AMX: The Other American Muscle Car

When I was younger, my dad would take me to the drag races at a little strip close to our house. Southeastern Dragway was tucked behind a fence gone opaque with kudzu. It was a proper quarter-mile strip, with a "Run-What-You-Brung" program and enough rednecks to populate an entire North Georgia State fair. The track closed in 2006, the land was sold to Publix but never developed due to hazardous soil test results. But back in the day, it was the place to be on Friday nights.

The lights buzzed overhead, alive with thousands of volts and millions of moths, and the drip of taxicab-yellow cheese on nachos mingled with the smell of tire smoke. "Run-What-You-Brung" started every Friday night around eight-o-clock, and the muscle cars reigned supreme. And one particular muscle car always caught my eye.

A mixture of chrome, acres-deep black paint, and anger rolled up to the staging lane. It looked kind of like a Chevy Nova, but much shorter, stouter, like a punk-rock Staffordshire Terrier. When the light went green, the outfit reared off the starting line like a bull let out of the gate, chassis-twisting, left front wheel lifting off the ground in a cacophony of rage and 100-octane mist.

I've always loved the AMC AMX, but I never knew much about it. I was drawn to it at twelve years old. It wasn't like the Novas or the Camaros or the Mustangs. It was different, and I knew it right away. 

AMC was the company that built the AMX and it's younger, nearly identical brother the Javelin. The story of the company is an interesting one. American Motors Corporation marked the beginning of an automotive convergence, not unlike the convergence of American mass media corporations. The company was born from one of the largest corporate mergers ever, in 1954. Nash-Kelvinator, itself a merger of Nash Motors and Kelvinator Appliance Company, acquired Hudson Motor Car Company to form American Motors. Both Nash and Hudson had been huge players in the postwar car business; Hudson produced powerful, stylish sedans and Nash built practical, aerodynamic town cars.

The plan was to combine the strengths of Nash and Hudson and create a car firm that rivaled the established "Big Three"--Ford, Chevrolet, and Chrysler. American Motor Company quickly phased out the existing Nash and Hudson models and began producing the Rambler, a small car that borrowed heavily from the Nash Metropolitan. Soon, though, the Rambler became a truly individual American Motors product. Safety and practicality were its biggest selling points. By 1959, American Motors had solidly established itself as a player in the American car market, producing economy cars that were ahead of their time in both styling and standard features.

A fine example of post-war Nash: the Statesman Airflyte Coupe. This Nash was developed in a windtunnel--unheard of for a passenger car in 1949.

Ambassador, Marlin, American, and Classic models gained a strong foothold in the small car market in the early 1960s. In 1960 and 1961, the Rambler ranked third in domestic automobile sales. Small cars were in fashion, but soon American Motors would face a bigger challenge. 

On March 9th, 1964, the first Ford Mustang rolled off the assembly line in Dearborn, Michigan. And with it, the American automotive industry changed almost overnight. AMC had a fine reputation for building basic commuter cars by 1967. But Ford's Mustang had the country enthralled with the muscle car. It was cheap, available with a multitude of different and exciting engines, and stylish. By 1967, Chevrolet had caught on, introducing the Camaro. It was clear that AMC needed to adjust their approach if they wanted to continue chipping away at the big three.

A 1964 1/2 Ford Mustang Convertible on display at Ford's Rouge Plant in Dearborn, Michigan.

American Motors threw every bit of fuel it had to the fire. The company launched a fully-redesigned line of full and midsized cars in 1966. In 1967 they hired an outside company to develop a new lithium battery for automotive use. The next year, AMC became the first company to make air conditioning standard on a line of cars. Things were looking up. But they still didn't have a muscle car.

The answer came from AMX, American Motors' experimental division.  Dick Teague,  a designer at AMC since 1959, penned designs for a sleek, two-door muscle car. Two prototypes were displayed on the company's own auto show tour in 1966 and received excellent reception. Work on the production car began immediately. 

And immediately there was dispute: whether to build the car with a fiberglass or steel body. Fiberglass was cheaper, friendly to American Motors' limited budget, but steel was stronger and easier to manufacture and repair. Both fiberglass and steel prototypes were initially developed, but AMC quickly decided to stick with traditional steel bodies for production models. In September of 1967, AMC began offering the Javelin for sale in the United States. 

Like the Camaro and Mustang, the Javelin was available with a wide range of engines from 3.8 liters to 5.6 (a 6.4 liter option was added mid-1968). Optional "Go packages" offered the 5.6 V8 with four barrel carburetors, upgraded suspension, dual exhaust, and chrome wheels.

The Javelin quickly became a cult favorite. It had the smallest wheelbase of any of the pony cars, and weighed less. But even though it was smaller, interior and luggage dimensions were the largest in class. Combine these with attractive styling and a low starting price, and the Javelin started looking like a big contender.

In February 1968, the AMC AMX was introduced. This was the car from the drag strips of my youth, and from the start it was a niche special. The AMX was marketed as a pure American sports car. It was one of the very few two-seaters on the American market--Chevrolet Corvette and Ford Thunderbird were the only other options at the time. The "twin venturi" grille from the Javelin was combined into one piece, broad C-pillars created a fastback look at the rear, and red-stripe tires set off the Magnum 500 alloy wheels. 

If the Javelin was a exercise in good styling, then the AMX was a full-on muscle car masterpiece.

AMC was taking the "pony car" establishment head on. Along with the Javelin came marketing plans that directly addressed the car's biggest competitors. 

The AMX stacked up well against its competition. AMC nixed the smaller V6 options available on the Javelin. The AMX started with the 4.8L, and climbed up to the 390 cubic inch V8, which had entirely different internal components to support the extra power. It was a truly unique car, sacrificing the class-leading interior and luggage space of the Javelin for style and performance.

And like most cult classics, the AMX never achieved record-breaking sales numbers. Over its three years in production, American Motors sold 19,134 AMXs (a whopping majority sold in the 390, manual transmission configuration. By 1970 the AMX was gone from the lineup. The Javelin remained for four more years until succumbing to the changing economic climate of the American car industry.

After 1970, AMC dropped the AMX, but would continue making face-lifted Javelins, like this 1971 example, until 1974.

I believe, like most, that those were the glory days of the American automotive industry: the muscle car period of the mid-90s and early 70s. The Mustang, the AMX, the Camaro; these were cars that came to define the American automotive industry for years to come. What happened to AMC after the muscle car collapsed? It was nothing unlike what happened to the whole of the American automotive industry in wake of the 1970s energy crisis. 

As early as 1970 AMC was producing the Gremlin, a two-door subcompact with a 96 inch wheelbase and a 2.0 liter, Volkswagen-sourced inline four engine as the base option. The Gremlin and it's later iteration, the Pacer nowadays appear near the top of "worst" and "ugliest car(s) of all time" lists. But both cars displayed the same ambition as seen in early AMC, albeit not executed nearly as well. In 1977, as a result of dramatically lower small car sales in the United States, it was reported AMC had lost almost $74 million since the Pacer's introduction two years earlier. By 1978, their share of the US automotive market was less that 2%, so they signed a partnership with Renault. By 1980, AMC was out of cash altogether, and had to turn to Renault for a large loan--by 1983 Renault had 49% stake in the company. 

Despite all of this, American Motors managed to make it into the 80s, but it was clear that things were just about over. AMC created four-wheel-drive versions of their truly hideous Spirit and Concord, calling the line Eagle. The Renault Alliance, a restyled Renault 9, was built at AMCs Kenosha, Wisconsin plant and sold as a two-door coupe, a four-door sedan, a two-door hatchback, and a two-door convertible. AMC had ownership of the Jeep brand, having bought out Kaiser-Jeep in 1970, and this helped keep AMC going in its final days. The Jeep Cherokee and Wagoneer were produced in 1983 for the 1984 model year, both available with an American Motors-developed 4.0 liter inline-six--an engine that would become legendary for its toughness and use in many Chrysler products, including the Jeep Wrangler.

The wildly-popular Jeep Cherokee's design was first penned in 1978. This "XJ" generation was produced from 1984 to 2001, many models using the legendary, AMC-developed 4.0 liter inline-six, which would be used in Chrysler products for years to come.

By 1985, Chrysler was working closely with AMC, drafting agreements to develop chassis in a Chrysler-beneficial partnership. Meanwhile Renault, which had controlling stake in AMC, was having its own troubles, which came to a head in 1986 when a French capitalist leader was assassinated in retaliation for his firing of 25,000 Renault workers. 

Finally in 1987 Chrysler bought out Renault's shares and the remaining shares in AMC. AMC became the Jeep-Eagle brand under Chrysler's umbrella--designs for the Jeep Grand Cherokee being the sole motivation for the buyout. AMC's roller coaster ride was over. 

Put Down The Can: A Plea for Proper Paint Jobs

I'm concerned.

The soap box isn't something I like to crawl up on very often. I'm not a confrontational person. I let people cut in front of me to get on the bus, I agree to give rides to people who have their own transportation; I even apologize when people block the grocery store aisles with their carts. But there's a concerning trend in the young car enthusiast community that I just can't keep quiet about anymore.

My message here is simple: Stop spray painting your cars.

Seriously.

It will never look good, not in Krylon.

You may think your Civic's paint is absolutely shot. And it very well may be. Maybe it's turned pink from the sun, clearcoat burnt off by the sun in key places. Your friends make fun of your car. Your mother makes fun of your car. You need to do something.

But a new paint job, even a bargain-basement MAACO job (the one where you have to do all the taping-off beforehand) is going to cost at least $800. Your 1992 Acura isn't worth $500, let alone $800.

So do you keep your pink car, the one your friends and mother make fun of? I say suck it up. I know Honda paint sucks. Honda paint has always been bad. They made such exciting, well-sorted powertrains, such solid interiors, that something had to give. Your D16 may last 300,000 miles without so much as an air filter change, but the paint might only last half that.

This CRX has had a colorful existence to say the least.

So what, I say. There's a simple answer: if you can't afford a decent-quality repaint, you shouldn't try to rattle can the car yourself.

But, say you don't take my advice. It's an easy thing to disregard, anyway. The pressure of a crappy finish can drive people like me to a breaking point. "Everything else about this car is excellent," you say, "except it looks like it's spent its life being sandblasted on the salt plains of Utah." It's not your fault the previous owner chose a lame color, you might also say. "I want my car to stand out more," you might say, as you show me a picture of a matte red Lamborghini Gallardo. "You know, something like that."

Or maybe you want your Miata to disappear?

Needless to say, the Gallardo wasn't painted with 68 cans of KILZ Primer-and-paint-in-one. But you've already bought the paint. And you start painting.

Or maybe you're more particular. Maybe you want to tape off sections of your car that you don't want to have overspray, like the windshield, headlights, or the sunroof. Or maybe you don't, like many of the rattle can jobs I've seen.

You've chosen a great color (in your eyes): a simple matte black that cost you $0.96 a can. Where do you start? The hood? Okay. You begin with one of the bottom corners, but you quickly realize how big that piece of sheet metal is. One can is empty in about ten minutes. Next can, but you bought ten, so you're still feeling confident. And you continue up your hood, covering up that awful chalkboard pink with chalkboard black.

I'll spare you the rest of the process. But say you complete your rattle can paint job, like most people do. Your car has gone from red-ish to a totally sick matte black. Only you start to notice something as the many layers of paint dry.

If you stand back about ten feet, the car looks fine, but as you move closer you start to notice. Go back and take note of the size of spray nozzle on your KILZ, or your Krylon. Then take special notice of the breadth of the stream of paint as it comes out of the can. After that, you'll start to realize why there are so many streaks across every panel of your newly resprayed car.

I've never seen a rattle can job that looks natural, uniform, or better than if the owner had just left the paint as it was. You can always tell. And time mixed with the elements (the things that did your factory paint in to begin with) are only going to be less kind to your thin, spotty spray job.

To borrow phrasing from a local dealership group: For goodness sake, if you're gonna repaint your car, let's do it the right way, by taking it to a professional.

The Lancia Montecarlo: A Scorpion without the Venom

"What is it?" you might be asking.

"Why should I care?" is what you might also be asking. That is, if you know about Lancia's brief and checkered foray into the American automotive market.

Lancia is a name that, more than likely, is alien to most American drivers. If you're not an enthusiast, it's probably just another Italian name that's never been part of your vocabulary. But it's one that should.

Vincenzo Lancia first lent his name to the Tipo 51, a plan for a high-performance car that would later be known as the Lancia Alfa 12HP. That was in 1906, when Lancia still raced for Fiat. He decided to open up shop in Turin, a small town in northern Italy that's since been home to Alfa Romeo and Fiat. Lancia's cars brought forth things like the monocoque chassic, modern electrical systems, the five-speed gearbox, and the V6 engine. Commonplace nowadays, but revolutionary in their day. And like most revolutionaries, Lancia didn't get much recognition in the early days.

In 1969, a struggling Lancia was bought out by Fiat group. This proved to be just the push that Lancia needed, however, as some of their most iconic models were born in the 1970s, 80s, and early 1990s. Cars like the Fulvia, Delta Integrale, 037, and the Stratos dominated in the rallying arena. The Fulvia took home rallying honors before the World Rally Championship existed, and the following models grabbed a total of 11 World Rally Championship titles, 6 of which were won consecutively with the Delta.

During this period of rallying domination in the early 70s, Lancia's production cars were also doing quite well. Many of these were simply road-going versions of the same cars used in rally, with very little in the way of modifications. With pressure from Fiat and success in the racing world, Lancia decided to expand its market to the United States in 1975.

The car they chose was the Montecarlo, a mid-engined, rear-wheel drive car that did not participate in any rallies (although its platform was the basis for the wildly-successful Group B 037). This was an engineered-competition. The Montecarlo was meant to be sold as an up-market alternative to the smaller, cheaper Fiat X1/9. The X1/9 had already been sold in 1974, so executives hoped that the established brand and excitement for the new Lancia would be beneficial for both cars and the entire Fiat umbrella.

The Pininfarina-designed Montecarlo was sold as the Scorpion in 1975, this due to a conflict with Chevrolet, who were already using the name for their coupe. Unfortunately, things only continued to go downhill from there. Rust was no new issue to Lancia, and it's an issue that plagued cars throughout the 80s and 90s as well. The Scorpion was no exception, and these cars experienced excessive corrosion, especially the rear crossmembers, which were made of perilously thin metal.

Fiat's 2.0 liter Twin Cam engine, meant to be a saving grace, had to be smothered due to stricter emissions regulations (in wake of the 1970s energy crisis). In Europe, Montecarlo engines made a healthy 120 horsepower, but US-spec Scorpions made only 81. Automotive magazines in the US thrashed the Scorpion, saying its engine note was loud and harsh and that the brakes were downright dangerous. Even worse, these analyses were completely valid. The Scorpion's handling and engine performance fell appallingly short of what was promised.

After only 400 units were sold in 1976, Lancia pulled the Scorpion from the US market, and pulled out completely in 1982. Lancia ceased Montecarlo production in early 1978 to fix the brake problem. The car came back to the European market in 1980, engineering tweaks to the braking system included removal of the brake servos. Lancia ceased production of the Montecarlo completely after 1981.

Did we miss out on something fantastic? Probably not. But that doesn't make the Scorpion/Montecarlo any less cool. Given the rust and other problems, there are very few Scorpions left here in the United States. I've been lucky to spot two in my lifetime, one sitting in a repair yard in south Georgia, the other a well-restored Caffeine and Octane show car. Yes, they were crap, but they are also a fantastic piece of history; a cog in a once-great bit of racing heritage.

Caffeine and Octane, August 2015

Man was I worried when I heard they were moving Caffeine and Octane again. (And this goes to show how long it's been since I've gone; they moved to the new location at Perimeter a year ago)

Crowds at Caffeine and Octane, August 2013 (old location).

I liked the Mambo's Cafe location. Sure, I've never been to the restaurant, but what a cool name, right? To me, the show always fit in perfectly in that little business park. Sunday meant no worries when it came to traffic, and trees shaded most of the parking lot, so my exposures were pretty easy to get right.

But taking a step back, I suddenly saw why the change of venue needed to happen. See, the show started out at The Avenue, a small corner of parking lot in a small shopping center. It outgrew that space, so it moved to Mambo's. Now it's at Perimeter Mall, where it's allowed to run free and mostly without space limits.

A very small cross-section of spectators at this month's Caffeine and Octane.

There must have been at least 50 Dodge Challengers alone this morning.

I looked at the vast landscape of cars, roughly grouped by make, model, or style. It's like old times, only a lot better. One guy brought three cars on a trailer, all directly imported from Japan and registered here in Georgia.

The Izuzu caught my eye first-- a Giugiaro design with Japan's signature fender-mounted mirrors. Next to it, a Mitsubishi/Jeep one-off, and next to that, an R32 Nissan Skyline.

It soon became obvious that there was a "main show area." This is the place you wanted to be if you had something expensive or otherwise interesting. Drivers rolled in at around 8:30 only to be turned away, off to one of the adjacent parking lots where the crowd of cars got less and less uniform.

This is a common theme with Caffeine and Octane. There is a main section, started presumably by a group of particularly early risers. Everyone then disperses from the epicenter, with a select few groups sprouting off into other areas of the parking lot. With these further-out groups, though, there is the risk your car will be lost, overlooked because of its meager surroundings.

I'll come back to the organization of this particular show, because it's the most well-organized C&O event I've been to. This, of course, had to be down to planning on the small group level, groups of people who drove in together, or found each other and choreographed parking. E34 M5s had a small section, so did classic Datsuns, Subarus, American Luxobarges from the 70s, and the aforementioned Challengers. It all made for an excellent display.

Car shows change location all the time. For younger shows with a younger following, it's usually due to people acting a fool--free-revving and doing burnouts. But for Caffeine and Octane, it was for a much more positive reason. I only hope the show continues to outgrow itself, a testament to the strength and community of car lovers everywhere.

Keep scrolling for more from this month's show.