It’s flashback time today here at CC (it’s what we do over here after all, ain’t it?), thanks to these ’68 Cadillac images uploaded at the CC Cohort by Hyperpack. Timeframe? The late 1990s in San Francisco.
It’s near lunchtime at the film production house I used to work at, and as usual, my coworkers are thinking of possible places to go and have lunch. This time, for a change, I was going to hang out with the Asian Americans in my crew. A lively pair I hardly ever went out with, but enjoyed when I did so; the two were born and raised in SF, and knew the city in ways that were way beyond my recently-arrived capabilities. On this occasion, one significant variant, the group was to be led by a recently arrived hotshot supervisor, another Asian American, also born and raised in SF.
Hotshot supervisor had been with us for just a few days, and he was the kind of guy you couldn’t be indifferent about. Not your average “Yeah, I know him. He’s OK…” kind of person. But a guy with a larger than life attitude that one couldn’t ignore. Either glee or derision was the reaction of people at the mention of his name; love or hate, with little in between. He was a slim sharp dresser, outspoken, and with tons of “cool” attitude; sort of like an additional character in the film Crazy Rich Asians. Not necessarily loud, but certainly impossible to ignore and in your face. If Asian rom-coms required a “bad influence” male interest to tempt the innocent leading damsel, he would have fit that role perfectly.
SOMA in the 1980s, which didn’t look much different by the mid-’90s.
While the hotshot was a “new” arrival, my coworkers knew him well. Too well, perhaps. He was a known figure in the industry, and besides, I felt they had all gone to the same high school together. Or knew each other’s relatives. Whatever the case, they shared a kind of camaraderie that seems only possible when folks grow up together; a closeness impossible to replicate in later years.
So, we were to drive to one of our favorite lunch destinations, a long-running (and I assume now gone), hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant that was somewhere in SOMA, and which, regrettably, can’t recall its name. A place where food was greasy, awfully tasty, and cheap. As for ambiance, it was low-rent 1960s tables and chairs, in a narrow and poorly lit establishment with damp air and dingy walls. Some at work thought of it as a dubious place. Many others just felt it was “real”, and well, cheap and tasty.
Early ’90s Geo Prizm, from the CC Cohort by Mike Hayes.
For all the glamour the media likes to portray about the film industry, the truth is, most of it is made up of workers making a no-better-than-average living. Yes, there are highly paid celebrities and execs; millions of dollars do make the industry run, and plenty of Bentleys and the like end up in the hands of such people. But in my experience, when it comes to art related industries, incomes seem to oscillate between “overpaid” and “underpaid”, with little in between. Be a backstage PA (Production Assistant), chances are you’re in the “underpaid” part of the equation, and such labor makes up much bulk of the industry.
So in the case of my production house, the newest car I can recall was an early ’90s Prizm. The most luxurious? A gray two-tone late ’80s Maxima… that had already developed sensor issues and was about to be sent to the junker. So, so much for “glamour”.
Noon came, and it was time to get going to the hole-in-the-wall. Hotshot supervisor came to pick us up by the entrance, pulling up in a clunker burgundy Cadillac convertible; top down, ready for us to jump in. A late sixties or early seventies model that was clearly mechanically shot, with him on the driving seat, sunglasses on, and not a care in the world on his face.
This was our ride downtown? Cool! I’m all in for new automotive experiences!
As shot and worn as it was, a certain amount of excitement was inevitable (Hey, this was no Prizm!). It was a “recent” purchase, and I believe all of us got his reasoning behind the buy. After all, it was the Bay Area in the late ’90s, with German imports being the Yuppie hot thing at the moment; BMWs, MB’s, even A4 Audis had become a thing. Then the roadsters; the M3s, Boxsters, and SLKs. Heck, even the ’97 VW Passat had found an audience. American built luxury, particularly the 1970s land yachts, were as popular as talking about STD treatments at the dinner table.
So, the shot Caddy was a middle finger to all that: I can ride and have style, in a way you may never approve, but that you won’t ignore. You can sneer, deride, and poke fun, and that will only feed the old Caddy’s reason for being. Love it and give it a thumbs up? Cool, I’m OK with that. Mock it in my face? Sure, I expected that, you think-alike Yuppies. Try to ignore it? Sure, I don’t mind that… but did you really ignore, or just pretend to?
Last year of the stacked headlights. Lots of Cadillac attitude in that look.
As said, I don’t truly recall the exact model year. But while my Cadillac knowledge was low in those days, I feel pretty safe in saying it was from the ’68-’71 era, before a somewhat diminished feel took hold of the make. An ex-luxury clunker, mechanically worn and with run down appearance. Too pricey to fix properly, too complete to go to waste; not too different from the ’68 DeVille shown today, with most trim in place and little rust, but seriously worn soft parts.
And well, the tired mechanical feel; a rather anemic V8, not struggling, but not pulling smoothly either. A floaty, though yet rough, ride, with a sense that the suspension hadn’t been touched in ages. And finally, a really odd and loud “thud, thud, thud” sound every time the car braked. Not good…
The interior in our burgundy one wasn’t too different in condition from this DeVille’s.
But no matter. With the top down, from inside the car, riding down Market Street was an altogether different experience. Between the car’s size, gliding-yet-clunky ride, and open air experience, the drive felt like an event. Even the inconsequential conversation taking place between us acquired a special feel. A sense of exceptional could be felt as the car moved forward.
Ok, I may be self delusional about the idea of city folks paying any attention to us as we went down the street. After all, city dwellers are nothing if not jaded. But from inside, I almost felt like royalty. And nothing wrong with putting on an act, as long as you know that’s what you’re doing. Our clunker-luxury-liner felt like a faded movie star calling for attention to an indifferent audience: “Don’t remember me? I tell you… You don’t know what you’re missing!”
And faded star could have gone on: “Think of me as you might have seen me! When success was at my feet! In ’68, I was an undisputed star; sharp-edged lines, tastefully sculpted flanks, full-size presence. A styling with a magic mix of subtle refinement and just enough eye-grabbing drama. And as a Cadillac back then, you wouldn’t even have dared to pretend to ignore me.”
Indeed, as previous posts have told, de De Ville convertible was a car to be seen in then. The marque’s only droptop of that year, with a hefty presence of 4,600 pounds, and an entry cost of $5,736. Serious money in those days, with a dose of style that spoke to the desires of the era. And under the hood? Cadillac’s 472CID V8 with 375HP available at the soft push of the pedal; enough to move the car’s mass with confidence and poise.
This crusty top is probably better than the one in our burgundy one. No way to know, as I never saw it extended.
I won’t recall how or where hotshot supervisor parked the car. Actually, I think he dropped us off and went to deal with that SF-nightmare scenario on his own. I do recall that upon he joining us at the table, lunch was as usual; a mix of work gossip and lively opinions, with me being mostly an onlooker and assessing the workplace’s new character. Certainly not a fella I was destined to make close friends with, but one I wouldn’t mind having around in small amounts. Too self absorbed and intense for long interludes, but one that could make for memorable short interactions. (And well, here I’m writing about him, ain’t I?)
Unlike our new supervisor, such attributes likely didn’t apply to a ’68 DeVille convertible back in its prime. But like him, an early sixties American luxury junker was a love or hate proposal by the 1990s, and carried warning signs. A hassle to restore, and if attempted, a sure money-losing enterprise. Then, the impossible parking situation in SF, which I was already exhausting enough with my VW Beetle. And well, like many around me, an Audi A4 is what I truly wanted (not original, I, ah?), not a clunker Cadillac from the 1960s.
But for short bursts of time, sure, sign me in! A memorable ride, on a car worn out, but that once in, made you feel unique and different from the masses around you? How many cars could do that? And worn and shot, on top? Only very few could still spark the soul in such a manner. And that says lots about that special something of what Cadillac used to be.
Related CC reading:
1968 Cadillac de Ville Convertible – Casting A Long Shadow
1968 And 1969 Cadillac Coupe DeVille: Were These The Tipping Point For Cadillac Quality And Style?
This was a great read – I really felt like i was riding in the clunker Caddy with you. Brought to mind the blue Caddy that was Tubbs’ ride in Miami Vice, although that one was in great condition.
This article brings to mind the album cover to Moe Bandy and Joe Stampley’s album “Good Ole Boys”.
What a great read. I got a short but memorable ride in a friend’s ’59 Cadillac sedan. Not a high dollar car but a reasonable driver that made for a memory that has stuck with me for decades.
Around the turn of the century (I feel old), my now-ex-BIL in Vancouver was restoring a 1965/66 Sedan de Ville. At that stage it wasn’t running, so he had another which he used for parts and running around town. The one being restored was metallic blue, and the parts car was primer black – they were called Beauty and the Beast.
I took the Beast out once when I was visiting – I was going to see friends who lived in very nice suburbs. They loved it when I pulled up to their chic location in a primer-black Caddy with no grille – “this car makes black holes look pale!”
The evening was a success, and I was approaching home when there was a pop and a hissing noise – fortunately I was in a location where I could take an offramp and arrive in a gas station. I managed to get it towed to my BIL’s place – he was very chill, I think it was just a head gasket or something.
Anyway, ever since then I’ve loved the concept of a ratty Cadillac, but as I live in London it’s never been a very practical idea.