1980 Chevrolet Monte Carlo Turbo Driven: Big Oof

From the February 1980 issue of Car and Driver.

We refuse to discuss the looks of this car. It’s ugly as sin. Sorry, that just slipped out. This inbred styling fault has nothing whatso­ever to do with the turbocharged engine that lies beneath the hood, but if you think we can put up with the Monte Carlo’s looks long enough to find utterly redeeming truth and beauty in its mechanical specifications, you’re in for a big disappointment. What possesses Chevrolet to do such things?

In our styling summation, which we de­clare with admirable brevity, we simply quote a succinct counterpoint prepared by our Mr. Patrick Bedard two years ago, upon the introduction of the downsized Monte Carlo. To wit: “‘For every man who drives one, thousands have to look at it, and no car could ever perform brilliantly enough to make that sacrifice worthwhile. Chevrolet has indeed let loose a blight upon the landscape. It is possible, of course, that Chevrolet has no say in the matter. Mr. William Mitchell was for years GM’s custodian of style, and when he left his legacy, this steaming pile, on the doorstep of Chevrolet, the division may have been obligated to take it in …. I can think of only one other explanation, and it is even more appalling. What if Chevrolet really likes the looks of this car?

There is a new, tastefully restrained hump asymmetrically located on the hood. It pro­vides clearance for the all-important turbo­charger. Chevrolet has pirated the turbo mo­tor from Buick. It is the same V-6 that came originally to life for the Riviera and the Cen­tury, and carries within it crankshaft throws arranged to provide even-firing combustion, unlike V-6s whose power pulses produce en­gine shake in certain rev ranges. As installed in the Monte Carlo, this modern engine ex­hibits no V-6 shortcomings. It provides ade­quate performance, but welding the gas ped­al to the floor never turns out more than mild exhilaration. The turbo V-6 is only re­quired, in the eyes of Chevrolet (and Buick), to substitute for the small-displacement V-8s that are following their bigger brothers into mechanical oblivion. That it does.

Cold starts are no problem, but cold accel­eration brings a mild case of the croup, wherein the motor stops murmuring for a moment as the throttle is opened from idle. This disappears when operating tempera­tures reach normal. The Buick-developed Turbo Control Center—the much-lauded detonation sensor and automatic timing ad­juster that retard timing just as detonation begins—sits on top of the fan shroud, well forward of the high temperatures produced by the turbo itself. At full throttle a mild pulsing is felt. The retarding feature is at work, forestalling detonation, feeling a little like a minor misfire. In spite of Buick’s handy-dandy creation, we encountered slight pinging, which Buick says is usual, under all­-out acceleration. Steady highway throttle set­tings also brought steady pre-ignition at times. Normal driving brought smooth and refined, but middling, performance.

The turbo Monte Carlo is quite taken with the idea of whispering down the road at quite heady speeds. Its quietness is eerie. It con­tributes to a strange detachment, the driver somehow filtered aside from the world, his relationship with reality altered, as if a series of fun-house mirrors were his only communi­cation with reality. The suspension and steer­ing are surprisingly capable, and braced by the expected linearity of Chevrolet’s con­trols, but it takes some time to discover this basic goodness, so thickly is it swathed by the driver’s isolation. Turning into corners is ac­complished with less drama than most do­mestic cars exhibit, and stopping is accom­plished with genuine poise.

Alas, the seats are no help at all. They are split benches and deserve every excoriation that can be heaped upon them. They offer no support to anything but your butt. No lateral support, no back support. To top it off, ours were upholstered in a velour wrapping that finished off the ultimate monotony, an eye-­boggling, interior-wide color scheme of continuous-tone Kermit Green. Like the spindly Muppet, Chevy’s interior packagers are vaguely out of control, aspiring (and unfortu­nately appealing) only to the Miss Piggys of the marketplace. Confused about their audi­ence, the product planners have furnished a complete instrument layout, only to sur­round it with enough petrochemical wood to surface a large coffee table.

There may be a decent, if slightly obese, car under there somewhere, but damned if we want to find it.

Source: Reviews - aranddriver.com