarily driven by the pursuit of aerodynamic efficiency. But by the time the Berlin Wall fell, that singular focus on aero began to fade in favor of a newfound playfulness. The inspiration came from nature, and the new trend became known as bio-design.

Created by GM’s advanced design studio in Newbury Park, the 1989 “California Camaro” perfectly epitomizes that period. As the aim was to “prepare” the public for the radical design of the upcoming fourth-gen Camaro, the California IROC-Z took the same design theme and cranked it up to eleven. With its short rear overhang, elongated prow, and large “butterfly” doors, it was as striking a vision of the future as any of the legendary Motorama show cars from the ’50s. GM Design had definitely gotten its mojo back.

Despite its less extreme proportions and a somewhat compromised stance, the fourth-gen Camaro launched in 1993 lost little of the California concept’s visual impact. It may not be everyone’s favorite Camaro, but it undoubtedly was the most daring one. It eschewed the classic long hood/short deck proportions in favor of a dramatic wedge profile with a steeply inclined windscreen and a scuttle stretching forward atop the engine.

That turned out not to be what buyers wanted. The more traditionally styled Ford Mustang consistently outsold the Camaro, so GM played it safe when it came time to reboot the nameplate after its 2002 demise.

It’s sad to see the Camaro ride into the sunset again. Still, I hope that whenever GM brings it back, it’ll return looking confidently toward the future rather than like an overblown caricature of its 1960s namesake.

***

Matteo Licata received his degree in Transportation Design from Turin’s IED (Istituto Europeo di Design) in 2006. He worked as an automobile designer for about a decade, including a stint in the then-Fiat Group’s Turin design studio, during which his proposal for the interior of the 2010–20 Alfa Romeo Giulietta was selected for production. He next joined Changan’s European design studio in Turin and then EDAG in Barcelona, Spain. Licata currently teaches automobile design history to the Transportation Design bachelor students of IAAD (Istituto di Arte Applicata e Design) in Turin.

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One of the best parts of visiting the Petersen Automotive Museum is that it’s never the same experience twice. A new exhibit that opened this summer is called Splendor and Speed: Treasures of the Petersen Collection. It’s located in the Bruce Meyer Family Gallery on the museum’s second floor, an area that formerly housed a rotating lineup of hypercars. The new exhibit highlights some of the rare automotive artifacts that have been hanging out in the Vault below the museum. From significant hot rods to bespoke luxury cruisers, the room is filled with significant vehicles, many of which are one-of-a-kind.

A 1956 Jaguar XKSS formerly owned by Steve McQueen is one of the racier entrants in the exhibit, and the green British roadster has excellent company. It’s joined by the 1939 “Shah” Bugatti Type 57C Cabriolet by Vanvooren as well as the Plymouth Explorer concept built by Ghia. Perhaps the most stunning car on display is the famous 1925 Rolls-Royce Phantom I Aerodynamic Coupe by Jonckheere. The “Round Door” Rolls-Royce was restored by the Petersen and held a prominent place in the Vault for quite a while, welcoming guests to the underground experience in front of a mural of the car with Bob and Margie Petersen. This is a car that really must be experienced in person as the lines of the car, as well as its scale, are difficult to capture.

In addition to the numerous vehicles, the exhibit includes rare film footage and one-of-a-kind design models from the mid-20th century when these cars were designed and crafted. “The display is a fitting reflection of the exceptional assortment of vehicles we have in our collection,” said Petersen Automotive Museum Executive Director Terry L. Karges. “We are delighted to have visitors view the museum’s most cherished vehicles and artifacts.”

Splendor and Speed: Treasures of the Petersen Collection is currently open. If you’re in the Los Angeles area we recommend spending an hour or two at the museum, and the Vault is still very much worth the extra price. Tickets are available in advance.

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In the days before the invention of the automobile, the most widely used mode of transportation was the horse. One horse was sufficient for one person, but most people did not keep large herds or teams. This is part of why carriages came into favor, and those horse-drawn methods of travel varied by wealth and social standing.

When high society wanted only the very best in carriages, firms such as Brewster were sought out for their ability to create bespoke rides. As automobiles became prevalent, carriage builders turned their attention to creating coachbuilt bodies for luxury automobile manufacturers. By using the same craftspeople and level of detail employed at their firms, coachbuilders leveraged their respected names and reputations to venture forth into a new world of society—a horseless realm.

For 2023, the Greenwich Concours d’Elegance will celebrate those well-established and respected firms in the New England, New York, and Mid-Atlantic areas. These locations benefited from their Atlantic seaports, access to railroads and timber forests, and ample talented workforces, as well as wealthy metropolitan areas nearby.

Brewster & Company

One simply cannot discuss American coachbuilding without mentioning Brewster & Company, which has more than 200 years of coachbuilding history. Company founder James Brewster’s roots in carriage building went back as far as 1804, when he was a young apprentice learning the trade at the Northampton, Massachusetts, firm.

With the emerging automobile market, it was only a matter of time before the well-to-do would come to Brewster to craft a body for a car, and in 1905 Brewster did just that. By 1911, the firm built its last horse-drawn carriage, signaling the end of an era.

During this same period, Rolls-Royce could not help but notice the large American market; even before World War I, the automaker had been planning to set up manufacturing in the U.S. In 1919, Rolls-Royce of America (RRoA) was open for business and started producing motor cars in Springfield, Massachusetts; quite naturally, Rolls turned to Brewster for coachbuilt bodies. By 1924, however, it was apparent Brewster would not be able to continue much longer. Rolls-Royce started negotiations in 1925 and in 1926 acquired the historic coachbuilding firm. In turn, during the early 1930s, RRoA started experiencing declining sales of Springfield New Phantoms due to the Great Depression; the Rolls-Royce’s American arm eventually went bankrupt, building its last Springfield car in 1933.

The reputation of Brewster survived, however, with the Brewster family reacquiring the coachbuilding firm that same year. Brewster started coachbuilding once again, using new Ford V-8 chassis from 1934 to 1936, as well as a handful of other customer-supplied chassis from companies including Buick. Alas, this venture was short-lived, and Brewster declared bankruptcy, with all assets sold at auction in August 1937.

Brunn

Like Brewster, Hermann A. Brunn’s coachbuilding history started in the carriage industry. His uncle Henry had already established a carriage shop in 1882 in Buffalo, New York. Nephew Hermann worked for his uncle; unfortunately, uncle and nephew could not agree on the importance of the automobile to their trade, with Henry dismissing these new inventions. Hermann left his uncle’s business and set up Brunn & Company in 1908.

When the new Lincoln debuted in 1920, the bodies on the luxury chassis were perceived to be stodgy and lacking style. Lincoln execs contacted Brunn, asking him to come to Detroit and offer some design guidance. After much scrutiny, Brunn was offered the chance to redesign the entire Lincoln line. Brunn came up with 12 new designs for 1923, by which time Ford had taken over Lincoln.

Working with the new Lincoln Zephyr of 1936 proved a challenge for Brunn, as converting a unitized body was much more difficult than starting from scratch. Brunn was in luck, as Buick’s Harlow Curtice commissioned Brunn to build a one-off show car based on the Roadmaster chassis in 1939. Brunn designed other show cars for Buick before the project was killed off following complaints by the Cadillac division of GM. Hermann A. Brunn died in 1941, and his passing marked the end of Brunn & Company.

Derham Body Company

Joseph J. Derham got his start as an apprentice in the carriage-building trade. With the Main Line of Philadelphia practically at his shop’s door, Derham had the advantage of many wealthy families that resided along the route. Derham’s reputation resulted in him creating semi-customs for luxury car dealerships wanting to offer unique bodies. At one time, Derham was even building bodies for LeBaron Carrossiers before it had such manufacturing capabilities. Joseph J. Derham was able to maintain this balance of catering to a client’s every desire, along with small runs of semi-customs, until his untimely death in 1928.

The 1930s were kind to Derham the company, with the firm creating some truly wonderful bodies for Duesenbergs, Packards, and Franklins. Although other coachbuilders failed during the Great Depression, Derham’s Main Line clients once again provided it with enough orders to keep the company prosperous. Acquiring a Plymouth-DeSoto franchise in the 1930s helped Derham supplement revenue; this relationship resulted in contracts for special-bodied Chryslers and Imperials.

Derham was able to not only survive the Great Depression, but also World War II. Rather than close its doors during wartime, it took on government contracts for both aviation and naval items. After the war, and with much less competition, Derham received several custom orders from clients. These included a pair of restyled Lincoln Continental coupes for famed designer Raymond Loewy and his wife; a pair of Chrysler Continentals based on Ford’s model at that time; and a unique 1927-style body on a current Imperial chassis for Marjorie Merriweather Post Davies of the Post Cereal fame.

When Joseph’s son, Enos, died in 1974, it marked the end of one of the longest-running coachbuilders in American history.

LeBaron Carrossiers

If you were alive at any point between the ’60s and ’90s, you were probably exposed to the many Chrysler products bearing the name LeBaron. In fact, the name LeBaron goes back to 1920. Founders Thomas Hibbard and Raymond Dietrich each got their starts working for Brewster in the design department.

Hibbard and Dietrich focused on creating stunning designs to sell to the firms capable of bringing those ideas to fruition. To give their designs more credence, the name LeBaron Carrossiers was chosen to provide a sense of French elegance. Ralph Roberts joined the firm in 1921 to handle the books; later, both Hibbard and Dietrich left to further their careers elsewhere. Roberts found himself in charge of LeBaron as both head designer and administrator of the firm.

By the mid-1920s, LeBaron was producing approximately 200 bodies a year. Briggs Manufacturing Company, the largest body builder in the Detroit area, had become familiar with LeBaron and purchased the business in 1927. Ralph Roberts continued with the firm, eventually setting up his headquarters at the Briggs plant under the name of LeBaron Studios. Briggs supplied bodies to many leading manufacturers, with some of the most stunning designs going to Chrysler and Imperial—especially the Thunderbolt and Newport of 1941. Chrysler bought Briggs in 1953 and acquired the LeBaron name. Chrysler made good usage of LeBaron’s reputation for quality and tasteful design, affixing the moniker to many models for four decades.

Rollston

Rollston founder Harry Lonschein learned coachbuilding while employed at Brewster starting in 1903. There he was able to appreciate some of the finest chassis supplied by the world’s leading luxury automobile manufacturers, including Rolls-Royce. As Rolls-Royce of America was opening its new Springfield facility, Lonschein and two partners formed Rollston as a gesture to his favorite brand.

Rollston took pride in its extremely sturdy, over-engineered bodies. Rollston was favored by New York Packard dealership’s custom body manager Grover C. Parvis. Because of this, much of Rollston’s work went on Packard chassis. During Rollston’s most prosperous years in the 1920s, it averaged about 54 bodies a year; during the Depression, however, those numbers declined to about 20 per year. By April 1938, the firm had closed its doors, but soon reorganized under the name Rollson with help from Packard with a small-run contract for town car bodies. As with Derham and others, Rollson survived during and after WWII by manufacturing goods for government and military contracts, as well as converting unit-bodied cars into special-purpose ones.

Willoughby Company

It seems that Edward A. Willoughby did not acquire any direct skills by working in the trade. He gained his business knowledge working with country stores and eventually becoming general manager of the R. M. Bingham Co., a vehicle manufacturer in Rome, New York. He then took control of the Utica Carriage Company, which was in bankruptcy. Willoughby later bought the business.

The Willoughby Company was formed in 1903 to manufacture carriages, sleighs, and automobile bodies. After Willoughby’s passing in 1913, the firm was taken over by his son Francis, with Ernest Galle serving as head designer. Under the direction of Galle, Willoughby’s designs focused on comfort with conservative styling. In 1914, Studebaker awarded Willoughby with a contract to build more than 1000 closed bodies. With this contract came a need to double Willoughby’s workforce. Galle hired Martin Regitko, who would become the new chief designer after Galle’s passing in 1918.

Willoughby did not have the advantage of nearby wealthy clients the way Derham did. As a result, many of its orders came in the form of contract work, in particular from Rolls-Royce of America. Francis Willoughby was elected president of the Automobile Body Builders Association in 1923, a testament to the firm’s acclaim.

When Rolls-Royce acquired Brewster in the mid-1920s, Willoughby was left out in the cold. Through the late 1920s and 1930s, contracts were landed with Marmon and notably Lincoln, as well as custom coachwork on Duesenbergs, Rolls-Royce, and other private commissions. In 1939 after failing to secure a buyer, Francis Willoughby reluctantly conceded, and everything was sold at public auction. Regitko was hired by Lincoln, where he worked on the new Continental with design legend E.T. “Bob” Gregorie.

Coachbuilding ended with the onset of unitized bodies, but the history and reverence of these pioneers is still remembered. Both Chrysler with LeBaron and Cadillac with Fleetwood recognized this, and even today bespoke coachwork is offered from Rolls-Royce and Bentley.

East Coast Coachbuilders is one of 20 classes to be featured at the 2023 Greenwich Concours d’Elegance, on June 2–4, 2023. Download the 2023 Greenwich Concours d’Elegance event program to learn more about Sunday’s other featured classes, Saturday’s Concours de Sport, our judges, sponsors, nonprofit partners, 2022 winners and more!

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During the Roaring Twenties, high-end car manufacturers were in a cylinder-number arms race to attract buyers. More cylinders meant more, smoother power. Cadillacs only had V-8s at the time, so in order to keep up with the competition, development started on a line of new V-12 and V-16 engines in 1927. The new models powered by these engines would be the pinnacle of Cadillac. Just as the development of these new powerplants was finishing up in late 1929, the stock market crashed, sending the economy into a tailspin.

The Cadillac V-12 and V-16 were introduced in 1930. Oops.

If you have an appreciation for prewar excess or bad timing, check out our Hagerty Marketplace Auction pick of the week, this stunning 1931 Cadillac Series 370A V-12 Phaeton.

In reality, most people who were able to afford a new Cadillac around the time of the Great Depression didn’t feel its effects the way the working class did. Nevertheless, it was still an era of belt-tightening, and even the rich had to curb some aspects of their extravagant lifestyles. The Cadillac Series 370 V-12 far outsold its more expensive V-16 counterpart.

The 370 suffix denoted the V-12’s 370 cubic inches of displacement, while the A signifies an early model. From that voluminous displacement, the twelve channels 135 horsepower through a three-speed synchronized manual transmission.

Like a lot of high-end prewar cars, the Series 370A could be had with a variety of custom and semi-custom bodies, with the standard models being designed by a young Harley Earl.

Our featured car has a Phaeton body by Fisher (one of Cadillac’s in-house coachbuilders at the time) draped over a 140-inch wheelbase. The term Phateon is taken from the pre-automobile era, where it referred to a dangerously fast, lightweight, four-wheeled carriage. The term was then adopted by car manufacturers to mean a sporty four- or five-passenger automobile with a convertible top. Other exterior touches include dual side-mount spare wheels, a radiator stone guard, and a goddess hood mascot.

The two-tone maroon-and-white paint presents well, but it’s not perfect. This car was restored in the late 1990s, and there’s a minor scratch on the front bumper on the passenger side, a minor paint crack in the passenger front fender below the spare, a paint chip in the rear passenger corner pinstriping, and flaking paint on the lower passenger corner of the trunk. But this beast should be driven, not locked up in a museum.

These cars cemented Cadillac as the “Standard of the World.” Don’t miss out on this piece of prewar history. Bidding ends on Tuesday, May 30, at
4:20 p.m. EDT.

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I’ve been an appraiser for well over 20 years, and over that time I’ve gotten to see some pretty remarkable rides. People even trust me enough to let me judge fancy cars on golf fairways every once in a while. You might think that walking among seven- and eight-figure beauties would change my taste, but I still have my (not so guilty) pleasures.

My name is Dave Kinney, and I love Superfly cars.

Okay, I know that sounds like the kind of confession you’d hear at an anonymous meeting. But Superfly cars are a rolling poke in the eye to the snooty automotive establishment, and for that I can’t get enough of them.

Still, the garish customized cars of the 1970s are definitely not everyone’s cup of Jack and Cola. Notice that I don’t use the word “pimpmobile.” I’m not a fan of this term, though I admit it paints a pretty accurate picture in most people’s minds: a big, over-stylized American luxury car covered in vinyl, chrome, and extravagant paint. Interiors perhaps lavishly decked out with mirrors, shag carpet, and even televisions.

I prefer the “Superfly” moniker, which I think fits even better. Brought into broader use by the 1972 movie, Super Fly, and Curtis Mayfield’s song “Superfly” (one word), the term quickly morphed to mean something cool or incredibly stylish, if gaudy. These cars more than fit that bill.

Let’s be real: This was the ’70s. Lots of Superfly car owners were simply people who liked flash and excess and had the cash to afford it. Back then, I frequently used to see a Superfly car parked outside of an accountant’s office near my hometown. When I finally saw the car on the road, yup, the “numbers man” at the wheel was the CPA that owned the business. Bookkeepers like flash, too.

I dug these cars enough that I bought one in 2005: a Lincoln Mark IV-based “Bugazzi.” Made in California and with a George Barris connection (or at least Barris told me so), the Bugazzi was a short-lived fantasy car, loaded with all the options you might expect for the day. An onboard TV, gold trim, faux external exhaust pipes, padded vinyl half roof, genuine marble trim on the dashboard and in the door panels, the works. The entertainer Danny Thomas bought one new. I enjoyed owning the car, though my wife was a little less than thrilled having it around. I guess she just has poor taste in luxury cars of the 1970s.

You can keep your neo-classics—your Zimmers, Spartans, or later Excaliburs—to me, they’re not in the same league. Although there are a few neo-classics I do like, overall, they aren’t the real deal. For me, they took themselves a little too seriously. I make that distinction because I have discerning taste, though you also might argue it’s more a result of my complete lack of taste. Potato, potahto.

I especially like the cars that were actually built and customized in the 1970s. Mine has to be a two-door, Lincoln or Caddy only. E&G Customs “Rolls” grille please, with Superfly headlights (an homage to Lucas P-100 headlights as seen on many Rolls-Royce Silver Wraiths of the 1950s). I’ll take a padded vinyl top, limo-style reduced rear window, some vinyl trim, chrome belts with buckles on the trunk would be nice. An exposed spare tire (or Continental-style spare), and lots of extra chrome to complete the look. Pure Klass, and with a capital K, for sure.

At this point, you’ve got to be saying, “Dave, how do I learn more about this fascinating sub-genre of cars, and if I want to buy one, what do I need to look for?” It’s as simple as searching for ’70s-era customized luxury cars—I get lost down this rabbit hole on a regular basis. You’ll quickly get a feel for what shops or coachbuilders you like. As far as buying one, there’s a healthy array of price points, and ultimately they’re based on malaise-era domestic cars, so keeping them running is not much different than your typical American collector vehicle.

For those more casually interested in enjoying Superfly cars, I suggest digging up more movies from the ’70s. The James Bond film Live and Let Die features my personal favorite, the Corvorado. Driven by the movie’s villain, Mr. Big (played by Yaphet Kotto), the white-over-red Corvorado was a custom Corvette with design features of a contemporary Eldorado. Conceived by the creative Les Dunham of Dunham Coach in New Jersey, the exaggerated proportions of this outlandish coupe were maximum Superfly.

Even those that didn’t make the silver screen capture attention. Small shops across the country turned out unbridled custom Cadillacs, Lincolns, Buicks, Oldsmobiles and others, and some of the more prominent brands, like Stutz, still pull down good money when they come up for sale. A split-windshield 1971 Stutz Blackhawk went for $212,800 at Gooding’s Amelia sale this year (though later cars are available for substantially less). Evidently, some people share my taste.

Superfly cars might be maligned, and they’re definitely niche. But as the kids say, “if you know, you know.” To the rest, I suggest chasing your own version of fun; don’t let The Man hassle you.

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Talbot-Lago. No doubt you’ve heard the name called out in the dulcet tones of a concours emcee as beautiful people flit among beautiful cars while Camembert and sauvignon blanc are served. Talbot-Lago stands with Bugatti, Delage, Delahaye, and Voisin as one of the great practitioners of French bespoke carmaking from the great interwar years of flourishing art deco design. From a tiny factory in the Paris suburbs that never had more than 450 workers, Talbot-Lagos roared forth to race at Le Mans, they battled fang and talon with the ascendant Germans on the Grand Prix circuit, they drew crowds of gawkers at the annual Paris Salon de l’Automobile, and they were the preferred bolides of an exclusive coterie of moneyed elite who fled to the Riviera in autumn.

Mike Regalia’s 1949 Talbot-Lago Grand Sport came after all that. After a cataclysmic war smashed the old order and impoverished a continent, as Paris’s thriving carrosserie industry was being reduced to vapors, and as the hard-drinking, hard-smoking boss, Tony Lago—who had once escaped a Fascist hit squad by lobbing a grenade into a cafe—was conniving to keep his factory open through sheer force of will. None of which detracts from the fact that Regalia’s Grand Sport, one of only around 31 to 35 cars thought to have been built between 1948 and 1951, is a spectacular automobile, even as it sits idling on a California side street in largely unrestored condition.

“It’s kind of like owning a Bugatti,” says Regalia, who started in 1978 as an in-house painter for the great car collector and cosmetics baron J.B. Nethercutt and retired in 2005 as the Nethercutt Collection’s president. “It’s very rare air. These are one-off custom coachbuilt cars, and they were some of the last.”

We ensconced ourselves in the Grand Sport’s ridiculously cramped cockpit for some action shots for the photographer. The T26 Grand Sport has about the same space inside as a 1958 Corvette or, more contemporaneously, a Jaguar XK 120. People were obviously smaller back then, or just more forgiving. The 4.5-liter pushrod straight-six sucks through its triple carburetors with a raspy snarl while its exhaust pushes the gases out with an arresting burble. Regalia, sitting in the right seat per prewar French convention, snicked the column shifter for the Wilson preselector gearbox down a notch, from point mort, or neutral, into first, and we rolled off.

Talbot-Lago is one of those names with complex parentage, somehow surviving the incestuous turmoil of the early auto industry when most new automaking start-ups lived lives of brief, unprofitable anguish before dying or merging with others. For those interested in the particulars, the history is cataloged in minute detail in Peter Larsen’s two-volume compendium, Talbot-Lago Grand Sport, a towering work of research that is also pleasantly readable. “One Sunday in 2008,” Larsen explained via email in the same breezy manner that he wrote the book, “I was reading yet another T26 Grand Sport article that contained a baker’s dozen of mistakes—an article that perpetuated the same mistakes others had made before moronically repeating them. I got fed up and decided to rectify matters. It took four years.”

See what we mean about the writing? Much of the following information has been taken from Larsen and his co-writer Ben Erickson, who are by their own admission indebted to the research of others on this obscure topic. In brief, the company’s tale started with bicycle-maker Pierre Alexandre Darracq, who built what was to become the Talbot-Lago factory in 1896 in the Paris suburb of Suresnes, about 5 miles west of the newly erected Eiffel Tower.

Around that time, a French former bicycle racer and bicycle maker named Adolphe Clément took a trip to London, where he learned of the newly invented Dunlop pneumatic tire. He bought the French rights, which made him a fairly instant millionaire. Keen to move into automobiles, Clément partnered with the British lord Charles Chetwynd-Talbot, the 20th Earl of Shrewsbury, to buy Darracq’s bicycle business while also founding Clément-Talbot Limited in England to build cars.

Lots of drama and disasters ensued over the next 30 years as companies collapsed or merged, a succession of mediocrities took charge, plans were laid and schemes were schemed, and vast fortunes were burned. Perhaps sensing his end was near, Lord Talbot exited the car business in 1919 and died two years later, not living to see how his family name would be pasted on all manner of vehicles from both sides of the English Channel until well into the 1980s (the current heir, Charles Henry John Benedict Crofton Chetwynd Chetwynd-Talbot, the 22nd Earl of Shrewsbury, no doubt takes some satisfaction from it). Today, the name Talbot is variously pronounced as Tal-beau or Tall-bit depending on whether you side with the French or English.

In 1933, as the surviving car company, Automobiles Talbot, was hemorrhaging cash at a particularly robust rate and its British shareholders were bemoaning their collective plight, along came Talbot-Lago’s most illustrious personality, Antonio Franco Lago, or “Tony” to his friends, lovers, and numerous creditors. Lago was born in 1893 to a middle-class Venetian family and attended technical college while falling into the orbit of a young Benito Mussolini. Lago is thus otherwise semi-notorious as one of the 50 founding members of the Italian Fascist Party. However, as Larsen writes, he was more interested in lofty ideals than jackbooted thuggery and, after serving as an aircraft mechanic during World War I, turned on the party. Which is why they eventually sent a gang of black-shirted assassins to take him out. After tossing the grenade to escape, Lago fled to Paris, then onward to London, and never returned to his homeland.

In London in the 1920s, while running a small shop specializing in Isotta Fraschini cars, Lago became enamored with the newly invented Wilson preselector gearbox, a type of semiautomatic manual that offered benefits in noise and efficiency over contemporary non-synchro manuals while also reducing shifting to a gentle flick of the wrist. Lago wrangled the rights to assemble Wilsons in France—though Larsen is not convinced that Lago ever actually paid for it—and started building his empire.

In 1933, he approached Talbot’s grieving shareholders with a highly dubious plan to take over and run the factory in Suresnes. Talbot-Lago was effectively born, and right up until the Nazis let themselves into Poland in 1939, the company produced a few hundred examples each year of a dizzying—and mostly unprofitable—array of road and racing cars. From the ordinary Minor 13CV (in France, most cars were denoted by their cheval-vapeur, or taxable horsepower) to the fabulous T150 sports cars that would be bodied by the best coachwork designers in France, including the uninhibited Joseph Figoni and the Russian Jewish émigré Iakov “Jacques” Saoutchik.

The idea for Regalia’s azure blue roadster was born in the latter days of the war, when Tony Lago joined with his Paris colleagues in the coachbuilding business to try to pretend that the war never happened. Talbot-Lago would ride back to glory partly atop the T26 Grand Sport, a compact and lightweight two-seater built with only few changes on the bones of the company’s old prewar Grand Prix cars. Even as the bullets still flew, Lago and his chief engineer, Carlo Marchetti, worked on a new version of the company’s 4.5-liter, 26-cheval-vapeur inline-six, with twin cams in a long-stroke block topped by semi-hemispherical combustion chambers.

However, postwar austerity, shortages, and inflation kneecapped French car production, Lago spending much of his days haggling with local officials for allocations of raw materials. By the time the Grand Sport debuted in 1948, the best from England, Germany, and Italy was already better, and the car was obsolete the day it arrived. “I don’t think numbers sold [fewer than 35] is a measure of success—that is a sort of McDonald’s X-billion sold philosophy,” said Larsen, who is curating a special Grand Sport class at the 2022 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance. “The car was an extreme sales flop, in the sense that it was the wrong car at the wrong time, and at a hideously expensive price. But I think that is beside the point; it was an outrageously exclusive and beautiful individually coachbuilt objet d’art on a gorgeous, if outdated, chassis.”

At 2.65 meters, or 104.3 inches, the Grand Sport’s wheelbase was 2 inches longer than the aforementioned ’58 Corvette’s, but Talbot-Lago’s lengthy T26 inline-six consumed much more real estate than the legendarily compact small-block. The GM mention is not by accident; Saoutchik supplied the body for the debut Grand Sport, an extravagant coupe in pastel green with brown accents that stole the 1948 Paris Salon de l’Automobile. It also heavily ripped off the 1942–49 Buick fastbacks designed under Harley Earl at General Motors. Saoutchik would do several more Grand Sport coupes using variations on the Buick theme.

Regalia’s Grand Sport was the factory’s 17th chassis, delivered to its buyer, a Mr. Paul Gerbe of Paris, on September 29, 1949, exactly one month after the Soviets detonated their first atomic bomb. Compared to the rakish Saoutchik coupe that preceded it and the fenderless racer that came after, Regalia’s Dubos-bodied convertible is a study in conventional elegance, vaguely resembling a contemporary pontoon-fender Triumph 1800 roadster, albeit with far more graceful lines. The three Dubos brothers had taken over their father Louis’s Paris coachworks upon his death in 1946 and attempted to continue building commissioned one-offs in the firm’s tastefully understated style, but by the mid-1950s, that business was dead and the company switched entirely to building buses and commercial vehicles.

Regalia’s car survives as the only unrestored Dubos Grand Sport of the four to which Dubos supplied coachwork. The bare chassis alone cost Gerbe roughly the equivalent of $5800 at a time when a new Cadillac Series 62 convertible ran about $3500—and this in post-occupation France, when people were still lining up for bread. It took Talbot-Lago five months to build the chassis using tools and equipment that mostly dated back to 1912. Thus, you can see why bespoke carmaking was rapidly nearing its end, and Talbot-Lago died with its chief motive force, Tony Lago, in 1960, having outlived its era and most of its contemporaries by at least a decade.

Eventually this Grand Sport made its way to America and received a fresh paint job that is, by Regalia’s estimation, slightly darker than the original color. It should be said that Regalia is a paint-matching expert who helped the Nethercutts win six Pebble Beach Concours Best of Show awards, along the way acquiring, restoring, and reselling Steve McQueen’s Ferrari 250 GT Lusso. He bought the Grand Sport out of a San Diego–area collection in 2019, figuring it might be his only opportunity to own an example of French bespoke coachwork at a somewhat-affordable price.

“Postwar coachbuilt cars are actually rarer than prewar,” he says while manhandling the Grand Sport on a twisty road in summertime heat, “because World War II destroyed the industry. And this one was an open car, and unrestored, making it even rarer among the rare. Three-quarters of the Grand Sports were closed.” Postwar Talbot-Lagos, except for the million-dollar Grand Sports, are relatively affordable, partly because of obscurity, partly because of high restoration costs, and partly because at concours they tend to be lumped into postwar sporting classes with much more popular Ferraris and Gullwings.

By the looks of it, the Talbot-Lago is no easy thing to drive, but then it is more than 70 years old and based on technology from the 1930s. Author Peter Larsen, who calls himself a “Talboiste” of many years, says the cars are nonetheless real sports cars by the definition of their day, especially the earlier Grand Sports whose wheelbases were almost 8 inches shorter than the later cars. “It is a direct successor to the prewar T150 C-SS and the chassis is virtually identical to the prewar GP cars, with a great old-school 4.5-liter six and that marvelous Wilson preselector,” says Larsen. “The faster a Grand Sport goes, the better it goes. This isn’t a Delahaye, just as a Duesenberg is not a Packard.”

Running hot from all the photography work in the California sun, Regalia’s car signaled that it was time to call it a day. He’s owned more usable cars, including a 1972 Ferrari Daytona that he bought decades ago and is currently restoring in his garage. But he’s utterly smitten by this obscure sliver of French artisanal carmaking and the story of its suave and wily chieftain, who deserves to be mentioned with Ettore Bugatti and Enzo Ferrari in the ranks of the industry’s driven visionaries.

Even as the company was dying, “a Talbot-Lago finished 1-2 at Le Mans in 1950,” Regalia notes. “This is basically the same chassis with a custom coachbuilt body on it. In the collector car world, that’s as good as it gets.”

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Henry Ford introduced the rolling assembly line in 1913 and brought automobile ownership within reach of the masses. He also put in motion the eventual decline of coachbuilding, a trade that is thought to date back to the Romans and which produced some of the most spectacular automobiles of the 20th century. Coachbuilders delivered a few handmade bolides produced by irreplaceable craftsmen using ancient tools and techniques, while mass production harnessed unskilled labor and mechanized automation to deliver millions of identical vehicles at an affordable price. One form of production flourished while the other diminished until, in the postwar period, it was practiced by only a few specialized design houses—and most of those are gone today. But has coachbuilding died out completely?

No. Thanks to new technologies and materials, plus an innate aversion by people of means toward commonplace consumer goods, coachbuilding has never really gone away. Today, the art of coachbuilding fuses cues from traditional hot-rodding, new-car customization, and old-car restoration. No surprise: Many of the skills and techniques for those various disciplines overlap. What fans of hot rods, customized new cars, and restored classics all have in common is the desire to own a car that is completely singular and not made on an assembly line.

“There’s something magical about things that are made by hand, whether it’s a leather handbag or a boat or a piece of pottery or a car,” says Steve Moal, whose family has been in the coachbuilding business for more than a century and who runs Moal Coachbuilders in Oakland, California. “Handmade things are not plentiful these days.”

Moal’s customers tend to be looking for one-off vehicles that evoke the past but are not replicas. For example, in 2012, Moal completed the Gatto, a Ferrari-powered coupe built from scratch that conjures—but does not copy—the 1950s work of Italian masters such as Zagato, Touring, and Pininfarina. Another current project in Moal’s shop is a tube-frame, aluminum-bodied roadster with the powertrain from an Aston Martin DB4. The owners, rabid Aston collectors, “just wanted their own Aston Martin-ish car that was completely unique. Nobody is trying to fool anybody—it’s not a real Aston. They’re just trying to pick up the spirit of the period,” Moal tells us.

In another arena of modern coachbuilding, designers try to merge classic themes with 21st-century standards of technology, performance, and safety. “It will never be as free as the 1930s,” says freelance automobile designer Niels van Roij, who in 2016 was commissioned to create a one-off wagon version of a Tesla Model S, a project that led van Roij to make custom coachbuilding his full-time job. “We can’t possibly develop a whole car; it would never be at the level of an OEM. But there is still a lot we can do.”

Van Roij’s “Breadvan Hommage” (pictured below) is just the sort of mad, nerdy fever dream that makes you both smile in amusement and nod in respect. You can’t believe somebody would be crazy enough to build a modern-day tribute to one of the oddest cars ever to turn a wheel in competition, and yet you love that somebody pulled it off. “In all honesty, the original car wasn’t a very good piece of design,” says van Roij of the original 1961 Ferrari 250 GT Breadvan. “They did it in a hurry.” But as an expression of one person’s obsession with Ferrari’s lesser-known history, the Breadvan Hommage is a perfect example of the unexpected directions that modern coachbuilding can take you.

Thanks to safety and emissions rules, you can’t walk into an automobile showroom, as you might in the industry’s golden years, and buy a naked chassis ready for a unique body from your favorite carrozzeria. But you can still commission a vehicle today that is entirely your own. That is, provided you’re willing to pay a lot, wait a long time, and make a million decisions about shapes and colors and materials.

“I once had a customer who squirted out a pack of Colman’s mustard and said, ‘Make that color,’” says Tim Gregorio, senior director of product experience for Singer Vehicle Design, which restores old Porsches with a highly contemporary flair. “What shocks me isn’t the number of people who go into this overwhelmed by the choices, but the number of people who know exactly what they want.”

Today’s coachbuilders stand on the shoulders of the giants who first recognized that the invention of the automobile could be a boon to the carriage-making industry that flourished at the end of the 19th century. Car buyers were no different from the buyers of horse-drawn barouches, landaus, and cabriolets, said Arthur F. Mulliner of the famous Mulliner coachbuilding family. Addressing the Institute of British Carriage Manufacturers in 1907, he said that “the purchaser of the motor carriage purchases because the carriage work meets his requirements or taste, and it is therefore the carriage work that sells the car.”

The interwar period of the 1920s and ’30s was the heyday of coachbuilding, mainly at the upper echelons of the market where the buyers of Duesenbergs, Bentleys, Bugattis, and other exotic marques could order bespoke bodies from separate firms. Their names echoed those of any fine clothier at the time: the Walter M. Murphy Co., J. Gurney Nutting & Co., Carrosserie Gangloff, and Figoni & Falaschi Carrossiers, among the many that hammered the metal that graces the cars that today populate the major concours. It’s said that the level of opulence (plus the simplicity of the engineering at the time) was such that some owners had both summer and winter bodies for the same car.

Social upheaval in the Depression and the subsequent world war ended many of these firms, while the auto industry that emerged from the era was leaner and more focused on volume through line production. Still, the coachwork industry thrived for a time, especially in Italy, where ancient metal-working skills were still nurtured and where design has always trumped most other considerations in manufactured goods. “It is in my country’s nature to have specialists,” Sergio Pininfarina once told a reporter. “Our people are artisans. We take pride in our work and perhaps we also know something about form and function.”

Through the 1950s and early ’60s, famous design houses such as Pininfarina, Bertone, Touring, Boano, and Zagato continued to sculpt fabulous creations for discerning buyers who craved exclusivity. However, the business was changing fundamentally. To survive, the coachbuilders turned from catering to individuals to catering to automakers, competing to build the high-profile, low-production models that larger companies were either too busy or too focused on volume to produce themselves. The business became less about individual taste and more about pleasing corporate clients and their committees of designers, engineers, and bean-counters. “I’ve known car builders from all over the world,” commented Nuccio Bertone to the author of a book about his company. “And every man jack of them had his own opinion.” (The only exception, Bertone noted, was Ferruccio Lamborghini. According to Bertone, “He said, ‘I’ll make the mechanical bits, you see to the body. The Bertones of this world don’t need my ideas.’”)

But the blazing meteor that took out most of these remaining firms was the increasing regulation that in the 1970s drastically drove up the costs of developing new cars. Over time, the industry responded through model consolidation, producing fewer specialty vehicles; in the 2000s, design work was pulled almost entirely in-house. Even Ferrari ended its nearly 70-year relationship with Pininfarina in 2017 when it cut the front-engine F12, the last production Ferrari to wear a Pininfarina badge. It was part of the decimation of the independent Italian coachbuilding industry. Pininfarina was purchased by India’s Mahindra Group and now lives on as a design consultancy. Bertone went bankrupt in 2014 and folded, its name sold to an architectural firm in Milan. Zagato has evaded death only by becoming an independent design house working on everything from commuter trains to agricultural harvesters while still producing the occasional dream car and rebodied Aston Martin.

Today, what is left of the coachbuilding trade is a tiny cottage industry largely dedicated to building retro cars from scratch or reshaping existing mass-production vehicles into one-off creations that express their owner’s personality and aesthetic. Commissioning one lands somewhere between ordering a tailored suit and building a custom house in terms of cost, personalization, and buyer involvement. Projects typically take from a year to 18 months (though Moal has done projects stretching to five years), they usually cost double but often triple the original purchase price of the car, and they require the designer and customer to practically get married. “The client needs to be willing to invest not just the funds but the time,” says van Roij, whose portfolio includes the design for a Rolls-Royce Wraith shooting brake called the Silver Spectre (seven will be made), and a modern two-door Range Rover dubbed the Adventum Coupe that evokes the configuration of the 1970s original.

“I visit the client at home to see their art, what their musical tastes are, and what’s in their garage,” says van Roij. “I know their wives, I know their children, I know the name of their dog.” In return for all this openness, he adds, the client gets back a car that expresses his or her individualism in a way no mass-produced car could ever do, no matter how the option boxes are checked at the dealership. When van Roij worked on converting the Tesla Model S into a wagon, for example, the factory green was abandoned, he says, for a green that was more vibrant and complimentary of the new shape—and which also came from the logo of the client’s company. “That’s what coachbuilding is about,” says van Roij. “The rest of the world sees a green car and [the owner] sees his company that he built.”

Similarly, the Breadvan Hommage completed last year expresses a reverence for Ferrari history while also taking liberties to produce a car with a more curated and harmonious shape than the original. That’s partly because van Roij isn’t interested in producing exact copies, and partly because the original, a used 1961 Ferrari 250 GT SWB modified by privateer racer Count Giovanni Volpi as an aerodynamic experiment, was not especially pretty, van Roij says. “They didn’t call it the Breadvan because they liked it.”

However, a Ferrari enthusiast in Germany was keen to create a car that evoked Volpi’s strange machine (born out of a spat that Volpi was having with Enzo Ferrari, who refused to sell Volpi a new GTO). Sketches were made, followed by an expensive full-size clay model—a step not many builders take but which van Roij insists upon for any commission as he believes it’s the best way to visualize and perfect the design before metal is cut. Certain hard points of the manual-transmission Ferrari 550 Maranello coupe on which the Hommage is based were preserved to retain the modern usability as well as to hold down costs. “If you change a door by 2 centimeters, it can cost $20,000. You have to change the glass, the rubber, all the sensors. The amount of engineering is huge.” The result shows a modern reshaping of the original’s numerous vents and ducts as well as a rethinking of its Kammback rear—though, in the end, after trying different rakes to the tail, van Roij and his customer agreed to adhere to the original’s perfectly vertical rear end. It’s the only part of the nuovo Breadvan that matches the 1961 car line for line.

The techniques used to make the Breadvan as well as most coachbuilt cars today are Old World—and painstaking. Steve Moal’s craftsmen work mainly in aluminum for its vintage appeal and light weight, but it’s a demanding metal that requires knowledge and experience to get right. “Where you put the seams is important, so it doesn’t fatigue and crack,” he says, adding that old-school oxyacetylene welding is employed because the finished weld is more malleable and less prone to cracking. “When you’re finished, it’s beautiful, but it isn’t always beautiful along the way.” Still, Moal’s clients tend to like some imperfections in their cars, the hammer marks and other evidence of handwork, at least underneath. “We have a sports car here that is finished in gloss black and it’s perfect, but we have not painted the inside panels, because the owner wants to see what I like to call the signature, or the fingerprints, of the craftsman.”

At Singer, which is based in Southern California and has delivered fewer than 160 cars over its 13 years of operation, the goal is to fully preserve the 1989–94 Porsche 911 (aka 964) that the company uses for donor cars but with a thoroughly contemporary updating in both performance and styling. Incoming cars go through a 4000-hour transformation in which they are stripped down to the bare metal, repaired from years of road use, altered as needed for new components (for example, the company replaces all of the factory hinges with milled aluminum ones of its own design) and to clean up unnecessary brackets and reshape less-than-lovely factory welds and edges. The car is then fitted with carbon-fiber body components before heading for paint and interior trim.

While more of a restoration shop than a coachbuilder, Singer nonetheless shows what is possible—as well as what is challenging—in using new materials such as carbon-fiber composite. Every exterior panel on a Singer project except for the doors is either remade in carbon fiber or skinned in carbon fiber, says Gregorio, the components sourced as a kit from a local aerospace supplier. The material has advantages in weight and durability but also requires new techniques. Unlike the aluminum and steel that skilled craftsmen shape with press brakes, English wheels, and hammers, carbon fiber is molded to its final form.

“You can’t shape it after the fact or just push it a bit to fit; you get what you get, which is why you need to maintain a very good relationship with your carbon supplier,” says Gregorio. A worker trying to achieve Singer’s tolerance goals of a half-millimeter can’t even grind carbon fiber if the piece is slightly oversized. “Once you grind it, you can’t put it back like you might tack a weld onto metal,” he says. “You approach it with a very light hand.”

During the month or so that the car spends in Singer’s body shop, the new body panels will go on and off the car six or seven times as the company’s technicians perfect the fit. Particularly nerve-racking is a carbon-fiber skin that is bonded to the factory’s original steel rear quarter panel, which can’t be replaced entirely with carbon because it’s a load-bearing part of the car’s monocoque shell. The huge composite piece that Singer applies stretches from the aft doorjamb to the rear bumper and is bonded with an adhesive that allows workers to adjust it for up to 30 minutes, though if it’s hot in the shop, that lessens the cure time. “You only get one shot at it,” says Gregorio. “If you have to remove it, it would require major surgery.”

Today, coachbuilders are hemmed in by constraints that would have been unimaginable to their early predecessors, ranging from new materials to regulatory prohibitions to trademark issues. In the past, Ferrari has attempted to use trademark protection to insulate its designs from modification or copying. And owners of the trademark for the modified 1967 Mustang known as “Eleanor” from the 2000 film, Gone in 60 Seconds, have sued to stop unlicensed copies.

Is it even legal to modify a current production car for your own purposes? Singer makes it very clear that they “restore” cars, not “build” them, the semantic dance done to keep the company free of legal entanglements. James Glickenhaus, the New York–area collector, racer, coachbuilding customer, and now full-time carmaker, notes that it is one thing to modify a one-off car for a private customer; quite another to make a business out of it. Basically, “you have to talk to your lawyer,” he cautions, adding that Ferrari allows customers to modify a new car and leave the Prancing Horse on it, but doesn’t allow any changes to the windshield or any of the side glass. The Maranello firm will bless factory-modified cars, as it did so often for the Sultan of Brunei, who was famous for his stable of bizarre, one-off Cavallinos, but the fee runs into the millions.

Glickenhaus started creating his own cars in 2006 when he built the Ferrari P4/5 as a tribute to his favorite 1960s-era prototype sports racers. “Having driven every type of exotic car of the past 50 years, I know a few things about them,” he says. The donor car was a brand-new Ferrari Enzo that was heavily modified, the design and fabrication work done by Pininfarina. The ultimate product was a stunning machine that looked both backward at the company’s racing history and also forward toward the future, but the price was equally dizzying. Just tooling up a set of bespoke tail-lights for the P4/5 that were DOT compliant cost $250,000, Glickenhaus says.

Since then, he has branched out with new designs for supercars, including the sexy mid-engine, three-seat, manual-transmission wedge called the SCG 004, as well as an off-road buggy called the Boot, a tribute to the Baja Boot that Steve McQueen raced in the Baja 1000 in 1969 (Glickenhaus owns the original). But Glickenhaus has moved beyond being a mere client or coachbuilder; he will make new cars from the ground up at his facilities in Danbury, Connecticut, and Pont-Saint-Martin, Italy, north of Turin.

Jumping from coachbuilding or resto-rodding to full-blown carmaker producing legally certified vehicles is not a move for the faint of heart. “To start a small car company, it’s $100 million to start,” says Glickenhaus, and “if you make a car nobody wants to buy, then you might as well take that money and sink it in the East River.” Still, he notes, a run of a few hundred cars (with the first deliveries of the 004 and Boot expected this year) should make the business profitable, assuming he’s gauged the market right.

Most people wanting a unique car do not want to be automakers. For them, hiring a coachbuilding firm to alter an existing car will be enough of an exposure to the stresses and challenges of carmaking. And for the effort, they will not only own a unique automobile, they will get to delve into that curious area where art and machinery merge. For the job of the coachbuilder, Nuccio Bertone once mused to a journalist, is “the realization of a dream which is present in us all but which only the artist has the ability to translate into concrete form.”

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Perhaps our last homebrew sports car didn’t quite spin your crank? The ’60s sci-fi vibes aren’t for everyone, but now we’re presented with a custom sports car paying homage to an obscure, Ghia-Aigle-bodied ’57 Lotus, with the proven performance and reliability of the Mazda Miata underneath. Meet the 2018 Simpson Swift, made by Jim Simpson. Are you not intrigued?

Carrosserie Ghia-Aigle was originally formed as a subsidiary of Ghia in 1948, but though it became an independent shop in ’53, the tiny Swiss outfit was overshadowed by its Italian counterpart. Even if only because of the Ghia connection, Ghia-Aigle boasted some big names, including Pietro Frua and Giovanni Michelotti. The latter penned the exotic, roofless body worn by a 1957 Lotus 11 at the 1957 Geneva auto show, honored here in this Simpson Swift. (Michelotti also supervised a hardtop version.)

The tidy roadster is essentially comprised of the two subframes from NB Mazda Miata donor car bolted up to a unique steel chassis wearing a fiberglass body. Period-correct wire wheels and a reproduction C1 Corvette windscreen atop the fiberglass give the Simpson Swift a sincere reverence to the original Swiss-bodied Lotus, making it clear that Jim Simpson is quite the gifted craftsman.

Rear styling is also honest to the original, as crash protection was neither a concern then or now. The rear license-plate lights and retro cloisonné emblems do a fantastic job hiding the modern(ish) performance offered by the NB Miata driveline.

Aside from the airbag-deleted steering column behind the Nardi wheel and the Miata’s comparatively modern gauge cluster, the Swift’s interior looks straight out of the past.  The lack of complementary upholstery/finishing on the doors is unfortunate, however, especially for those living in less-than-ideal climates.

No disappointments lie under the hood, as the Miata’s legendary engineering is manifested in a 1.8-liter four-cylinder that’s stood the test of time. The same can be said for everything else plucked from the 2002 Miata donor car.

Perhaps no photo better personifies the difference between modern engineering and handmade craftsmanship than one taken when inspecting the Swift from the underside. This likely took a lot of time and money to get right.

If you like what you see, perhaps the fact that the Simpson Swift is currently for sale on Bring a Trailer might force you to take further action? If so, bidding is currently at $7500 with six days to go. With so many great items comprising what is a truly unique vehicle, watching the hammer drop on this well-built Swift will certainly be enlightening.

The post Custom Miata honors the Swiss-bodied ’57 Lotus you never knew existed appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Father and son Pete and Toby Southan work a sheet of aluminum on the English wheel. Back and forth they go in absolute harmony, introducing a perfect curve to the metal that will soon become the trunk lid of a very special Bentley. Pete and Toby have formed every panel of the car by hand using English wheels, wooden bucks, and deftly-deployed hammers in time-honored coachbuilding fashion. Soon this final piece will be fitted to the first Drophead “La Sarthe” Bentley, all under the roof Bensport’s charmingly ramshackle workshop in Somerset, England.

This achingly beautiful convertible—a modern take on the tradition of handbuilt custom Bentleys—is set to make its debut at the London Classic Car Show this weekend, June 25–27. There it will bow alongside a fixed-head coupe and the Aurora, a one-off customer commissioned car, that showcases the extraordinary talent of the Bensport team built up over the last decade.

Another father and son—Bob and Andrew Perry—founded Bensport more than ten years ago after being approached by a vintage Bentley owner in the middle of a wedding.

“We ran a wedding hire business with a three-and-a-half liter Bentley and a 25/30 Rolls-Royce at the time,” explains Bob Perry. “A guy came up to us and said, ‘Do you do all the work on these cars yourselves? We said, yes and he said he might come and see us in a few weeks. A lot of people say that. But sure enough, he did. He came in and said, ‘Can you restore a Delage chassis for me?’”

“His plan was to build a Chapron-type body on it but it transpired that a lot of bits were missing from this car, so I said why don’t you think about using the chassis that we know? Bentley chassis are available, you can buy them quite reasonably and you can get all the bits for them. He didn’t think the body he envisaged would work as it was for a nine-foot chassis and the Bentley was ten feet. So we said okay, well, if we draw the Bentley chassis, full size, and draw the body to go on that wheelbase then you can see for yourself. So that’s what we did.

“In the end we restored a Bentley chassis for this guy but we had absolutely no way of building the body, so it was taken away to have a body built. But we’d gone through a lot of stages of drawing this car up and getting the shape of it right and we thought, ‘This looks like a good idea. Perhaps we’ll have a go at this ourselves.’”

Rather than simply build another Chapron-style car, Bob and Andrew decided they wanted to pay tribute to Bentley’s sporting history (hence Bensport) by creating a car out of a “what if?” idea.

Having dominated Le Mans during the 1920s, Bentley did not return to the French circuit with a works team until 2003, but a Derby Bentley 4 ¼ liter with bodywork by Pourtout in Paris did compete in 1949–1951, and it was this “Embiricos” car that inspired the Perrys.

“What if Bentley/Rolls-Royce had been the slightest bit interested in motor racing in 1947–48 with their new nice new chassis? What would it look like?”

Bob put pencil to paper and came up with a design, despite having no previous experience, that would become La Sarthe—a racy coachbuilt Bentley on the chassis of a Mk VI or R-Type.

Although the Perrys knew this chassis and running gear intimately, there were teething problems with getting the body made. Panels commissioned in the U.K. and Poland required a huge amount of finishing to get them up to scratch, but despite the struggles two La Sarthes were completed and sold to Japan, each tailored to the buyer’s exact specification. Then the original prototype was also sold to a collector in Japan, leaving Bensport without a calling card.

So during the lockdown of 2020 they set to work on building cars number four and five—a coupe and the drophead whose body is currently still being formed. Resplendent in a metallic blue that took painter Terry Hall three months to prepare and paint, the finished car number four is fitted with a 4.9-liter straight-six engine, driving through a restored original transmission and differential. This is no resto-mod; the only concessions to the 21st century are electric power steering to help maneuver the car at low speed, air conditioning, and a stereo. The instruments and switchgear are new, but very much in keeping with the period, fitted into a dashboard inspired by a MkII Jaguar. Having experimented with electronic ignition Bensport decided to retain the original distributor as it proved more reliable. The car’s wiring has been completely refreshed and an impressive fuse board is hidden under a cover behind the seats. Trimmed in soft hide and wood veneer the cabin is wonderful. It’s brand-new, of course, but it still looks timeless.

Then there’s the bodywork. Perry admits that there’s an R-Type Continental influence, especially in the rear haunches, but the La Sarthe is more lithe, its teardrop cockpit dripping into the tail. The twin fuel fillers are lovely nod to the car’s imaginary racing pedigree.

You’ll also note that, unlike some recent coachbuilt creations, the La Sarthe wears its original manufacturer’s badge on the hood.

“The chassis remains as near to original as it possibly can, so there’s no dispute that it’s a Bentley, because that’s what it is. The other thing that we have not done is copied the body in any way from anything else, it is entirely ours. We had the Bentley Drivers’ Club come and inspect it. They had a good look around and said ‘Yes it’s a Bentley. What else would you call it?’”

Prices start at around $740,000 and build times are nine to twelve months. Bensport aims to build two to three cars a year, with all work done in-house. In fact, once the body went onto the latest coupe Andrew completed the entire car on his own, bar trimming the interior. You can’t get much more handbuilt than that.

As for the future, Perry believes that it will be electric. “There’s no question that the next car we build will have an electric motor,” he says. “If all of the classic cars in existence with petrol engines came off the road, I don’t think it’s going to make any measurable distance to global warming or the environment. There will be diehards who say you can’t take the engine and gearbox out of it, but there are other people going to say, ‘I love the shape of that car but I can’t drive it in Paris or in Tokyo or Melbourne, wherever it might be because it’s a pollutant.’ Going electric also means that there’s no adjusting of points, changing the spark plugs, no watching the water temperature go up and the oil pressure go down in hot weather. You’ll have a car which will actually perform better than the petrol car.”

One thing’s for sure: No matter what powers the next car from Bensport, you can rest assured that it will still be built in the traditional way, with a father and son shaping metal on an English wheel.

The post Across the Pond: Bensport’s “La Sarthe” is a visionary Bentley in the old coachbuilding tradition appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Welcome to The Manifold, our fresh daily digest of news and what’s happening in the car world.

The Arese RH95 celebrates 95 years of coachbuilding

Intake: Storied Italian coachbuilder Touring Superleggera is marking its 95th year with the gorgeous Arese RH95. Following its Aero 3, the supercar’s standout features include showy scissor doors that you won’t find on the the Ferrari 488, not to mention the bespoke bodywork. Touring says it will build a total of 18 Arese RH95s and it can be even be ordered in classic Gulf Oil blue and orange.

Exhaust: From shooting brakes to boat-tailed picnic hampers, coachbuilding is seriously hot right now. Historic name or not, Touring Superleggera will have a tough time distinguishing itself in an increasingly crowded field.

Rolls-Royce confirms Silent Shadow EV

Intake: Rolls-Royce boss Torsten Müller-Ötvös has announced that the British luxury car maker is working on an all-electric car. “Electrification fits perfect with Rolls-Royce—it’s torquey, it’s super-silent,” he told Bloomberg Television. “We are not known for roaring loud engines and exhaust noises whatsoever, and that is a big benefit.” His confirmation follows the news late last year that the company applied for a trademark on the Silent Shadow name.

Exhaust: Silence will, no doubt, be a golden opportunity for Rolls-Royce to steal back sales from Mercedes, which has a head start with the Maybach EQS.

Helio Castroneves nabs fourth Indy 500 victory

Intake: Indycar veteran and man possessed of one of the best smiles in racing Helio Castroneves joined hallowed company on Sunday afternoon by taking his fourth victory at the Indianapolis 500. The 46-year-old Brazilian joins the likes of A.J. Foyt, Al Unser, and Rick Mears as four-time winners of the greatest spectacle in racing. Castroneves also became the fourth-oldest winner of the 500, proving that age is just a number. “I don’t know if it’s a good comparison, but Tom Brady won a Super Bowl, Phil (Mickelson) won the PGA, and now here you go,” said Castroneves. Aside from a handful of personal accolades, Castroneves also delivered his Meyer/ShankRacing team its first victory since the outfit began racing in IndyCar in 2017.

Exhaust: “[Helio’s win] is the most important and impactful thing that the Indy 500 and IndyCar could have asked for,” veteran IndyCar reporter and former engineer Marshall Pruett tells Hagerty. “This is the one driver in the field of 33 who had the potential to lift this story beyond just the typical IndyCar fans. It was truly a script writer’s dream if you were wanting IndyCar and the Indy 500 to get lift out of the Midwest into the almost impenetrable coasts in terms of news and feel-good stories.”

LEGO adds McLaren Elva to its Speed Champions Garage

Intake: LEGO’s Speed Champions line turns some of our favorite muscle cars and sports cars into palm-sized representations. The fantastically curvy McLaren Elva speedster, the lightest McLaren yet, is the latest to receive the honor. Easily identified even when rendered in 263 chunky blocks, the open-top racer comes with its own driver minifig—a 1.5-inch-tall version of McLaren Automotive’s Principal Development Engineer for Ultimate Series, Rachel Brown. The recently launched set is available now.

Exhaust: If your capacity for full-size collector cars has hit its limit or if you’ve simply got a bare spot on a shelf and need something worthy to fill the space, LEGO’s newest addition to its Speed Champions line may be just the ticket.

Workers find 108-year-old message in a bottle at Ford’s Michigan Central Station

Intake: Workers at Michigan Central Station, while restoring and renovating the Beaux-Arts-style building that’s set to be the hub of Ford’s high-tech office complex, unearthed a pre-prohibition beer bottle filled with what appears to be a message. Lukas Nielsen and Leo Kimble found the bottle, stamped 7-19-13 (that’s 1913, not 2013), upside-down behind some crown molding. The two immediately handed the bottle over, resisting the urge to remove the delicate paper inside. Ford historians are currently caring for the paper and haven’t deciphered any message just yet. “The main thing you have to do is slow down the deterioration of the paper,” said Heritage and Brand Manager Ted Ryan. “With the bottle, that’s easy because it’s glass, but we’ll also have to make sure the rest of the label doesn’t deteriorate. It’s just like the pieces of a classic car.”

Exhaust: Ford’s ambitious project to bring life back to Michigan Central Station will ultimately benefit more than just a piece of gorgeous architecture. Various objects that have been discovered in the long-empty building are now on their way to being preserved and displayed.

The post Touring Superleggera’s birthday bonanza, electric Rolls, and Helio victorious at Indy appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The first object to emerge from Rolls-Royce’s reintroduced Coachbuild department is a 19-foot-long picnic hamper. Now speculation is rife that the owners behind the grand statement are Beyoncé and Jay-Z – who will enjoy posh picnics when touring the Mediterranean backroads of the Cote d’Azur, where the couple regularly visit on holiday.

The Rolls-Royce Boat Tail commission’s stand out feature is a sloping rear deck that houses everything you could need for al-fresco dining, from a champagne fridge to cocktail tables, bar stools, and even a parasol to prevent its owners from overdoing their perfect suntans. All these features are revealed when the deck’s butterfly doors open at the touch of a button in a motion that Rolls-Royce describes as “balletic”.

The overall design is of a nautical theme, reminiscent of the sort of Riva powerboat you’d find bobbing about on Lake Como, with a raked wraparound windscreen and plenty of marine-grade wood. The coachwork is all blue, although the hood features a hand-painted gradated finish, which was a first for Rolls-Royce. A canopy-style roof can be put up in the event of inclement weather.

Inside, the fascia has a jeweled feel with instruments decorated in a Guilloché technique normally the preserve of watchmakers. On that topic, Rolls-Royce collaborated with BOVET 1822 who created a pair of his and hers timepieces, either of which can be inserted into the dash board. There’s also a special holder in the glovebox for the owner’s favorite Montblanc fountain pen. Special Caleidolegno wood veneer is used throughout the cabin and there’s a two-tone motif for the seating with the front seats a darker blue hue than the rears. The Telegraph reports that Beyonce and Jay-Z are said to have signed the back of the Rolls-Royce badges that are set in the grille and on the car’s tail, as well as the engine manifold.

From an engineering perspective the Boat Tail is no less impressive. Rolls-Royce says that 1813 new parts were created for the car. Reconfiguring the aluminum “Architecture of Luxury” platform to suit the car’s dimensions took nine months and included using parts of the structure as resonance chambers for the audio system’s bass speakers. The complex “hosting suite” in the tail has five electronic control units to itself and the setup has been tested at temperatures from 176 degrees to minus four degrees. Not exactly what we’d describe as ideal picnic conditions.

For motive power the Boat Tail uses the 6.75-liter twin-turbo V-12 from the Phantom and three cars have actually built so that it could be fully tested for homologation purposes.

Rolls-Royce hasn’t revealed the price of the car, but says that it “significantly exceeded” the price of the previous Sweptail. It’s believed that the owners—whether they’re Beyonce and Jay-Z or not—won’t be getting much change from  $28 million. That makes this Rolls-Royce the most expensive car in the world, dwarfing the record previously held by Bugatti’s La Voiture Noire of 2019.

The post This $28M custom Rolls-Royce was built for a billionaire’s picnic—with Beyoncé and Jay-Z appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Rolls-Royce is getting back into the coachbuilding business. The re-established “Coachbuild” department will create one-off cars for Rolls-Royce aficionados for whom money is no object and “limited edition” will never mean more than one.

“We have formally re-established our Coachbuild department for those patrons who wish to go beyond the existing restraints, and explore the almost limitless possibilities this opens up for them. We are able to offer our customers the opportunity to create a motor car in which every single element is hand-built to their precise individual requirements, as befits our status as a true luxury house,” explains CEO Torsten Müller-Ötvös.

Back at the turn of the 20th century when Charles Rolls and Henry Royce teamed up, coachbuilding was the norm. Car makers would build a rolling chassis and hand it over to a specialists to build the bodywork and interior to customer’s desires. The practice continued at Rolls-Royce for decades until the company adopted a semi-monocoque construction for its 1965 Silver Cloud, although even beyond that a small number of cars such as the Phantom VI retained a separate chassis enabling H.J. Mulliner Park Ward to work its magic.

When Rolls-Royce moved on to its “Architecture of Luxury” aluminum platform which underpins the Cullinan and Ghost the opportunity opened to return to the great tradition of the past. This spaceframe chassis is flexible and will allow Rolls-Royce designers to work with customers to create unique motor vehicles.

The 2017 Sweptail (top and below) is the most recent example of the Roll-Royce coachbuilders’ craft but it took four years to build thanks to the complexities of its panoramic glass roof and racing-yacht-inspired styling. Future coachbuilt Rollers shouldn’t take as along thanks to the new platform.

Drophead coupe, sedanca de ville, shooting brake, what would you like to see?

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Almost as soon as the Mini first broke cover in 1959, long-established coachbuilders and enterprising start-up operations were quick to grasp its potential.

The Mini soon became redolent of the Swinging ’60s and, as the standard car became too run-of-the-mill for some, there were plenty of companies willing to accommodate their every whim and desire—at a price. If you craved big-car creature comforts, Harold Radford or Wood & Pickett could equip your Mini with timber, leather, and maybe even a record player. Then there were those firms who turned the box-shaped bodywork into something altogether more streamlined. Or, in some cases, made it boxier still.

Gathered here are some of the best—and oddest—of a particularly British breed, even if one of them is Italian …

Wood & Pickett

While the origins of Wood & Pickett stretch back to 1947, the name remains inextricably linked with Minis. The word “no” wasn’t in this London firm’s lexicon, and its output during the 1970s in particular trampled the line between tasteful and vulgar. The Clubman-based Margrave edition, for example, boasted a cut ’n’ shut Vauxhall VX 4/90 grille and quad headlights. Throw in chrome bull bars, a faux landau roof, lashings of wood and leather (or buttoned Dralon … ), plus Jaguar instrumentation, and they were just the ticket for moneyed city dandies.

Radford Mini

Harold Radford was long-established as a coachbuilder and importer of exotic cars before he began offering “boutique” Minis in 1963. Nothing was out of bounds; even a one-piece hatchback was available if you had the wherewithal. Radford’s offerings were swiftly adopted by the “beautiful people,” with all four members of The Beatles among the clientele. Mike Nesmith of The Monkees also had one, as did actors James Garner and Laurence Harvey. Peter Sellers, meanwhile, bought a Radford Mini for his wife, Britt Ekland, having already used a similar car with “wicker effect” painted flanks in A Shot in the Dark.

Tickford Mini

Perhaps the most left-field of all Mini conversions, the Tickford Mini remains an enigma. Constructed by the Buckinghamshire coachbuilder in 1985, the car’s signature feature was its stacked headlight arrangement. This, combined with the blanked-off grille and front spoiler, conspired to create a “distinctive” look. Inside, it featured the obligatory burr-walnut dash and leather upholstery. Tickford reputedly charged £50,000 for the makeover (that’s around £160K, or $223K, in new money), and rumors persist that as many as eight were made. However, some say that it was unique and built at the behest of a Saudi prince.

Zagato Mini Gatto

The Gatto (Italian for “cat”) was built for scooter magnate Vincenze Piatti and based on a Mini Van floorpan. Styled by future BMW head of design Ercole Spada, it was powered by a twin-carb Cooper-spec A-series four-banger. Though initially intended to be a one-off project, response to the car was such that a production run was mooted. Plans called for a new concern, Zagato London, to manufacture the car in the UK and the prototype was displayed at the 1962 British International Motor Show. There was one rather significant barrier to success, though: BMC, which manufactured the Mini, refused to supply running gear.

Minisprint/GTS

The brainchild of Neville Trickett and Geoff Thomas, the Minisprint was originally conceived with motorsport in mind. The roof was lowered, the body also being sectioned in true custom car-style which lent the Mini a surprisingly svelte outline. However, the organizers of the British Touring Car Championship took one look at the prototype and banned it on the spot. However, it was offered as a “boutique” Mini conversion via Rob Walker’s Corsley Garage concern as the GTS from May 1966. Production rights subsequently passed to BMC distributor, Ardern & Stewart, and a variety of copyists followed in its wake.

Minisprint Traveller

Neville Trickett followed through on the original Minisprint by fashioning a variant based on the Traveller estate. However, it wasn’t built with public consumption in mind. It was more of a “works truck.” The conversion was briefly offered via Corsley Garage at a cost of £750 in 1966, and promoted as “… the last word in customising for those who enjoy their driving.” Photos exist of cars wearing different number plates which suggests that more than one was made. Internet chatter, meanwhile, insists that Steve McQueen owned two. However, some Mini historians reckon only one was made, and registration numbers were fictitious.

Ogle SX1000

Admittedly, this was a step beyond mere coachbuilding, but Ogle’s offering retained the donor car’s floorpan, inner wings, and running gear. However, the rest was largely bespoke. The conversion was offered from December 1961, customers being obliged to supply a new Mini along with a cheque for £550. In return, you received a fiberglass-bodied baby GT car. Options included a Cooper-spec 997-cc A-series engine, which meant a top speed of 95 mph. A total of 69 cars were made through late 1963. The design was revived by boat builder Norman Fletcher, but just four restyled Fletcher GTs were made to 1967.

Broadspeed Mini GT/GTS

Stylistically, this super-desirable baby GT car was a mashup of Mini and Aston Martin DB6 elements. Introduced in 1966, the body retained the regular frontal treatment, the fastback rear end comprising fiberglass and steel bodywork. Five variants were offered, up to and including the GTS which boasted a tweaked 1275-cc A-series unit, a bespoke dashboard, extra gauges, moulded-in bumpers, and so on. All of this came at a cost, though: The range-topping variant was £1511. By means of comparison, a regular Mini Cooper could have been yours for £600. Production ended after Broadspeed was served with a compulsory purchase order and obliged to move premises in a hurry.

BAC M-30

One of the more obscure Mini conversions, the M-30 from the British Automobile Company was also one of priciest. The introductory price in 1989 was a cool £30,000 (around £77,000, or $107K, adjusted for inflation). For that, you got a Mini with a proprietary KAT Designs fiberglass body kit, as penned by Simon Saunders who later gave the world the Ariel Atom. That, and an A-series unit equipped with a Sprintex supercharger, a wooden dashboard, leather trim, and a state-of-the-art stereo and in-car phone with fax compatibility. The Somerset-based firm promised to build a limited run of 30 cars, but the price was subsequently slashed to £23,000, which suggests sales were sluggish.

Mini Wildgoose

One of a number of Mini campers offered during the 1960s, the Wildgoose was by far the most successful, all things being relative. The luxurious Brent edition boasted a “Super VEB,” or vertically extending body in camper-speak, which was activated via a button located on the dashboard. It may have been on the small side, but there was sufficient room for a couple of beds, a table, a wardrobe, a hot plate, and four seats in the “dinette area.” If there was a downside, it was that the extra heft rather blunted performance. Top speed was only just in excess of 50 mph.

Via Hagerty UK

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Legging-clad yoga students clutching rolled mats and water bottles are a familiar and unremarkable sight on sidewalks, studios, and coffee shops from Los Angeles to Atlanta. However, yoga and its practice became mainstream in the U.S. thanks in large part to a maverick figure: Pierre Bernard, one of the most eccentric characters America has ever produced. Naturally, “The Omnipotent Oom,” as he was nicknamed, drove a suitably impressive automobile.

At the height of his popularity, Pierre Bernard ordered this custom-built Minerva limousine. The coachbuilt creation remains now one of the largest cars ever built. For context, Bugatti’s Royale rode on a 169.3-inch wheelbase; from wheel to wheel, this Minerva measured 10.7 inches longer, 180 inches (or 15 feet) in total. At 9000 pounds, Bernard’s Minerva is nearly a ton heavier than a Royale, requiring dual rear wheels to support its (literally) elephantine weight.

A desert-scheme grey, of course, would not do for The Great Oom’s chariot. Bernard specified a baby-blue body trimmed with a darker shade on the running boards, fenders, and the window sills. White-walled tires wrapping matching blue wheels completed the look.

The interior didn’t disappoint, either. The Minerva’s rear passenger compartment measures 40 square feet and comes with a full set of Wedgewood china tucked under and behind the front seat. The door pulls and window cranks are made of ivory, and the trim is burnished mahogany.

Delivered in 1929, Bernard’s limo represents the pinnacle of excess in the era of coachbuilding. Minerva was a Belgian company founded in 1902 and positioned as a direct rival to Rolls-Royce—in fact, Charles Rolls was Minerva’s London agent before he went into business with Henry Royce. Early on, Minerva licensed a double-sleeve engine designed in the U.S., one that was noted for its silent operation, and the design helped build the Belgian firm’s reputation for smooth-running, luxurious motor cars. Minervas were powerful and quiet enough to serve as some of the first armored cars used in hit-and-run attacks on the Western Front in WWI.

This chassis of Bernard’s limo was reinforced for heavy use and fitted with a straight-six engine producing roughly 100 hp. The coachwork was done by Paul Ostrok of New York, an elite firm that built customized sedans for everyone from silent movie stars to Japanese-backed Manchurian warlords. The limousine cost $16,000 when new, the equivalent of a quarter-million dollars today.

That Bernard could afford such a bauble was a measure of his vast wealth, but again, this was a man who, when he commissioned the car in the late 1920s, owned three pet elephants. The beginning of Bernard’s story, however, is less exotic.

Born Perry Baker on Halloween, 1875, “Pierre Bernard” was the son of a barber—or so we think. Baker kept details about his childhood obscure—when he didn’t simply invent them altogether. He claimed to have spent time in India as a youth and to have met a Persian-Indian swami in San Francisco who had taught him the secrets of the Orient; but the difficulty of corroborating much of his origin story only adds to his legendary status.

At the tail end of the 1800s, this sort of historically inventive nonsense was common. There was also a widespread fascination with secret societies and occult practices. Seances were wildly popular, as were vaudeville acts that embraced the bizarre. All of these trends helped prepare the scene for The Mysterious Oom.

Baker—by 1898 introducing himself as Bernard—found early success by putting himself into “death trances” and allowing an assistant to push needles through his earlobes, nose, and lip. Always looking to hustle a buck, he soon formed his own secret society, The International Tantric Order. His preaching of Far-Eastern philosophy and mysticism—not to mention the vaguely contortionist yoga practices that he taught alongside them—earned him a measure of notoriety among civil authorities.

His devoted followers called him Doctor Bernard, but he wasn’t board-certified. He was one of the most successful charlatans of the 20th century. To be far, Bernard appears to have had a good understanding of hatha yoga. Over his lifetime, he amassed an extensive, 7000-volume collection of works in Sanskrit, and His biographer Robert Love writes that “[this] uneducated savant … could lecture extemporaneously for three hours on the similarities between the philosophies of ancient India and the Gnostic heresies of the early Christians.”

On the other hand, Bernard frequently used his charisma to charm women, especially the wealthy and bored, and we may blame him for popularizing the idea of tantric sex. (Nearly a century later, Sting would make headlines for mentioning the practice.) People were alternately fascinated and scandalized by Bernard’s behavior, and he even spent a few months in prison in 1910 for attempted seduction.

The journalism of the day dubbed Bernard “The Omnipotent Oom,” a reference to the chanted Om of yogic meditation, and the name stuck. Though he seems to have refuted the most salacious stories concerning his practices, he evidently let the rumors swill just enough to do his advertising work for him. Most mysterious of all is the measure of respectability he somehow gained along the way.

Thanks to huge infusions of cash from an heiress to the Vanderbilt fortune, in 1918 he created a large compound on the Hudson River. Known as the Clarkstown Country Club, the New York estate included about a dozen large mansions, a baseball field, aircraft hangers, an elephant enclosure, and a club house with a pool and solarium. Exotic animals roamed the property, from tigers to elephants to a chimpanzee named Mr. Jimmer, who was listed on the books as a night watchman. There was plenty of wild partying, but also some genuine meditative yoga instruction. Bernard was a conundrum, both hedonistic yet dedicated to the physical and mental discipline required in the practice of yoga.

Though Bernard appears to have weathered the Great Depression, at least through 1933, the success he found in his 30s and 40s began to erode. His clientele aged. His investments faltered. The elephants died. Bernard eventually become a banker, selling off bits of his property to stay solvent. He died in 1955, a shadow of his former glory.

Today, Bernard’s Minerva is tucked away in a storage area of the Crawford Auto-Aviation Museum in Cleveland, Ohio. Ordinarily it’d be on display, but the limousine is currently plagued by few starter and engine issues.

Though hatha yoga is now an accepted feature of American middle-class life, the man largely responsible for bringing it to the U.S. is largely forgotten, relegated to the dusty, obscure corners of history like his vast, impressive Minerva.

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We don’t know what, if anything, Francesco Zefferino Sbarro adds to his tea, but the Italian mechanic-turned-quasi-coachbuilder has come up with some of the most outlandish creations over the years—and some might say that the Sbarro Super Eight tops the lot.

Franco Sbarro has been creating cars since walking away from his job with Scuderia Filipinetti, a high-profile Swiss motor racing team founded by Georges Filipinetti, which counted the likes of Jim Clark, Phil Hill, Jo Siffert, and Mike Parkes as drivers. Sbarro set up on his own in 1968 and, well, let his creative juices flow.

The Sbarro Super Eight is the perfect example of just how creative Franco could be. It was created for the 1984 Geneva Motor Show, and while it could pass for a humble hatchback of the ’80s, it is actually a mid-engine Ferrari beneath the surface. And the good news is it has come up for sale.

Just one was built, and at its heart is a transversely-mounted, 2.9-litre V-8 from a Ferrari 308. Driving the rear wheels through a Ferrari-sourced, manual five-speed gearbox, the mid-engine hatchback is just the thing for those that find the Renault 5 Turbo I or II a wee bit too predictable. Which, of course, is almost everyone—said nobody, ever.

With 260 horsepower on tap, it is fast enough to get its driver into trouble. Especially given there wasn’t an electronic driver aid in sight in those days, and the mid-engine configuration was just waiting to punish any driver that failed to adhere to the slow-in, fast-out time-honored cornering technique. (Just ask any owner of a Ferrari 308.)

Much of the Ferrari switchgear is carried over to the Super Eight’s cabin, which is a perfectly preserved time-capsule of 1980s taste. Brown leather and velour stretches as far as the eye can see and the stack audio system suggests that the car was specified to make a nightclub owner feel at home.

It is said to have only travelled a 27,243 kilometers (16,928 miles) in its lifetime. And now it’s looking for a new home. A Belgian classic car dealer, Speed 8 Classics, is selling the Sbarro Super Eight for €155,000 ($183,143). As indulgent playthings go, they don’t get much more leftfield than this.

(From Hagerty UK)

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Dutch Designer Niels van Roij has built a reputation on crafting one-off, coachbuilt automotive artworks for the well-heeled. His Tesla and Rolls-Royce shooting brakes are sleek, stylish, and sympathetic to the original source cars.

Now, van Roij is putting the final touches on a very special Ferrari 250 GT SWB tribute. The Breadvan Hommage is neither restomod nor continuation, but a “new original,” he says. “It’s a very fresh translation. It’s not a retrospective car. It’s really trying to take the right cues and take them into the future,” he adds.

The story began over two years ago when a client saw the original Breadvan race at Goodwood and decided that he wanted a modern interpretation of the car that he could daily drive.

The first stage was to pick a source vehicle, and while a more recent Ferrari may have been the obvious choice, for van Roij the 550 Maranello was the only option. He needed a front-mounted V-12 and a manual transmission on which to build and the Maranello was the car that brought this formula back after decades of absence.

“It was the return for Ferrari for this layout since the Daytona. So it was a very important car,” he says.

He sourced a car with rare carbon seats and set to work. Beginning with a multitude of ideation sketches, done in black pen and colored in Photoshop, the car gradually took shape. Numerous iterations of the design went back and forth between van Roij and his client, with countless variations on the roofline, rear window, air intakes and more.

The final design shares only the windshield with the Maranello, yet the air intakes retain a 550 familiarity. When it comes to the overall result van Roij says: “It’s very rich in sculpture. In all honesty, the 1962 car isn’t necessarily very pleasant to look at. It’s not a well resolved piece of design, it was just trying to be as efficient as possible. What I tried to do was to design a car that is actually also very pleasant to look at.”

From sketches and digital renders van Roij moved to full-size clay models, just as OEMs would do. “There is not one car I work with that doesn’t either go into full size clay or full size milled foam,” he says.

The interior also saw a variety of different approaches before settling on a result which tidies up the slightly scattergun approach to switchgear, replaces plastics with milled aluminum, and re-trims cabin in blue Alcantara and black leather. Three particular features stand out: the race-style door pulls, the silhouette stitched into the seats, and the exposed, gated gear shifter. At one point in the process van Roij even proposed exposing the gear linkage rods as well, but that one didn’t get past the client.

Mechanically the Breadvan Hommage is still a 550 Maranello. The wheelbase and crash structures are untouched to make sure that it will be road legal in Germany where the client resides. The original Ferrari windshield was also kept for pragmatic reasons.

“This car will be driven, and probably will be driven hard,” says van Roij. “Imagine if there was a stone chip and he had to wait for three months for the new bespoke glass to arrive. That wouldn’t really help the client.”

With the hand-formed bodywork complete and painted, and the interior already stitched together, the car is nearing completion. One thing that will not appear on the finished vehicle? A Ferrari badge. Partly, that’s because van Roij says, “we respect the OEM manufacturers and as long as we do that, we usually get the respect back,” but not wearing a prancing horse is also true to the original.

In 1962 Count Giovanni Volpi, owner of Scuderia Serenissima wanted to upgrade a 250 GT SWB to go against the works GTOs, but Enzo Ferrari refused to sell him a car. Instead Volpi privately bought the 1961 car which placed second at the Tour de France. He hired engineer Giotto Bizzarrini and bodywork specialist Piero Drogo to build the car. The incredibly low, aerodynamic Kamm-backed machine was nicknamed La Camionnette (The Little Truck) by the French when it entered the 1962 Le Mans 24 Hours. English speakers dubbed it The Breadvan. Despite failing to finish at Le Mans the car was a successful campaigner, winning the GT class in the Guards Trophy at Brands Hatch and the Ollon-Villars Hillclimb. Yet, because of Enzo’s displeasure it never wore a Ferrari badge.

After 90 weeks of work, the Breadvan Hommage is finally almost finished and van Roij has documented the process in a series of YouTube videos.  If you geek out on car design they’re well worth a watch before the car is unveiled in early 2021.

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Ah, Camaro. Chevy’s late-1960s answer to the Mustang. A classic pony car with classic styling. Even mid-’70s Camaros looked the part of a musclebound bully, despite performance being toned down a bit.

Can you picture one in your mind? Now imagine the sound of a record-player needle scraping across vinyl. Open your eyes … This is the 1976 Chevrolet Camaro “Europo Hurst” by Frua. It ain’t your daddy’s Camaro, that’s for sure. Unless ol’ Pops grew up on the other side of the Atlantic.

With styling that’s notably European, this Camaro was designed by Italian coachbuilder Pietro Frua at Chevrolet’s request. Among the characteristics that are markedly different from its American Camaro sibling are a blacked-out front with quad headlights and the addition of a rear hatch—a huge one, in fact—with Firebird taillights.

The styling exercise is mostly skin deep, as mechanically the Europa Hurst retains its 350-cubic-inch small-block V-8 and four-speed manual gearbox.

Alas, the Frua never came to fruition as a production car. Shipping parts and panels back and forth to Europe was likely cost prohibitive. But you can own this one, which is being offered without reserve by RM Sotheby’s. The Europa Hurst crosses the virtual block in September, along with other vehicles in the Mitosinka Collection. RM places its pre-auction estimate at $80,000–$120,000.

Although our first reaction to the car was to balk that this was a Camaro of any sort, the car’s style does have a way of growing on you. That’s especially true of its attractive profile, which, dare we say, reminds us of a Mustang Mach 1? We’re guessing that was not Frua’s intent, but somewhere out there in the ether he’s probably enjoying the somewhat ironic comparison.

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In 1988, Concept Coach Builders of Milwaukee made all sort of stretch jobs in the name of affordable luxury (and underseat briefcase storage solutions), including Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, Silver Spirit and Silver Spur conversions priced in the $125,000–150,000 range for the less budget-conscious. However, those with only $29,900 in their pocket could still call Scott Sampson at 414-273-2225 to order their very own custom-built Oldsmobile Delta 88 Limousine instead.

Sometimes called the Concept SL Limousine and also available in Buick La Sabre form, these aftermarket GM limos came with a long list of standard premium features, including the longest “stock” rear doors you could wish for (sourced from the coupe), plush velour bench seating for six, a “stereophonic” Sony hi-fi system, heavy-duty suspension, A/C and heating, plus GM’s full factory warranty. On top of enhanced profits, the Concept SL Limousine stood for ultimate satisfaction. Concept Coach Builders of Milwaukee just wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Zagato works in curious ways, having gone from being one of the wildest Italian coachbuilders to making body kits for Toyota SUVs and helping out Aston Martin whenever it needed a special edition. Recently, Zagato’s even licensed its brand to aftermarket engineering firms like England’s R-Reforge. However, back in 2010, German collector Martin Kapp commissioned Andrea Zagato’s team to come up with a homage to Alfa Romeo’s 1963 TZ1 and 1965 TZ2 pair, celebrating the brand’s centenary with an 8C-based, V-8 one-off called the TZ3 Corsa.

Three years later, Zagato presented the Stradale version, an edition of nine street cars based on the mighty Dodge Viper ACR-X. I saw the prototype of this carbon-bodied Viper-Alfa at the 2013 Concorso d’Eleganza Villa d’Este and found it to be rather brilliant. Zagato did well with the Viper’s front-mid-engine proportions, adding sexy curves plus a Kammback and double-bubble roof to that mad V-10 package with the six-speed manual.

I never expected to see another TZ3, yet now, a prime example popped up for sale in California, showing off its leather-heavy interior as well. What’s more, number seven of the nine TZ3s comes with a brown metallic finish.

Apparently, somebody bought his car in 2013 for around a million dollars, only to put 525 miles into it in seven years without so much as leaving California. Now this brown-over-chestnut wonder is being offered for $700,000 by TSG Autohaus, which may seem steep for a used 2013 Viper ACR-X, but gets more reasonable once you consider that this is an ultra-limited, 640-hp, carbon-fiber creation hand-built by no lesser name than Carrozzeria Zagato of Milano.

Wild pricing or not, a TZ3 is certainly a more special proposition than the other re-bodied Viper I just stumbled across: the Fisker-designed 2018 VLF Force 1 specified and built for the master himself. This show car is now offered by Canepa, with a price on request, a six-speed manual, 745 hp, and 638 lb-ft of torque.

However, if you need to haul stuff, you’ll certainly want to choose the Alfa, which should still be more than adequate with its 640-hp racing V-10. A carbon tailgate for anybody?

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Designed by Bruno Sacco, the W126 generation of the S-Class only came as a coupé or a sedan, leaving quite a few customers wondering how to get more cargo space out of this excellent Mercedes-Benz platform in a stylish manner. The funeral industry wasn’t shy in turning the Daimler flagship into a hearse, but those conversions rarely look as cohesive as an S-Class driver would prefer. Enter coachbuilder Caro of Hamburg.

Something must be in the air around the Hamburg area in Germany, because this great city gave us not only the classic-car-happy, hardcore band Scooter but also Chris Hahn’s coachbuilding empire Styling Garage, the undisputed kings of pimped W126s. Throughout the 1980s, Styling Garage produced such gems as the SGS 1000 SEC Gullwing series, the similarly gullwinged C 111 homage SCS Arrow cars, and widened, three-row S-Classes known as the SGS Royales, which are probably the most impressive W126 limousines ever made. Yet when it came to V-8 S-Class wagons, Chris Hahn’s crew let their fellow Hamburgers at Caro give it a go—and shine.

The truth is that the Caro 560 TEL you can buy in New York right now was actually built in the 2000s. Following a one-off commission that turned into something bigger, Caro ended up making three of these TELs using various W124 and W123 parts to end up with a very OEM-looking wagon rear end. This particular car started out as a 1990 560 SEL, powered by a 279-hp, all-aluminum V-8.

Short bumpers and glass headlamps complete the Euro-spec package, with this unique 560 TEL by Caro showing just 64,000 miles on the clock. Offered by the Stuart Parr Collection, this S-Class seems like the perfect custom classic to park next to America’s latest hot wagon, the 2021 Audi RS6 Avant, for a bit of healthy rivalry in your garage.

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