Why All Stellantis Stereos Go to 38, and Other News from 2021

Well, I sold my Bronco. The diesel one. Did I mention that I did that? I guess not. I had a lot going on. And I’ll further explain the circumstances another time, but suffice to say, a vehicle of that caliber was never on the open market. I was approached by a sophisticated collector (my friend Dave), who noted that I’d bought a 2003 Dodge Ram four-by-four and wondered what would become of the Bronco. A few weeks later, he was embarking on an 800-mile trip from North Carolina back to Massachusetts in said Bronco, which performed flawlessly. I was sad to see it go, but that was just as well, because two weeks later my house caught fire, and everything in the garage was bathed in a miasma of toxic smoke. The Bronco managed to keep its local haze of toxic smoke to whatever its 7.3-liter Power Stroke chuffs out the tailpipe.

But anyway, onto everything else. Like, why does the volume of every Stellantis stereo top out at 38?

It Goes Past 11, All the Way to 38

I was driving a new Jeep Grand Wagoneer and indulging in its McIntosh sound system when I decided to really punish the cilia of my inner ear by turning up the volume all the way. Curiously, the volume-level readout went to 38 and no further. Which struck me as odd, not because it’s such a random number but because my 2020 Pacifica and its completely different Harman/Kardon system does the same thing. Clearly there must be some Stellantis corporate policy that all sound systems top out at 38, no matter the brand, so I decided to ask why.

The initial answer: Good question, nobody’s ever asked that. But then some research revealed that about 20 years ago, Chrysler decided to try to find the perfect volume interval, one that would result in meaningful difference in sound level without going too far. After much experimentation, they decided that 38 discrete volume settings provided the perfect amount of adjustability—not too fine, not too coarse. So the decree went out across the company that all stereos should go to 38. Although we bet that if you knew the right guy to hack one, you might get that little bit of extra and go to 39.

MVP Equipment: My Tow Strap

At some point last winter, I started throwing my tow strap in whichever vehicle I was driving, just in case. And I ended up on both sides of it. One time I used a GMC Yukon AT4 to drag a Lexus RX300 out of a ditch at a ski area. Then, later that month, I hooked it from a 2022 Volkswagen GTI to our photographer’s Porsche Macan S to escape a snow-covered steep parking lot. Even in the balmier seasons, the strap has been used to rescue cars from the sneaky paved culvert that runs alongside a street near my house and can look like a regular shoulder at night. My point is: Get a tow strap and throw it in your car, even if your vehicle is more likely to be the towee. Because sooner or later, you’ll run across a Mustang freshly spun out into a field, sheepish kid standing alongside, and be able to lend a sympathetic pull back to pavement. And yes, that actually happened. The one time I didn’t have my tow strap!

The Defender Is the Brit Bronco

When I first drove the new Defender, I thought of it as a more sophisticated alternative to something like a Chevy Tahoe. And that’s true, but once I got my hands on the new Bronco, the similarities jumped out: industrial-chic interior, turbocharged four- or six-cylinder, decades of off-road pedigree. The prices overlap (on high-spec Broncos, anyway), and both offer two- and four-door versions.

If you’ve got the dough and don’t care about a convertible top, the Defender seems like a huge bargain—particularly when the aforementioned Tahoe can cost significantly more, depending on trim. The Bronco stole the spotlight, somehow leaving the Defender in the position of underrated great deal. Oh, and you can now get it with a supercharged V-8.

In 2021, I Drove a Car without Being in It

Thanks to Genesis’s remote parking assist, this was the year I got to drive a car by remote control. My first taste of the system came with a G80 and became the hit of neighbors’ driveways as I demonstrated the Amazing Car without a Driver. The idea is, if you need to park in a tight space (like the trash-can obstacle course I created for a GV70 in my driveway), you can line up the car, get out, and pull it forward using a button on the fob. To extricate the car, repeat. I never found a circumstance where I actually needed remote parking, but I nonetheless used it all the time, purely to show off. You get some great double takes in cities when people walking by on the sidewalk are suddenly jolted from their reveries by the realization that the car creeping along next to them has nobody at all inside it. Is this a fun parlor trick or chilling preview of a dystopian future? Probably both!

Trucks Got Small

I love the Ford Maverick and the Hyundai Santa Cruz. I used both of them to haul typical truck stuff (okay, a 1980s Tetris arcade game might not be a standard unit of cargo), and they both reinforced the notion that even a mid-size truck is overkill for a lot of people. In Ford’s case, the sales pitch is aimed at people who don’t even want a truck, which is brilliant—the Maverick might be half the truck of an F-150, but it’s 100 percent more truck than a Prius. Genius. Plus, the front-wheel-drive 250-hp version will apparently lay rubber from Dearborn to Chicago.

Minivans Are Back, in a Medium Way!

It’s not like every company makes a minivan anymore, so the four that do try really hard at it. There aren’t any bad ones, and a year into buying a Pacifica Hybrid Red S, I have no regrets. When the 2022 Kia Carnival showed up, I worried that its slick interior would give me a case of buyer’s remorse, but those optional executive thrones in the second row are better in photos than in real life.

For one thing, you can’t remove them, thus nullifying the van’s ability to transform into an all-weather cargo hauler. And you can’t get the Carnival as a plug-in or even (like the Toyota Sienna) as a hybrid. So I was relieved that although I liked the Carnival a lot—I’m sure it’ll rack up miles in a hurry as a C/D long-termer—I didn’t love it so much that I’d be forced to vacuum the Cheerios dust out of my Chrysler and haul it down to the trading block.

Cadillac Needs Names

Two of the best cars I drove in 2021 were the CT4-V Blackwing and CT5-V Blackwing, which easily won a comparison test against the Audi RS7 and BMW M5 Competition. The fellow who dropped off the CT4 described the driving experience as so natural and alive that “it’s like you sat down in the seat and your body grew four tires.” I told him I was stealing that line, and as you can see, I keep my word.

The challenge with both cars is explaining them to other people. What’s a CT4? What’s a CT5? So the V means it’s the fastest one? No? The V plus Blackwing, okay. So those are sedans? I know alphanumerics are rampant, but cars this charismatic deserve names! You’re telling me the resolutely average crossover known as the Chevy Blazer gets a great name, but a tightly wound sedan that actually needs its carbon-fiber dive planes gets a name like an ’80s personal computer? Cadillac obviously gets this, as evidenced by the fact that its hottest subbrand is no longer the letter V but an evocative word: Blackwing.

You know, Cadillac had a 1950s concept car called the Cyclone. Let’s bring that back! We can use CT4 as a model code, the way BMW people do with E46 and the like. Most people won’t know what that is. But they’ll know exactly what they’re looking at when you roll up in a Cadillac Cyclone Blackwing.

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