Opinion: Let's remember the Commodore for its triumphs

LIKE Conan the Barbarian, the Commodore died three times: Once when it was announced back in 2013 that Holden was going to cease manufacturing, once early in 2017 when they put a firm date on it; and most cruelly of all, now.

Sure, the Commodore nameplate will live on, but it’s just not the same, in exactly the same way that The Commodores may still have the same name, but without Lionel Richie they are, at most, just two times a lady.

The 2018 ZB Commodore may well be a very good car, but no matter how closely you sniff the upholstery, you won’t be able to detect the phantom traces of meat pies from the Adelaide Oval kiosk. Although I do take some comfort knowing the ZB will be assembled in Russellsheim – if you had to pick one place in Germany to make Commodores, it would be the one named after some bloke called Russell.

And then, suddenly, it turned out we couldn’t – not without government assistance – and so a piece of our identity died alongside the chance to buy a ute and haul 1200 litres of air around at 180km/h.

And so here we are, dearly beloved, gathered today to pay tribute to the Commodore, as the tools fall silent at the Elizabeth plant. (Oh, and the Camry plant in Altona too. But that one has made less of an impact on the national psyche. The death of the Camry is like the chauffeur who died alongside Princess Diana – just as tragic, really, but Elton John didn’t write a song about it.)

In reality, it should be a lot more like a rowdy New York Irish wake, where everyone gets drunk and laughs until they spit black-and-tan out their noses retelling the story about how the dear departed lost his pants and had to run six blocks home wrapped in paper towels.

I’ll always think of Melbourne’s Commodore design labs like Wonka’s chocolate factory, a wondrous dream-forge powered by giggling enthusiasm and rivers of obnoxious Spitfire Green paint. I’ll always remember the Commodore, not by its sales figures or its P&L spreadsheets, but by the cheek-cramping grin it could give you firing up an LS3 V8 on a cold morning, or by the date-tightening surge it delivered when you kicked it in the ribs.

Let’s remember the locally built Commodore the way it should be remembered: Not how it went out, but how it lived, tearing up the Mountain with Brocky’s mullet flowing majestically behind, or blowing plumes of tyre smoke to celebrate generations of Aussies getting their P-plates and their first used car. The Commodore is dead. Long live the Commodore. Oh, and the Camry, I suppose.