The Thunderbird: So irrational, so illogical, so often successful. Out of all the cars that make no sense–at least on paper– I’m willing to give the beguiling bird a pass. And it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my favorite is the first version to really jump the shark: Landau bars and eight-tracks, anyone?
It started out this way–kind of. The Thunderbird’s ridiculous factor started pretty early, from where I stand. Nothing says sporty like a Continental kit and opera window, right? Not enough trunk space for a set of golf clubs? Then damn the already-middling handling–throw in at least a hundred pounds more behind the rear axle!
Next came the genre-defining personal coupe. While not the first of the breed (at least in my view; I bestow that honor on the ill-fated Studebaker “Loewy Coupes”), it was one of Ford’s two biggest wins of the late ’50s. Say what you will about the heavy-handed George Barris styling, but that blind C-pillar defined hardtop elegance for the better part of a decade. The Squarebird proved that you didn’t need a premium brand to sell a premium product to the (relative) masses. Plenty of its 93,000 sales in 1960 came at the expense of the Olds Ninety Eight, Buick Invicta and, tellingly, Mercury Park Lane as it burst open the upper echelons of the medium-price market.
Not only was the “Bullet Bird” closely related to the definitive car of the 1960s, it came equipped almost as fully as a Continental itself. At the time, its standard power steering and power brakes were luxuries normally reserved for top-rung models, and other innovative “luxury” highlights swiftly became the wind beneath the ‘Bird’s wings. While early-’60s General Motors products tended to throw in a lot of wizardry, it wasn’t limited to one model. There were no turbocharged Cadillacs, nor were Impalas fitted with ComfortTemp Climate Control. The combining of such fantasy with sheet metal as bold as the dream of a moon landing by decade’s end created a heady mix.
Then came the Landau, sporting a textured-vinyl top and a piece of chrome trim, commonly associated with hearses, that was every bit as ridiculous as that 1956 Continental kit. What’s so absurd is that at some kind of pretentious level, it all works. “I can make death cool! I’m the mystical bird they call Thunderbird! I upset everything! You love me for it!”
Suburbia has always embraced all the little, pretentious ways of making things in your house or driveway appear a little bit better than the neighbors’: In this case, some ridiculous chrome trim gave buyers just enough incentive to splurge, as over 12,000 1963 Landaus were sold. In its next incarnation (the oh-so-James Bond-themed Flair Bird), the Thunderbird finally faced some actual competition from the formidable Buick Riviera and Studebaker’s last-ditch Avanti and Gran Turismo Hawk–never mind the bucket-seat bombs offered in the forms of loaded Impala SS’s, Grand Prixes and Starfires. Still, the Thunderbird’s special brand of zany overwrought luxury kept it ahead of the pack in sales.
Ten years after the Thunderbird’s birth came the 1965 model: ridiculous, porcine–but utterly commanding of attention. Taken element by element, it isn’t necessarily beautiful, or even cleanly styled. Neither definitively feminine nor masculine when done up in the Landau package, it has the visual impact of Dennis Rodman wearing a wedding dress and marrying himself.
The advertising backed up the egotism. “The Private World of Thunderbird” barely calls this car a Ford, or even a Ford product. Instead, it’s all about an “experience”, one not too far removed from the vaunted “Cadillac experience”. In any case, you experienced things in a well-trimmed place featuring luxury-level fittings and equipment and the most modern of mobile attributes, including an eight-tack tape player, disc brakes and toggle switches that made you feel like you were, well, piloting a plane instead of a mere car–and especially not a mere Ford.
We can forgive this swinging mansion-on-wheels for having the driving dynamics of a 40-foot motor home. I exaggerate, of course, but not by much. In truth, all of those modern, luxurious Thunderbird features rode on late-Fifties underpinnings. In the pre-computer, unit-body age, achieving the isolated splendor expected of American luxury cars required using much more metal than was necessary. As a result, the Thunderbird–although not much bigger than a Cutlass or Skylark–tipped the scales at 4,500 lbs. It was overbuilt to a fault, which left a lot to be desired when you had to (or wanted to) do anything beyond serene driving.
It’s well established that the comparable (in price and prestige) first-generation Riviera could run circles around the Thunderbird even before one started clicking off performance-option boxes. What’s more, any Grand Prix or Starfire could dust it in a straight line. Even a mid-trim Granny-Good-Looks Grand Turismo Hawk was within striking distance–and in supercharged guise, surpassed it.
By 1965 the Hawk was extinct. The Starfire was a Supernova before its implosion and subsequent 1975 return as a dwarf star. Pigging out on fender skirts and vinyl tops, the Grand Prix was going through its own identity crisis, which would ultimately take four years of therapy and a serious diet to resolve. And it wouldn’t be long before even the star-athlete Riviera had to contend with E-body sibling rivalry as well as an identity crisis from which it would never recover.
None of which mattered to Thunderbird: For better or worse, it still knew exactly what it was. Sure, it handled like a Jello mold and got 12 mpg (but only on a good day while cruising the Interstate at only 65 mph). Sure, it took around 11 seconds to reach 60 mph (with 300 horsepower!) and might well leave you eating a Corvair Corsa’s 140-hp dust when the light turned green. But really, who cared? It had sequential turn signals!
The “Flair Bird” frankly didn’t give a damn. It is possibly the most quintessentially American car–ever. It’s my favorite Thunderbird because it couldn’t care less about any of your requirements or specifications or ideas of what defined a great car. About the only thing it’ll concede is that disc brakes became standard in 1965. After all, why should it ruin its face for the sake of your foolish and overambitious motoring shenanigans?
Today’s world has become too impossibly cynical to embrace a car like the 1965 Ford Thunderbird Special Landau, which so blatantly mocks its cynicism and superficiality in such an honest way. I quite often mourn the loss of such an automobile–and the funeral at which I cried the most was for the beautiful train wreck that was the Flair Bird.
Note: a rerun of an older post.
The dark blue “64 Landau”, in the staged, photo op, pic is in the driveway of the “Baxter Residence”, on “Hazel”. (142 Marshall Rd, if I recall)
Was also the house in “Gidget”. “Jerry Lewis”s”, character called it home in that “68” flick with “Peter Lawford” “Anne Francis”.
Forget the title now. h’mm.
Everything said about the T Bird was true, but I wouldn’t mind one in my garage!
Anyone know what town/city the ‘rained on”, car is photo’d in?
Lead picture told me not San Francisco this time. Turns out it was along Auto Row in Oakland which happens to be Broadway at the 3000 block. Not so much Auto Row today.
T/y
Thunderbird didn’t get an 8-track player till 1966
Rather bombastic and hyperbolic commentary imo. It’s very success belies this jaundiced portrait. It was never meant to be a great car but a symbol of personal success and style…and in that regard it certainly was.
It was meant to make money for Ford. And it did. End of story.
My brother let me take drivers test in his 64 black, blk vinyl top, red interior in summer of 66. Wow I thought I was king big stuff, passed my test. Started my love for Fords, had a ton of new ones.
This is so enormously well-written, I must stop and gather my thoughts. Wow.
I liked the early ‘birds. Not so much the Squarebird, but even it has grown on me over the years. Not that they were great cars, but even before they were old enough to qualify for SS they brought a smile to my face when I saw one.
Styling isn’t everything, but it is something. And remember the old axiom, beauty may be only skin deep, but ugly is all the way to the bone. Speaking in automotive terms only.
We ran into a guy we hadn’t seen in awhile that had a 66. It had the 428 in it. It wasn’t this nice, and he said he needed to sell it. It has potential to be a nice car!
The Thunderbird lived in two basic forms: the original that worked hard to straddle the fence between sporty and luxurious, then the big, personal luxury “statement” car that it shifted almost immediately to and remained until a drastic shift back after two and a half decades. People who dump on those T-birds for being ponderous barges simply don’t get the picture. It’s like dumping on a Rolls Royce for being what it is. The 80s aero birds probably did sporty better than the original; I want one, even if they’re not likely to ever be mentioned in the same breath as the 1st-gen. That said, they did cement their place in the Thunderbird pantheon by dominating NASCAR’s big ovals to the point that GM was given breaks to compete.
Going back to the personal luxury birds, I do find a lot to love in the ’61-66 models. The 58-60 T-birds just didn’t pull it off for me: they remind me of those garish glasses of the same era that a woman who considered herself a “sexy grandma” might wear. Maybe no surprise then that I find ’59 the be a low point in Ford’s general look. What makes those 3rd-4th gen birds so appealing is that they looked so sleek and even fast (which they kind of were – but only in a straight line with plenty of run-up) that a young man wouldn’t be ashamed to drive one. Or young woman: presumably, the bullet bird was the car Brian Wilson had in mind for “Fun Fun Fun.” You could make an argument that it was a 1st-gen, but I doubt it. Sadly, while the T-birds of the Brougham era were very nice and even cool in their own way, the youth appeal was thoroughly stamped out by then. They didn’t look fast anymore: you went from the Thunderbird phenomenon to just a fancy big Ford – an LTD coupe with a few styling features, really. And the death of the convertible T-bird was part of that. At least it didn’t have to die like a Hollywood heartthrob turned flabby has-been – at least it got a chance to spread its wings again in NASCAR, thanks to some canny body engineers at Ford and the likes of Bill Elliot.
I don’t really understand the appeal of the “Landau” concept at all.
What is it supposed to represent? Is it retro? Was Ford trying to recapture the excitement of the horse & buggy era? Where was Landau before all this?
It was mainly an association with formal cars (limousines and, er, hearses).
I never understood the distinction between the “Bullet Bird” of ’61–63; and “Flair Bird” of ’64–’66. To me, they’re the same car with year-to-year sheetmetal changes. I guess the sheetmetal changes were more substantial for ’64.
They’re all gorgeous, the beauty being skin-deep, and into the passenger compartment. The moment you investigate under the hood, or what connects the wheels to the rest of the vehicle…you realize how incompetent the engineering was.
The Glamour Bird was better in that regard, especially once they dropped the ancient FE in favor of the 385-series engine in ’68. And as a 2-door, not a bad looker, until Bunkie went all Pontiac on it’s nose, and screwed-up the sides.
I recognize that the FE engine had the potential for greatness. Le Mans saw to that. But aside from a relative handful of side-oiler 427s, and the 428 CJ/SCJ, the bread-and-butter and even most of the mild-performance FEs were somewhere between dreadful and just-adequate. What Ford COULD build was impressive, versus what Ford DID build in quantity was…lacking.
I owned a ‘65 Rangoon red with a vinyl top (called Palomino…it was white). It was a landau like the one in the advertisement above.
It was a very good car, rode well, would glide along. I truly enjoyed that car, but age and health all take their toll and it was sold to a good home.
I miss that Planet Patrol dashboard.