December 9, 2007
Subaru Impreza 2.5 WRX
For an axe murderer, it’s a big softie

Jeremy Clarkson

Most people know the barebones history of rock’n’roll – some black men sang the blues but no one in white America would buy their music because it was the 1950s and, well, that sort of thing didn’t happen.

Eventually, though, the music made it to England, where the misery of it struck a chord with working-class lads. Bands such as the Animals and the Rolling Stones copied it, and they did succeed in America, because, bluntly, Mick Jagger is white.

The thing is, though, I’ve never been able to see the link. I’ve listened to those crackly blues records from Memphis and I’ve listened to Jumpin’ Jack Flash and they appear to have nothing in common. Genetically, they seem as distant from each other as the sausage dog and the Magimix.

But the other night, while listening to a Radio 2 show, I heard a song from 1956 called Smokestack Lightning, and the DJs explained how you could hear the genesis of the Stones in there. They were right – you could. For me, this was a revelation.

And then they started talking about famous fathers and sons who have appeared in bands together. Which is exactly the sort of trivial nonsense I adore. And then they played Sylvia by Focus and I began to think that I’d discovered a radio show designed exclusively for me. It was brilliant – so brilliant that I deliberately got lost so that I could hear more.

It’s hosted by two chaps called Stuart Maconie and Mark Radcliffe, and because they have exactly the same Lancashire accent and exactly the same views on everything, you’ll think – as I did at first – that it’s actually hosted by one man talking to himself. No matter. Their knowledge of music is astonishing. I thought I was the only person alive who could name the guitarist with Focus but they actually know where he was born, where he went to school and, I shouldn’t be surprised, what position his mother was in when he was conceived.

But these guys aren’t anoraks – they are way beyond that. They are the people to whom people who make anoraks go to buy their anoraks. And they serve as a hugely useful introduction to this morning’s sermon: the ongoing battle between the Subaru Impreza and the Mitsubishi Evo.

To normal people, who see cars as wheels, seats and expense, they are exactly the same, built in Japan as road-going versions of rally cars. To the untrained eye, they are indistinguishable one from the other. They are Ant and Dec, or, if you prefer, Maconie and Radcliffe.

They both have 2 litre turbocharged engines. They both have four-wheel drive and they are the same sort of size. Each is a family car with the heart and mind of an axe murderer. But to the trained eye they are not the same at all. To an anorak they really are chalk and cheese. They are Bad Company and Gareth Gates.

Last week, while plugging my new DVD on a morning TV show, I was approached by a young girl with earphones and a clipboard. Externally, she was much the same as any other behind-the-scenes girl in modern television. But she began, immediately, by telling me she had an Impreza . . . and I knew it wasn’t going to stop there.

“It’s the WRX STi RB5 two-door, PLS, SST . . .” she said for about half an hour. After which she still wasn’t finished: “994, PSP, Wii, LTD,” she continued. And on, and on . . . And that was before she even got to her boyfriend’s Subaru, which led to another two hours of initials and numbers.

This is the thing with Subaru ownership: every last detail matters. Every tiny piece of the water-injection jigsaw is more important than your child’s next breath. You don’t own a car like this, you are assimilated by it. You become one.

With men I find this tiresome. But with girls I find it very sexy. So as this girl rabbited on with ever more initials and numbers, I was overwhelmed by a need to introduce her to a friend of mine who has a Mitsubishi Evo 9. This is the only girl in the world who put a topless photograph of herself on her Facebook page. I would love to see them argue about which is the better car. With a bit of luck, it might even end up in a fight.

I’m not going to say one is better than the other, because if I do, fans of the losing side will come to my house with crosses, petrol and much rage. But as an impartial observer I will say this: the Mitsubishi has always been the better to drive; the Subaru has always been the better to live with on a daily basis.

And that brings us on to the new Subaru Impreza WRX. In petrol-land this is one of the most important cars ever. Imagine a band comprising Mick Jagger, Jimmy Page, Eric Clapton, Phil Collins and bits of Radiohead. That’s what this car is like to petrolheads. A pivotal, must-have moment of a car. Like its predecessor it has a turbocharged engine, 227bhp on tap and four-wheel drive. But unlike its predecessor, it has a 2.5 litre engine and a hatchback body, and it’s no longer bland to behold. Instead it’s wilfully ugly.

I honestly began to imagine that it had been designed in a game of consequences: “You do the back, then fold the paper over. I’ll do the middle and we’ll get that drunk bloke to do the front.” It’s a hopeless mishmash that gets even worse when you step inside. This is a £20,000 car, and for that price you get a heater and . . . that’s about it. Honestly, I was amazed when I found it had dipping headlamps. An Aga has more buttons than this. And as a result, anyone who just wants a “nice hot hatch” will instead opt for a Golf GTI.

The Subaru enthusiast, however, will see the lack of equipment as a good thing. Equipment is weight. Weight blunts acceleration. Weight is bad.

Hmmm. This is undoubtedly true, but from the moment you set off you realise this is not set up to be a Lotus Elise with a hatchback. It is super-soft. Much softer than its predecessor. Much softer than a duck-down duvet. It glides like a Citro�n.

Then there’s the noise. Or rather there isn’t. The flat-four engine just hums away quietly to itself and, if anything, sounds rather exasperated if you weld your foot to the floor and head for the rev-counter red zone.

And if you do head for the red zone, you will find that the natural tendency is for understeer. It was ever thus in an Impreza: it was one of the things that made it a more rewarding day-to-day companion than the furious and twitchy Evo. But in the new car the understeer arrives too early, and then you fall out of the seat. No, really. There are kitchen chairs with noticeably more side support.

This car is called Subaru Impreza, which makes you think it will be a bare-knuckle attack dog. But in fact you get a soft and rather elderly labrador.

Oh it’s still pretty quick: 0-62mph is dealt with in 6.5sec and the top speed is lots. But because of the understeer, the soft ride and the kitchen chairs, you never feel inclined to go for it. There’s no sense at all that you’re in a road-going rally car. It doesn’t even have a six-speed box.

Of course, being a Subaru, it will be beautifully made, and it really is extremely comfortable, and quiet. But anyone drawn to these qualities will immediately be put off by the looks and the starter-handle-and-trafficator equipment levels. It is, in short, a car that appeals to no one.

My friend with the clipboard and headphones was talking about it as though God himself had gone over to the dark side. “What am I to do?” she wailed, as I imagined her naked with my friend Camilla in a big box of mud.

It’s a good point. If you are a Subaru fan, what are you to do? Sure, there is a 300bhp STi version of the WRX in the pipeline, and this will be harder and more focused. But it’s no looker either, and the fact of the matter is this: the next Evo, the 10, is. The battle, then, between the Impreza and the Evo – it just got one-sided.

Rating: TWO stars out of five.