Issue 17
Psychobilly Cadillac
Running A Few Errands In The Purple People Eater
Photography: Larry Mills
CAR: 1929 Ford Model A Coupe
OWNER: Marky Idzardi
BUILDER: Marky Idzardi and The Shifters C.C., Orange County, CA
In the Nineties, the sleepy hot rod world was having a hard time keeping its eyes open after having been given a glass of warm milk and the “Rhythmeen” album. Things were all denim shorts and slouchy socks. Boyds directionals and painted bumpers. Hot rods were air-conditioned, tweed-clad parking lot idlers that you happily paid twelve bucks to get through the fairgrounds gate to see and then go, “Yup, same as last year. Hey, I think I see the Bricker’s french fries trailer on the other side of that peach ’34 – no, the other peach ’34!”
Meanwhile, in Southern California, the kids were waking up, leaving the old guys to snooze, and sneaking out to the garage to wrench on the dilapidated roadsters and coupes they’d rescued. They didn’t have the cash or desire to watch their cars being built in some industrial complex shop, but they had alot of energy and interest in interpreting what those snoozing old dudes had done some fifty years prior. And they’d just started a revolution by doing it.
Mark Idzardi, member of The Shifters car club deep behind the Orange Curtain, gave all those dozing geezers a swift kick in the juevos with his Purple People Eater: a 1930-31 Model A-bodied, Altered-inspired, Roth-spirited, CARtoons-brought-to-life, white smoke-breathing, mommy’s-little-monster. It was early in the new millenium when Rick Amado shot the PPE for the cover of Rod & Custom magazine and suddenly brought the well-hung little coupe into the spotlight – making folks drop their time-out dolls and crap their flame-licked shorts all over the world. Not in decades had a single car incited such a riot and (as it turns out) hot rod culture was back.
Look, The Shifters are arguably the most well-covered car club in recent car culture history. And Marky’s Purple People Eater is probably one of the most well-known cars of our genre. But here’s the thing: not many have ever seen it move under its own power. After 8+ years, folks still question whether it actually runs any more than the pastel heartbeat-striped geezer-mobiles it killed off years ago. And the same nay-sayers still rally with as much fervor as Rick and Co. had once experienced over at the old EMAP USA offices. But ask Marky and his brother Alex how much they care. While they love the controversy, they’re far too busy not only running the PPE, but also building more generation-defining cars.
We caught up with the brothers Idzardi on a typical day for them – working on their cars and running errands. Y’know, just like you and me. Well, kinda.
At A Glance
You’d think a car like the PPE would be kept in some secret clubhouse, but not so – Marky keeps his project at home in his garage, just like you do. He puts it up on jackstands and breaks shit and gets dirty, just like you do. So, when we pulled up to his suburban rancher in the morning – prepared to go grocery-gettin,’ Marky was still slathering the Murray’s through his hair and getting ready to roll the little guy out into the sunlight.
For such a large personality, it’s amazing how small the car really is. Well, it’s more accurate to say ‘low.’ The Pontiac mill, already hoisted up Altered-style so that its pan doesn’t even come close to breaching the framerails’ bottoms, looks that much larger-than-life with the 6-71 roots-type blower and eight 2-barrel carbs perched above its deck. Yeah, the body is deeply channeled and chopped – this car was one of the first to sport such radical proportions – but the PPE takes engine/body relationship to an entirely new level. Or, now that we think about it, a really old level.
We rolled the Purple Eater out into the sun to fuel it up. As Marky dipped into his C12 stash, it became obvious how serious of a motor this thing really is. Not that we needed to be convinced. But while the 3.5 gallon Moon tank quickly chugged down as much race fuel as it could, we deduced that the grocery store must be really close by.
With the tank and the wallets fueled up, Marky mentioned that he had a list of shit to do and, while we were welcome to come along, we’d better know that we’d have to hold shopping bags on our laps since we’d be hogging up valuable storage space in the passenger compartment. No problem. It was better than cruising a minivan and, by the looks of Marky and Axle, we were guessing that we weren’t going to be subjected to Costco or Old Navy (‘specially since they were all liberated of those bitchin’ Chevy pickups).
The only thing we were left to figure out was how to get in – and then out of – the dang thing.
On The Road
First thing: this car was not built to sit in traffic. And Marky didn’t have visions of drive-thru glory while he was cranking down a tensioner pulley or plumbing the 8-port log. But, what he did intend for this car was to get from Point A to Points B through G very, very, quickly. And loudly. And, let’s face it: since we’re dudes, we’re going to attack a few errands on a full belly. There’s just no sense going to parking lot battle without a few Sourdough Ultimate Cheeseburgers and a large Seasoned Curlies. So, it was off to the Jack In The Box drive-thru.
The squawk-box at any drive-thru can be a hassle: As the members of Tenacious D or Sugar Ray will attest, a #3 with no cheese can turn into a 3-taco combo with a nut brownie in the time it takes to get from the menu board to the Second Window. Marky built this ’56 Pontiac 316 c.i.d. with the quarter-mile track in mind, but the pig already knew what it was put on earth to do – it had spent a few years in the early Sixties motivating a record-holding blown/gas dragster at the Riverside dragstrip to a 149 mph top E.T.. But it’s been punched out to a block-melting 450 cubic inches and the cam lope, as we sat idling at the menu board towering over us, allowed Marky to only yell out a single item between huffs of the beast obstructing the view through the narrow windshield. This sure beat the hell out of bunny-hopping our Hutches and PK Rippers on the trip pad as memorable drive-thru shenanigans.
Getting the cash to Jesus at Window #1 wasn’t a problem, but here’s the first complaint lodged toward the Purple People Eater: the 7” chop doesn’t allow a large Oreo© Cookie Ice Cream Shake to be drawn through the driver’s window lid skyward. So, Marky had to tilt the damn thing over and we lost a few precious ounces of chocolate-flecked goodness through the leak in the lid. Hey – that’s nothing to laugh at, folks.
As we pulled over to the “Drive-Thru Wait Lane” so Marky could fill the Moon tank (emptied that bitch out in the first two miles of our day) for the second time, it became suddenly obvious that this thing had no cupholders. Something to think about as far as finishing touches, Marky – we’re just sayin’…
In The Cockpit
One of the great personality traits of the PPE is that it never lets you forget you’re in a dragster. Just the motions Marky has to go through to put the thing in gear and the quickly-following forward lurch as he lets loose on the clutch makes you feel like your constantly staging at Grudge Night at the local track. And really – you wouldn’t want it any other way. There’s not supposed to be a comfortable conversation allowed to take place in the cockpit. Your heels are supposed to feel like they’re being burnt right through the waffle sole of your Vans as they rest on the bare floorboards. Your shirt is supposed to be soaked with the sweet, sweet smell of spent race fuel and boiling engine fluids. There’s nothing easy about driving this car or comfortable about riding shotgun. But that’s all replaced with the magic of watching progressive linkage move the way its supposed to and the engine jerk the car to the side as Marky pushes the pedal down and moves through the gears. Ain’t a whole lot to see through the mere few inches of windshield, but when it’s mostly the back of a blower case, all is right with the world.
Speaking of which, there are few things righter than spending a few bucks at a Southern California car wash, and that was exactly the next thing on the to-do list. Now, the idea of the car wash has taken a whole different direction in California: gone are the days of the fully-automatic deal that would scare the shit out of your little sister or the do-it-yourself that you never had enough coinage to get through a final rinse in. Here, there are no fewer than 36 guys with matching blue shirts and various towels and squirt bottles who won’t let you near your own car till you’ve paid your $15.00. But the Purple People Eater ain’t even close to anything this crew has ever seen, much less driven, so, after filling the tank with another three gallons of C12, Marky was pretty sure he’d make it through the unmanned portion of the car wash to the waiting smiles at the sunny end of the tunnel. Turns out, the guys in the blue shirts had such a great time spritzing the valve covers and carb tops with Final Inspection that one of them gave Marky his white, leather belt buckle in appreciation. It was bitchin’ – it even had a gold longhorn on the front.
To The Clipboard
The car was clean, a little Westley’s Bleche Wite on the wide whites, Marky chose the Banana Breeze air fresh’ner spray and we were off to our final stop – the grocery store – for a pack of corndogs, a sixer of Yoo-Hoo and a Cosmo.
Overall, the Purple People Eater lived up to its hype: a wild ride that starts by just trying to get in the damn thing. In true Altered style, it’s a lightweight deal by nature – the heaviest and most prominent feature being the nostalgic Poncho perched high and mighty above all else (in the interest of weight transfer upon launch). The spindle-mount, magnesium American Racing 12-spoke frontrunners, being historically correct, feature no front braking capability at all. Which provide for some powerful and bona-fide smokey burnouts. As we pulled into the parking lot of the Von’s and filling the Moon tank once more, Marky thought it’d be a good idea to give the baggers unlucky enough to get stuck with stray cart duty a little something to smile about. A knowing “Fight Club” nod exchanged between the two and we were guaranteed a watchful eye on the car while we shopped.
The Purple People Eater is a showstopper and it’s a mindbender and a genre-definer. And while it may not be the most practical thing for running across town with a list of shit to do in your back pocket, it definitely leaves an impression wherever it may roam. And that, friends, was one of the driving forces behind the car in the first place. “Marky’s been drawing that car since he was a little kid,” recalls Axle, “and it was only a matter of time till he got it out of his head and onto the street.”
The little coupe with a huge, throbbing heart muscle overheats easily. It runs out of gas frequently. Hell, its gas costs more than $7.00 a gallon. Its whitewall slicks are hell on wet streets. It’s got no front braking ability, whatsoever. The interior is cramped, the visibility is poor, it’s a bitch to parallel park and there just don’t seem to be any taillights or license plate light. There doesn’t seem to be any license plate at all, actually. On top of all that, it has the uncanny ability to set off every single car alarm it can find with its straight pipes that point directly at each car they pass. And the best thing is, Marky wouldn’t change one thing about it. The Purple People Eater is, more than anything, a line drawn in the sand. Stay on the safe side of it and you’ll never understand why Marky breathed Frankensteinian life into it. Take a deep breath, grab your nuts, step across it and you’ll stand on the bedrock of the movement that saved hotrodding.
Specs Box
CAR: 1930-31 Ford Model A Coupe
OWNER: Marky Idzardi
BUILDER: The Idzardi Brothers and The Shifters Car Club, Orange County, CA
POMADE: Murray’s Superior Products Co.
ENGINE: 1956 Pontiac 316 c.i.d. (bored over to 450 c.i.d.)
CRANKSHAFT: CT Stroker
RODS: First-production Mickey Thompson aluminum
RADIATOR: Couldn’t find one
TRANSMISSION: 2-Speed Powerglide w/4,000 stall converter by Mojave Green Converters
CHASSIS: Ford Model A
REAR: ’57 Pontiac w/horizontally-mounted coil-overs
FRONT END: Reversed-eye leafspring, drilled I-beam axle
LAUGHING GUY AT DMV: Brent Thermer
WHEELS: Vintage American Racing 5-spokes and 12-spoke spindle-mounts
PINSTRIPING: Makoto
BRAKES: No evidence of brakes at all from the cockpit
BLENDED BEVERAGE TECHNICIAN: Pancha Ruiz
PAINT: House Of Kolor Purple basecoat
PANTS: Dickies® Traditional 874™ Work Pant
AIR CONDITIONING: Sweet Jesus
UPHOLSTERY: Didn’t notice anything past the 12-point rollcage
STEREO: Huh?
ANTENNA BALL: Jack In The Box, Inc.®
OLDER BROTHER BEATINGS ADMINISTRATOR: Alex Idzardi
