Some people believe that muscle cars died the day Ford manufactured the first Mustang-II, but this just isn't so. No, the American muscle car died when the first consumer decided to purchase that sorry excuse for a car, and it's been a losing battle for the industry and enthusiasts ever since. Camaro, Mustang, Corvette, Viper and the lesser likes of Firebird and a small handful of others I can't be bothered to remember have worked in vain to resurrect the class of cars over these past three-decades, but nothing has really filled the gap
well, not until now, anyhow.
Before I get too deep into the review, let me make my most poignant point, and do so point blank; the Magnum SRT-8 is the prototypical neo-American muscle car, plain and simple.
Cars aren't supposed to be fast anymore, even though many try to make themselves out to be. The Hyundai Tiberon is a lightning quick little ride, and many of the finest rice burners can fly like the divine wind, kamikaze or otherwise. Many self-proclaimed sport enthusiasts re-chip their rides to boost the horsepower at the modest cost of emissions standards (or an ounce or foot-pound of torque), but that doesn't make them muscle cars by a mile (or kilometer). We're still talking about small cars with small power plants, and sadly, equally small top-end numbers and remarkably minimal torque. Well and good, but these ain't muscle cars. No two ways about it.
There were some attempts in the 90s to bring back the muscle cars, since there has always been the demand in the market, regardless of gas prices, but nothing really did the trick. The 90s era Impala had some wicked power, but attempts to keep it sporty fell painfully short and the market agreed without demand, and they tried to wiggle it modern with by putting it on a smaller chassis with horribly compromised performance, and equally pathetic consumer response. The Taurus SHO had a killer engine designed by the high-rev wizards at Yamaha, and it was a lot of fun, but it still wasn't a muscle car, and still lacked the consumer and critical appeal needed. Seven-k-plus RPMs are exciting, but this is not the equation for a muscle car.
This brings us back to the Camaros, Mustangs, Corvettes and Vipers. The first two are fun enough, and the latter two are outrageously decadent delights, but these are sports cars, not muscle cars. Some are cool, others are fun, and all scream assorted degrees of phallic inadequacy, whether real or perceived, but they don't embody the understated glory that is a mumbly, bumbling, rumbler of a car. Nothing against these cars, they each have their own charms, but this is a review of the Dodge Magnum SRT-8, and if you'll pardon me for trying to get back on track already, I really need to start talking about the car at hand.
I say at hand, but the delight of the Magnum was under my foot. Specifically it was my right foot, and right nice at that, but we'll get on with that in a minute or so from here.
Dodge decided to dabble back in the murky waters of high-powered muscle wagons with the first-cousin designs of the Charger and Magnum, the latter being genuinely (if not peculiarly) an actual wagon. Mopar has done well with their retro styling, as evidenced by the rave successes of the 300 and, well, the comparably modeled Magnum and Charger.
The top is chopped, the rims are dub-cut and the front end screams "where do I stuff this V8?" without being so lengthy as to clip it on curbs. I only reviewed one model, and it was the SRT-8 straight up and without apology. The SRT-8 is the one, not the one with the 340hp 5.7 liter Hemi, but rather the one with the 425hp 6.1 liter Hemi (and about a zillion pounds of torque, rounded up from 450). And oh my, this, my dear friend, is a screamingly fun machine.
We'd just come back from the wake of Hurricane Dean in Puerto Rico, so thunder was right fresh in our memory. My oldest son was with me when I picked up the car. As is standard, I fired it up while the kids and their seats were buckled in, and I took a tour of all the unique aspects and buttons that make each car unique. He kept looking out the window of the idling ride, looking for something he couldn't see and I couldn't imagine. I finally asked him what was out there, and he told me he was looking for lightning
see, he heard the dull, understated roar of the Hemi at idle, and he simply assumed we were in the midst of a Donner and Blitzen.
I had the lightning tucked cleverly in my gas pedal, but I only showed him a little bit of it. I rightly figured it was all he could take. This car is an impenitent monster of unbridled pony power, waiting im-or-patiently for merely an ounce of foot-pound permission to show you what it's made out of.
What it's made out of, as it turns out, is aluminum-sleeved cast-iron under the hood, but with all the modern engineering you'd expect from the automotive industry. The safety on this car, as with any Dodge (or Chrysler family vehicles), is exceptional. What's more surprising is the space and comfort, which surprisingly, actually exists, and does so quite well. It's not the sort of car you want when you're doing an inter-state move, but it capably holds three child car-seats in the back with ease (or two linebackers with nearly equal comfort,) and you'll still have enough room in the very back for groceries, luggage, or anything else you'd wish to carry short of a German shepherd.
When you buy this car, don't stick your German shepherd in it. It's unfair to you, your dog, your newly acquired car of highest glory and covetability, and your resale value as well. Just don't do it.
The fact that critics love this car at first astounded me, until I read on to learn why. They love it (as I did) because it's the most fun I've had in years, and it's exactly what it purports to be. It's not a bulky car that pretends to be nimble, a gutless car that pretends to be sporty, nor an inefficient embarrassment that tries to play off practicality. Nope, this is a muscle car that says it's a muscle car, and pulls it off with all the humility of a '69 GTO.
For what it is, the price is dead nuts on. It starts in the mid-to-high-30s, tops out in the mid-forties, and looks perfectly respectable and conservative, save for the conspicuously pretty oversized rims and dual chrome tips. With as limited as production of these cars is scheduled to suffer, you're unlikely to be able to throw around your indifference the way you would with a minivan, but feigning indifference in the SRT-8 only works before the test drive. After that you can't make believe you're not in love, at least not with a straight face.
What you're buying is a smart muscle car, the sort of thing you've known Detroit was capable of since our childhood, despite some inunderstandable fear to express it commercially. Under gentle driving conditions, the engine will transition from 8-cylinders down to 4-cylinders entirely without your knowledge. This affords fantastic power with mileage at 14/20 city/highway. It may sound bad, but only because it is, but nobody will buy the SRT-8 for gas mileage; it's a (barely) street legal road racer. Really though, it is the technology that makes this muscle car the cat's meow (or lion's roar, if we're stepping up with that extra ounce of honesty.)
Zero-to-sixty comes in at 5.1 seconds, which I'm going to tell you is only a rating from a dead-stop, not with a tranny-load (which will shave off another fraction, if I can be honest for a tenth of a second.) The weight comes in at a sturdy 4,300-pounds, but thanks to Electronic Slip Protection, you won't wheel around on yourself or unsuspecting curb under less-than-ideal conditions, like rain, sand, snow or invisibly dangerous black ice. The ABS will save you from a tree or two, assuming you're as foolish on the leaded foot as I was when Dodge airbags saved my life in a much-too-new-to-be-totaled Viper in 2000. Oh, if ABS could have been standard back then, who knows where my life might be.
The feeling you get from getting on the throttle a bit in a merging situation or onramp start is as unforgettable as the WOOMPF from the Hemi is unmistakable, even from a distance. The power is intoxicating, and it feels as amazing as promised. It's the sort of thing that brings out the inner-caveman even in dorky deskworms like myself, and the sort of thing you can enjoy with glee on a test drive as much as the anxious salesman sitting beside you, white-knuckles and all.
If you want to smoke off your tires around the block, I guess you can do that, as it's technically possible, though by no means advised. If you want to do that, buy cheap tires or something, but be smarter still and keep the traction control (ESP) engaged unless you're out doing doughnuts (and even then, seriously, doughnuts? I mean, come on man, what year is this.) All I mean with this is that you've got the modern technology you need to keep the rubber stuck to the road, even if you think you're above it, but don't be a jerk about it unless you want to call in a hefty claim against your latest policy.
The Magnum SRT-8 isn't just the most enjoyable car I've ever tested (though it is entirely, precisely, unequivocally that), it's the best (dare I say only?) example of what modern technology can do to the age-old concept of muscle car-lery, assuming this word I may have just coin actually exists with meaning. The muscle car options are limited these days, but this fills the conspicuously empty gappy-niche ideally. It looks mean as hell, is priced exceptionally for its singularity in the market, and you can actually drive it to work on a daily basis without discomfort, danger or any noticeable inconvenience at all.
Oh, and the neighbor kids actually pulled me aside to tell me that my car is awesome. Yeah well, they're wrong, at least in part. It is indeed awesome, it just isn't my car.
