The guy from Lamborghini was as German as Spaten Optimator. As German as a gasthaus. As German as a Kunstmuseum. But he was also a diplomatic, sleek, polite European-Unionized German. His name was Franz, and he reminded me a bit of Captain Von Trapp from the Sound of Music, but sans the whistle, the British accent, and Austrian sentiment. Franz was incredibly smug about his job and his product, but never crossed the line into rudeness like a Frenchman would. He made every w sound like a v, and was astoundingly methodical in his choice of words. He gesticulated very little, and if he did, it was usually pointing to something on or in the Lambo. This had me stratospherically uncomfortable.
I remember the first time I drove a Lamborghini, and it was at a Lamborghini press event back in the days when Lambos were made 100% by chaps named Vittorio and Antonio who drank olive oil for lunch and wine for dinner. The Lamborghini was a machine built with (cliche alert) passion and soul rather than engineering and precision. The fact that old Lamborghinis were, in essence, beautifully-constructed buckets of brittle, breakable bolts didn’t mean a thing. What mattered was that when you saw one, you would wildly gesture in an Italian way that meant, “Bello! Fantastico!” Old Lamborghinis were senseless, mindless, insane pieces of metallic magnificence.
When I first tried to drive a Countach at the press event, all I remembered was that the clutch pedal felt like I was attempting to manually pile drive a pylon into solid granite with my left leg. The brakes also felt as useful as a lawn mower in Antarctica. It was one of the hardest, most uncomfortable cars I had ever driven, yet I loved every ridiculous minute of it. The press liaison at that event was an ecstatic man named Chazz, who did not once talk about gearboxes, brake discs, or aerodynamics. All he talked about was “power,” “beautiful,” and “Automobili Lamborghini.”
If Chazz was at the north pole, Franz was at the south. I was standing in front of an anthracite-grey Gallardo LP560-4, and all ze German could talk zabout was za new fuel injection system that he attempted to say in Italian- “Iniezione Diretta Stratificata.” He also tried to pronounce the name of the engine position, but it ended up sounding like he was trying to clear his sinuses. Franz said not a word about the incredible, radical design of the new Gallardo, or anything related to aesthetics.
Maybe that’s because there was frankly not much to talk about. The LP560-4 was styled by a non-Italian under the watchful eye of the Audi mothership. The engine is also a direct derivative of the V10 Audi put in the new RS6, and all the interior fixtures come straight from the A8 sedan. The interior actually feels like you are in a car. A working, reliable car. It’s complete BS.
Franz could not see me waving the BS flag as he described the new, quicker E-Gear system, and I guess that’s a good thing. That’s because I had just agreed to take in hand this particular LP560-4 for an entire week to see if, in fact, Volkswagen Group have turned Lamborghinis into cars you can actually drive every day. I would be living with a Lamborghini. My esteemed Editor, out of pure, unbridled spite, commandeered my own car, and left my garage at home empty. I would be restricted from any other sort of transportation other than the LP560-4. It would be the only way to move about.
So the idea that Audi has turned Lamborghini into workable vehicles was a bittersweet thought. Sure, I would need air conditioning, because air con is one automotive luxury I require. But I hoped to God it would break in spectacular fashion, just so I could laugh in Franz’s face and say, “Ah-HA! You have not taken away Lamborghini’s soul! They still break! They still don’t work! You’ve FAILED, good German! Your precision engineering and totalitarian quality control is no match for zesty Italian disorganization!”
When I drove away from the dealership, all hopes of uttering those epic lines vanished completely. I felt like I was in the R8, but with a little more noise. I had too much visibility, too much ride comfort, and the air conditioner was too cold. It felt stratospherically comfortable on the motorway, and I felt myself wanting to cruise on past my exit- cruise in a Lamborghini? Since when do you want to go on a long-distance driving holiday in a fire-breathing, mid-engined Italian stallion?! Nothing makes sense anymore!
This practicality dampened what should have been a monstrously inconsistent, difficult, uncomfortably stiff experience. Yet I secretly thanked Audi for what they had done to Lamborghini. You see, it’s the 21st century, and technology is expected to make life easier. If you are a hedge-fund manager who has sausages for hands and could care less about the 4 in LP560-4, yet needs a car that makes you look like your gross income personified (or in the Gallardo’s case a Bond villain), Lambo’s got a car for you. Gone are the days when Lamborghini made cars that could only be appreciated by childish petrolheads. Today, you can buy a Lamborghini and have that wild, crazy noise and aggressive styling without paying the price of practicality. In theory, it’s brilliant.
The new Gallardo LP560-4 is a perfect example of this brilliance. The designers took a few juicy chunks of Reventon and applied them to the bargain Lambo, making it look less car and more stealth fighter. That’s perfect if you’re 8 years old at heart, like me. Sure, it’s not as outlandish and mad as the Reventon, but the minimalist overtones and faintly-arched lines pleasantly distinguish the Gallardo from its mad, angular million-Euro big brother. However, this car is not “minimalist” in the ABC-Art sense. It is minimalist in that there are no excess lines or creases, and every inch of its surface is refined to German-calibre perfection. It’s sweeping, aeronautical Italian Futurism and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe all at the same time. This unholy union of German refinement and Italian mania is fantastically odd.
The interior is a completely different story. It’s nearly identical to the old Gallardo, which is rather disappointing when you think about it. Lamborghini gave it such a refreshing facelift, but on the inside, it’s still as sensible and boring as a Zurich bus terminal. I wanted to see something shining that was not carbon fibre. Maybe some neon lights, or glow-in-the-dark paddle shifters, or that fantastic LCD panel from the Reventon that makes your speedometer and tachometer look like gauges from some top-secret Skunkworks concept craft. At least something other than a fuzzy foam steering wheel and a satnav from an A8.
I thought about all of this as I (cringe)…. cruised along, and decided to stop by an In-and-Out to measure some public reaction to the car. That’s usually the most reliable test as to any supercar’s goodness. This particular burger joint had a very steep rise at the end of its driveway, so I employed the stupidly practical hydraulic front-end lift and avoided the kerb. Honestly, how drivable can this thing get?
At once, several saucer-eyed 8-year old Ridleys and Madisons and bewildered soccer moms came up to the car to take a look. The kids loved the headlamps; the mums asked how much space the boot had. Suddenly, I discovered one last bit of impracticality, because the boot in the front end was big enough for about a single sock. A-HA! Yes, the Germans couldn’t fix that! The kids were not impressed by the size of the boot, so I revved the engine, and severe cases of permagrin suddenly flared up. The soccer moms reacted by frowning and putting an arm across their children’s chests, motioning them to stand back. ….As if the Gallardo would spawn a teeth-filled maw and gobble them up. Hey, there’s enough Decepticon in this thing to scare anybody