There’s a torque steer conspiracy afoot. Apparently, several mainstream manufacturers have decided to boost their front wheel-drive models’ fuel efficiency by throwing their drivers at solid objects each and every time they dare to accelerate with authority. Thankfully, not all carmakers have joined the secret scheme; many wrong wheel-drivers maintain manageable directional stability under maximum thrust. Of course, these vehicles aren’t powered by a 5.3-liter can of whoop ass, like Chevrolet's latest Impala SS. If ever there was a front wheel-drive car that discourages hoonery, this is it. 

Left Coast do-gooders? Take a hike. East Coast intellectuals? On your bike. The Chevy Silverado doesn’t give a damn about you and your fancy gas electric cars. GM’s new[ish] pickup is a rolling tribute to the working class people who form the backbone of our country– as defined by the musical stylings of John Cougar Mellencamp. More to the point, a good old Harvard boy named Rick Wagoner says his company’s turnaround depends on the Silverado. So are its flat-bedded shoulders strong enough to support the world’s America’s largest automaker? 

General Motors is at it again. After failing to flog captive imports from Opel, Isuzu and Suzuki, The General’s drafted in Daewoo to give Chevy’s “American Revolution” something to sell. Considering GM’s lack of success with captive imports in the past, and Daewoo’s Titanic troubles in the US market, you have to wonder about RenCen’s reasoning vis-à-vis the rebadged machine known on this side of the Pacific as the Chevrolet Aveo. Has GM made yet another logistical mistake, or will they have the last laugh as vendors of the only domestic nameplate selling a high-mileage subcompact car in the US?

An airport car rental attendant recently handed me the keys to my temporary chariot and declared “Your car is down the row to your right. It’s an ‘06 Uplander.” A what? “It’s kind of an SUV,” she kind of explained. The butt-end of a something large and ugly poked out of stall 97. The bow tie on the trim above the license plate revealed the vehicle’s manufacturer: Chevrolet.  Apprehensively, I slid behind the wheel of the awkward-looking beast. I looked around. I turned to my colleague. “No wonder GM is in such bad shape.”

If you want to judge a restaurant, don’t order the chef’s specialty.  Go for the hamburger or the omelet.  If the man in the funny hat prepares these prosaic dishes with the same passion he puts into his Suprème de Turbot Rôti aux Asperges Vertes et à l'Ail en Chemise, you have a winner.  The same applies to cars.  If you want to judge an automaker’s prowess, check their basic models.  Scope the ones with standard engines and base interiors that hide in the back of the lots.  A few miles behind the wheel tells you more about the manufacturer’s passion for product than anything their spinmongers could ever publish.  Which brings us to the Impala LS. 

Excessive Horsepower Disorder is a terrible thing. A sufferer can own a 505hp Corvette Z06 and still feel a nagging urge for more. Luckily, there are plenty of tuners ready to relieve 'Vette owners of their money– I mean symptoms. Despite their noble intentions, few garages can be trusted to monkey around with the complex workings of the Z06's heavily-breathed-upon small-block V8. Lingenfelter Performance Engineering (LPE) is one. For over two decades, the Indiana-based Corvette concern has been transforming America's Sports Car into American psychos. Their new engine package is gloriously, predictably, wonderfully nuts.

Our Z06 LPE test car was prepared by Twenty First Century Muscle Cars of Dallas, Texas. It's a monotone monster: black paint, black wheels, presidential window-tint and blacked-out hoops. In case you missed the point (Lord Vader), the new tires add an extra 20mm of rubber up front and back, intensifying the Z06' already aggressive stance. And that's it– aside from fender-mounted Lingenfelter badges. Even pistonheads unfamiliar with the Lingenfelter name instinctively appreciate the transformation: from middle-aged crisis-mobile to the automotive equivalent of a Halliburton Zero packed with unmarked bills.

The tester's thrones are the only interior indication that the LPE isn't stock. Their blend of rocket ship sheik, race car purpose and aromatic sybaritism are a welcome change from the Z06s' cheap chairs. The OEM-style embroidery and five-point racing harnesses almost make the 'Vette's pedestrian interior as wicked bad as the exterior. But not quite. The LPE's chairs straddle an unconvincing hunk of fake aluminum on the console; the purity of form is far from the magic number of Porsche's 911. Anyway, obviously, touchy-feely tomfoolery is not LPE's main concern…

The Chevrolet Corvette Z06 emerges from GM's Bowling Green factory an extremely competent package; in the same sense that an F22 Raptor ain't half bad when Lockheed Martin finishes their end of the deal. In both cases, there are few obvious areas for measurable improvement. For the Z06, Lingenfelter's crew whipped-up a short-and-sweet to-do list. The LPE conversion kit consists of a hotter camshaft and lightweight headers, for massive muscle-car hustle and flow.

The details devil lies in the tuning. Unlike less scrupulous tuners, Lingenfelter's reps don't simply bolt-on some Holy shit bits, hide behind forgiving knock sensors and tell their customers that reduced drivability is the normal price of extra pushrod power. Like Watson and Crick unlocking the secrets of DNA, Lingenfelter's well-funded research and development department has cracked the code of Chevy's 7.0-liter LS7. The Twenty First Century Muscle Cars' install reflects, nurtures and preserves the parts makers' fanaticism; dyno-testing the LPE to high-performance perfection. The result: stunning clout, respectable fuel economy, a two-year/24k mile warranty and clean air for everyone. Safe!

Lingenfelter's mechanical magic massages 111 extra horses from the Z06's already bonkers engine. (Trash-talkin' forum junkies may point to Hondas that produce that much grunt, but this 616hp whip's powerband is fat enough to qualify for gastric bypass surgery.) Aside from the cam's medium-hot 'thump-ah-thump' idle, the LPE Z06 cruises without complaint, just like its "mild-mannered" OEM donor car. The modest clutch effort and deliciously precise shifter bestowed by Dave Hill and crew make the Z06 LPE a grandma-friendly stunter and flosser– until you drop the hammer.

Bad day at work? Light-up the Z06 LPE from a standstill and the ensuing black hole consumes your job, your family, your name. By 5000 revs, Lingenfelter's black beauty dusts everything this side of a Ferrari Enzo. By 7000 rpm, the vicious pull starts to suck-up daylight and blur your peripheral vision. Empirically speaking, the Z06 LPE eliminates the quarter mile in 10.6 seconds, ending at a glorious 134mph. What's more, downshifting before a corner is an entirely pointless exercise; the LPE's powerband is larger than the national debt and more usable than throw-beads at Mardi Gras.

A stock Z06 vacuums its way around even the most severe corner, but oh no, that's not good enough for LPE. On go up-rated Brembo brake calipers, ultra-light CCW rims and Michelin Pilot Sport Cup rubber. The stoppers wipe away triple digit speeds like Oxi-clean disappearing grass stains. The amount of twist available mid-corner is so enormous that foot flexing through the twisties left me questioning LPE's omission of a Diaper Genie from the options list. The test course runs near a small Dallas airport; I'll bet the Cessnas remember who was REALLY flying that afternoon.

The automotive performance world endured a terrible loss when tuner/racer/author John Lingenfelter died from injuries sustained in a racing accident. Sadly, Lingenfelter didn't live to see the current Z06, a vehicle that flummoxes Ferraris and sends Porsches packing. But John's spirit lives on in the LPE-tuned Z06 bearing his name. Sure, a stock Chevrolet Corvette Z06 is a terrible thing to waste. But someone's got to do it.

'You have the car everyone wants right now.' Souls are ice-skating in Hell. Pigs are airborne. The guy handing the Corvette Z06 the ultimate accolade wasn't a sixty-year-old Midwestern mid-life muscle car maniac. It was a BMW M3 owner fresh from the track at the Motorsport Ranch roadcourse in Houston. General Motors may be on Death Watch, but its Chevrolet-branded halo car has, after 53-years, ascended to the top of the honest-to-God sports car category. Of course, even Euro-snobs are susceptible to baseless hype. Well guess what? The Z06 is all that, and more.

Unless you're looking for pretty. In ideal lighting, the Z06' form evokes all the sleek, thrusting glamour of a 550 Maranello. Take off the beer goggles and it's a bit of a mess. Peep the bulging carbon-fiber fenders, hood scoop and brake cooling ducts: items longing for Pininfarina's magical powers of integration. The matte black 'Gurney Lips' (mud flaps) stand out like a fanny-pack'd tourist strolling the Louvre. Tacked-onto on the C6 Vette's clumsy profile, the performance-oriented addenda create an unsightly blend of hard edges and undefined curves, not to mention a posterior straight from the Sir Mix-A-Lot School of Design.

The exterior may be a challenge to skin deep beauty theorists, but the Z06 interior gets it done. Dual-zone climate control, XM radio, in-dash navigation and power everything supplies sufficient indulgence. The cabin's soft-touch petroleum byproducts are another giant step-up from the brand's Avis-grade interiors. (The door panels alone would make some wikkid kicks.) The 'Vette's heads-up display provides useful eye candy, and can be switched off faster than you can say 'i-Drive.' Metal grilles hide seven crackalackin' Bose speakers. Pump up the volume via chrome-ringed knobs that move with Teflon-coated precision. Yes, this is still a road test of a GM product.

Close the Z06' portals and the side windows bury themselves deep inside ample weather stripping (finally ending the dreaded Corvette triple digit howl). A new three-spoke wheel supersedes last year's headless doughboy, though the thin rim can't match a BMW M-series' beefcake hula-hoop. The seats also need to leave Atkins behind and hit the pasta bar. Cushions this flat, short and lacking in lateral support belong in a Monte Carlo, not a car boasting a Nürburgring-fettled pedigree. And just in case you forgot that the Z06 hails from the Land of Lawsuits, the GM parts-bin rearview mirror brightly shines 'PASSENGER AIRBAG ON/OFF.'

Once underway, the Z06' compliant ride and docile demeanor help the uber-'Vette mount a convincing challenge to the 911 for everyday drivability. The 'Vette's peanut butter smooth idle, dual-stage exhaust system (from mild to monster), light but accurate steering (with a welcome improvement in on-center feel) and mid-weight clutch will endear it to unrepentant boulevardiers and brand loyal commuters. Aside from the Goodyear run-flats' tendency to holla back over rough pavement, it's hard to fault the Z06' civility. A real world twenty-nine mpg at 75mph seals the deal.

Pull the trigger on the Z06' 7.0-liter powerplant and it's clear pushrod proletariats needn't take a backseat to OHC elitists: the 'Vette's burbling aluminum/titanium masterpiece provides unadulterated four-cycle fun. Switch to 'Competitive Driving Mode,' put your foot down and unleash the beast. Massive low end grunt belies the 7000rpm redline, pinning your spine to the seat back at any engine speed. Quick? Only in the same sense that a photon is sprightly. Accelerating from zero to sixty takes just 3.7 seconds, while a quarter mile deducts a mere 11.8 seconds from your lifespan.

An aluminum, magnesium and carbon-fiber diet has significantly improved the donor car's turn-in and cornering poise. And why not? The 505hp Z06 weighs three hundred and sixty-four pounds less than the 480hp next gen Porsche Turbo. Missile the Z06 into a turn and its run-flats stick with supernatural tenacity, carving corners with uncanny balance and, most deliciously of all, the option of a predictable power slide exit. [Traction control aversive greenhorns beware: you'll trim the landscape the hard way with even a little extra throttle.] The Z06' brakes are equally astounding, equally reliable. Lap after lap, manhole-cover sized discs serve-up bottomless cups of stopping power java. Much to the dismay of the folks at Hurst, even the short-throw shifter is perfect.

In short, the Z06 is the best vehicle to come out of General Motors in decades. Which begs the question: how can such a fantastic vehicle come from such a horribly flawed organization? The fact that combative Corvette project manager Dave Hill capped his career with this car is one possible explanation– and a stark warning that the Z06 may represent a Pyrrhic victory for a terminally ill automaker. If so, there's no question: the manufacturers of "America's sports car" saved the best for last.

Brian Wilson is a genius. Back in the day, he'd craft a pop song that etched itself deep into your brain, change a few chords, alter the harmonies and… brainwash you again. Bryan Nesbitt was the chief designer of Chrysler's phenomenally successful P.T. Cruiser. After switching to the Chevrolet label, Nesbitt has picked up his pen once again. He's changed a few lines, altered the platform and given us the HHR. After you've seen his retro-futuristic minivan on the road, you'll never forget it. Yes but… is that a good thing?

This time 'round, Nesbitt drew his inspiration from a 1949 Chevrolet Suburban (…er…uh…okay). Although the "Heritage High Roof" retains the panel van's pulchritudinous proportions, Nesbitt's team added extra cuddliness and a dose of faux belligerence. They replaced the Suburban's gigantic slatted chrome grill with a gently arched rendering of the ill-fated SSR pickup's nose. At the side, they installed windows that ape the Hummer H3's armored car aggression. With a snarky exhaust, rear roof spoiler, running boards and modern-looking aluminum wheels, the overall result is a "me-too" cruiser with an attitude problem.

Slide into the HHR– striking your elbow on the armrest as you shut the door– and the narrowing effect of those big, deep fenders makes itself known. The second thing to hit you (hopefully not literally) is the windshield. It's extremely close, short and vertical. The center stack presents another cliff face, in an old-metal shade of grey. While the cabin's strict horizontality creates a kind of three-dimensional vertigo, at least the architecture maximizes cabin space. The HHR's cargo area– complete with folding and flipping seats, movable shelves and dividers– makes the most of the large, rectangular shape.

Predictably, the HHR's chopped roof constricts sightlines. Unless you carefully adjust the upright seating to place your eyes in the sweet spot, peripheral vision is for naught. The ergonomics of the HHR's handsome three-spoke steering wheel aren't so easily dismissed; the flat perimeter separating the front and rear edges leave harsh edges that hit you in the palm and fingers no matter how you grip it. The cabin plastics are equally deceiving; enticingly grained to the eye but unyielding to the touch. Fortunately, the HHR offers plenty of pleasing details to distract drivers from haptic distress: elegant gauges, underfloor storage, cubbies galore, MP3 compatibility, a chrome-ringed shift knob, fold flat front seat, that sort of thing.

Dynamically, the HHR is a bit too nostalgic for its own good. Remember the days when tiny engines pushed big cars? The HHR 1LT attempts to motivate 3155 lbs. of retro-styled minivan with a 2.2-liter four-cylinder mill good for 143hp and 150 ft.-lbs. of twist. Do the math. We've got time. While you're waiting to get out of your own way, you might want to crank-up the tunes. The HHR's Ecotec powerplant is a hoarse old thing at the top of the rev range, without any kind of compensatory thrust. Sure, the HHR's performance is adequate for ambling schleppers/shoppers. And yes, she'll cruise at "mach-highway" speeds with fuel efficient ease. But pistonheads' adrenal glands will remain dormant, if not comatose.

Unless they thrash the HHR without mercy. Throw the truck into a corner and survival-triggered adrenalin will flow. Let's all recite Cornering Physics Law #1: high roof = low expectations. The HHR's body roll is epic; like turning a bass boat sideways to a howling gale. The truck's slow and numb electric steering system underscores the accuracy of the maritime analogy. Slam on the HHR's anchors, rear drums and all, and the vehicle displays a worrying inability to maintain course. Chevrolet's decision to restrict ABS to HHR's equipped with automatic transmission, and forgo the traction control thing entirely, is bound to place some inexperienced sailor in harm's way…

Over normal street surfaces at relatively lazy speeds, it's easy enough to zone-out. The HHR's Cobalt-based chassis may be about as engaging as a pre-flight safety demonstration, but at least it's quiet and rigid. The HHR's front strut/rear torsion beam suspension effectively masks the worst effects of road-related lumps and bumps. Unfortunately, HHR drivers face the possibility of bumps of a more visceral kind. The truck's massive A-pillars create equally massive blind spots, continuing the blind spot theme on either side of the vehicle and towards the rear three quarter. Eyes on stalks! Eternal vigilance is the price of sensible insurance premiums.

Sales figures say the HHR is a hit. Whether it has the legs of Chrysler's PT Cruiser is another matter. The HHR is a clever device that meets or beats the PT in every major category save driving pleasure– the one area completely beyond Mr. Nesbitt's control. While the Chevrolet HHR has the visuals to gain attention and keep it, it lacks enough dynamic appeal to become a golden oldie.

The SUV is dead. Long live the sedan on stilts! Yes folks, Chevrolet has transformed their Tahoe from a cheap and cheerful workhorse for environmentally insensitive soccer Moms, to a deluxe cruiser for environmentally insensitive soccer Moms. The change is so well executed, so completely earnest in both scope and scale, you almost feel sorry for the beast. Like the Wild Things watching Max sailing back to his bedroom (already regretting his rumpus at the pumpus), the new Tahoe cries out to departing SUV buyers "Come back! We love you so!" What say you, America?

The new Tahoe is certainly a more alluring monster than the big bland boring box it replaces. Bob Lutz– the GM executive who once dismissed a passel of motor show concept cars as "angry appliances"– will be delighted with what Chevy's American Revolution has wrought: a happy appliance. The Tahoe's sheetmetal displays all the subdued modernism, implied practicality and aesthetic solidity of a Sub-Zero refrigerator, right down to the sleek door handles– I mean "pulls". The Tahoe's hood is as perfectly creased as an Armani suit. The SUV's bowed nose and tail, the gently curving C-pillar, the side mirrors' blacked-out bottoms – every detail reflects an entirely successful attempt to give the Tahoe's exterior a contemporary kitchen's supercool coherence.

Ever since I can remember, the Chevrolet Corvette has been the fat Elvis of sports cars. Every few years, someone would try to convince me that “America’s sports car” had received the engineering upgrades it needed to restore faded glory. But no. The latest ‘Vette was always a dynamic disaster: a feeble chassis married to lackluster brakes and an incompetent suspension, with more than enough horsepower to make it swap ends with frightening ease. Oh, and the car’s interior remained the only place capable of making a Motel 6 bedroom seem luxurious.

The word "cobalt" comes from 'kobolt', variant of the old German word 'kobold', meaning 'goblin.' As the story goes, German silver miners of yore believed that goblins would come and steal their booty, leaving worthless cobalt in its place. Not exactly an auspicious choice of names for a car, then.

Still, one can hardly fault the General for wanting to distance the Cobalt from the Cavalier it replaces. What with everyone from Toyota to Hyundai producing far more interesting econoboxes than the august Cavalier, Chevrolet knew that the Cobalt had to set a new, higher standard for its low end products. It had to 'bring the noise' to capture sales from parties other than Alamo and Enterprise.

Enter the noise, or, as the ads say, Chevy's 'new commotion.' From the outside, the Cobalt's design is as novel as a snowflake in Aspen. It isn't unattractive, mind, but it lacks any hint of the brash American flair that Chrysler is currently deploying in their successful campaign against the imports. At least the Cobalt Coupe's a tastier morsel than the Saturn Ion, with which it shares its mechanical underpinnings. The Chevy's aggressively raked roofline (almost 7/8ths Mustang in execution) and characterful dual-element tail lamps add a bit of interest to an otherwise uninspiring shape.

The Cobalt's interior reflects the General's ongoing campaign against acrid cheapness; the Cobalt's plastics rank several orders above the outgoing Cavaliers' (and the Ion). Still, the cabin's overall quality won't worry VW's Golfers or Toyota's Sciontologists. As always, the devil's in the details. For example, the Cobalt's seat bottoms ratchet up and down, but the action is uncultivated, and the seat coverings themselves are more Stainmaster than stylemeister. The Cobalt's urethane steering wheel rim is suitably thick, but feels like a discount replacement part, and fails to telescope.

On the plus side, the Cobalt is a seriously quiet automobile. Noise from the drivetrain, tires, wind and traffic are all suppressed far more effectively than they are in a comparable Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla. Better still, despite the frigid temperatures and epic potholes on our test loop, the Cobalt's interior trim uttered nary a squeak or groan. Reliability freaks have every reason to be hopeful.

Over the road con brio, the Cobalt proved largely free of unwanted 'commotion'. In situations where a Cavalier would've staggered about like the oenophiles in Sideways, the Cobalt remained firmly planted to the pavement. Enthusiasts could be forgiven for wanting to pass on anything employing a twist-beam trailing arm rear suspension, but the reality is something of a pleasant surprise. (Transitional responses are sharpened by standard anti-roll bars front and rear.) Admittedly, the Cobalt doesn't inspire the same handling confidence as the Ford Focus, but it doesn't slur about like the skinny-tired Mitsubishi Lancer, either.

The Cobalt's variable-assist electric power steering lacks true precision, especially at the straight-ahead, but it's not unbearably artificial or over-boosted. The Chevy's brakes are more effective than any disc/drum setup has a right to be (you'll have to plump for the SS if you want discs all 'round), providing tremendous stopping power with minimal fuss or fade. A little more braking feel would be welcome, but the stoppers' safety is beyond reproach.

Despite a large-for-the-class 2.2L Ecotec four-cylinder with 145 horses, the Cobalt is a decidedly reluctant revver, with general smoothness being notable by its absence. Although we can only hope that Chevrolet will find some people who will, thrashing an entry-level Cobalt is both unpleasant and pointless. Doubtlessly, the shortly-promised 2.4L 175hp will improve matters, as will the 205 ponies in the force-fed 2.0L SS variant. But for now, file the Cobalt's go-power under: 'Competent, not inspiring.'

And there you have it. The Cobalt, for all its improvements in quality and engineering, is yet another boring automobile. The 'new commotion' ultimately lacks what Chevy's admen so desperately want us to believe it has– something to get excited about. Sure, GM has come up with a perfectly competent car capable of going ply-to-ply with Honda and Toyota's current (albeit dated) offerings. But the Cobalt stumbles badly next to the dynamic soul of the Mazda3, and the abrasive charisma of the Dodge Neon SRT-4.

Given GM's sliding market share, the Cobalt's lack of ambition is particularly troubling. Name change or no, the Cobalt started from the back of the pack, inheriting the Cavalier's reputation for low residuals, suspect quality, and a 'rent me/beat me' persona. Whether through novel styling, breakthrough technology, scandalously low MSRP or stupid amounts of power, the Cobalt needed something to help it stand out from its ancestor AND a field crowded with viable alternatives. To stem the tide of imported low-cost, high quality sedans, the Cobalt had to be a game-changer. What GM delivered is a solid setup man. Back to the mines boys, back to the mines.

The Chevrolet SSR is a two-seat pickup truck with a folding metal hardtop that drives like a– hold on a second. Where did THAT idea come from? “Hey guys, what we haven’t built yet? How about a convertible pickup truck!” Normally, corporate bean counters file such creative flights of fancy under “H”, for “Humor them and they’ll design a car we can sell to the rental companies”. But lo and behold, here it is! So, um, what is it?

There's something slightly odd about testing a car called an "SS". While petrolheads may know that Chevrolet uses the letters to indicate a "Super Sports" derivative, it's hard not to wonder how many SS models are bought by German-speaking Argentineans. Anyway, just in case I wanted to maintain a low profile whilst driving a Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS past my local synagogue, GM kindly delivered a press car painted in "Competition Yellow".