The Posterless Child: Lamborghini Countach
Whoever was making Countach posters in the early ‘80s must have made millions of dollars. Every time someone brings up the Countach they start by waxing poetically about a poster on a wall. I must be the only car enthusiast in the world who never had such a poster, but then again, I was born in 1984, and by the time my last diaper met the trash, the Countach was relegated to history.
What does a poster signify anyway? None of the posters I had on my wall were of cars that I desired in any particular way. It’s not like I amassed posters of every car I wanted to own in the future and then started mentally checking them off once I was old enough to drive and buy those cars. Posters, whether they’re of cars, people or anything else, come to represent a life. For that fleeting moment when all those boys (and maybe some girls) glanced up at their two-dimensional Countach, they were transported to the backstage at a rock concert, the casino in Monte Carlo or a night out in the clubs of Miami.
There must be some crazy Countach statistic that nobody has uncovered (or maybe would rather not uncover) about how much cocaine, hair spray, or fur coats have graced the atmosphere inside the car. The earliest Countachs even had a little glass window on the roof, presumably so the people driving behind you could see the work of your barber as you haul your groupies off to the hotel after playing a crazy gig.
Finally, there are the doors, best described by the name itself, “Countach!”, a Piedmontese exclamation of something astonishing or attention-grabbing.