The logo is a frigging skull, and that about sums it up. In the annals of "Strangely appropriate music coming on the radio just after I start up a new car," the ZR1 takes top honors. It was like Christine, possessed, because as I rolled up an on-ramp in first gear, the radio began blasting Danzig's "Mother."
"Mother, tell your children not to walk my way..."
(Flooring the throttle. Black stripes unfurling in the rearview mirror, accompanied by the sound of wailing tires and straight-pipe exhaust thunder.)
"...Tell your children not to hear my words, what they mean, what they say."
(Between first and second, the exhaust valves close for a split second while the engine takes a breath, and then it's right back to God bowling a strike on your head. Into second gear with a big lurch from the rear end and more tortured rubber. How fast does this thing go in second? 90? Is that possible? Time to roll in third for a moment and take stock of this situation.)
"If you wanna find hell with me, I can show you what it's like, till you're bleeding."
(Flat on the throttle, rolling in third gear and the seat is still squeaking. You can only hear it because it's up near your ears, but your upper body is getting compressed back into the seat hard enough to compress the stuffing. Which is making the leather squeak. Slowing back down for the exit ramp, blipping the throttle and going down into second. You know what? It didn't need the throttle blip. You're only going 50 or 60. That's cake for second gear. So, with a healthy stab on the gas, the shifter slides down into first. At 45 mph, no problem. This doesn't feel like a supercharged engine. It feels more... nuclear.)
Ezra Dyer, Contributing Writer