One of Five. Our story begins with a very original car from Monaco. Some years ago I was commissioned to write a jingle for a German TV commercial for, er, dried noodles. Hey, listen, it pays the mortgage. When I asked for the lyrics, I was invited to write my own – in English. Wide-eyed and quizzical, I was assured by the Director that anything sung in English – the footie results, Health and Safety Regulations, even a John Prescott speech – sounds sexy to German ears.

It’s true that a bit of ‘furren’ can often make the mundane sound mellifluous. Take ‘Maserati Four Doors’, for instance: funky in Frankfurt perhaps, but soulless in Solihull. ‘Quattroporte’, on the other hand, has that exotic ring to it. And if ever a dynasty of cars deserved a resonant moniker it’s these mighty Masers. They’ve always held a particular fascination for me, so a recent opportunity to drive and compare all five incarnations was a rare treat. Let’s start at the very beginning…

It was the enthusiasm with which its ultra-exclusive 5000GT (just 34 built between 1959 and 1966) was greeted in plutocratic circles that got Maserati thinking about something similar for larger-scale production. The four-door proposal polarised opinion in the Modena boardroom from the start. In the early ’60s, large ultra-high performance saloons, common as they are today, barely existed. The gargantuan Facel Vega Excellence struggled to survive, and the lukewarm reception accorded Aston Martin’s DB4-engined Lagonda Rapide in 1961 didn’t bode well for the genre either. Maserati’s decision to follow in their footsteps was therefore a brave one, taken only after some very frank exchanges of views.

Technical Director Ing Giulio Alfieri was the father of the Quattroporte. His ambitious design incorporated a steel monocoque and De Dion rear suspension, but he felt that the 5000GT’s racer-sharp engine needed ‘softening’ for this higher-volume application. The radical, gear-driven camshafts – four of them – of the 450S-based V8 had already given way to more conventional chain drive in the later 5000GTs, but four Weber carbs now replaced Lucas fuel-injection and reductions to both bore and stroke brought capacity down to 4136cc. A ZF five-speed manual box was standard, with a Borg Warner automatic option.

Bodywork was entrusted to Pietro Frua, who revisited his 1962 rendition of the 5000GT, built for the Aga Khan. Their exquisite front ends are almost identical, but the longer QP is a lot bulkier towards the back. The car finally emerged at the 1963 Turin Show, and epithets such as ‘the world’s fastest saloon’ and ‘the Italian Rolls-Royce’ swiftly followed. With 260bhp at its disposal the QP1 was light years quicker than any contemporary Roller (and dearer in the UK, as well). Not even Jaguar had an answer – the new mega-Maser was truly the M-badged BMW, Audi RS or AMG Merc of its day. Only some of Motown’s wilder concoctions could transport five people at remotely comparable speeds and… well, you wouldn’t, would you? In November 1965 the second series was introduced, identifiable by its twin headlights (to comply with US regulations). More significantly, the De Dion rear end was replaced by leaf springs – notionally, to improve ride quality and noise levels – and the previously rather austere interior sprouted acres of Rolls-style woodwork. In 1968 the Mexico’s 4719cc engine became an option, offering an additional 30bhp and 150mph. Production ended the following year, after around 770 examples had been built (Italian statistics being what they are, the usual caveats apply here). Five years would elapse before a replacement appeared – a very different machine bearing all the hallmarks of new proprietors, Citroën.

The list of celebrities who succumbed to the QP1’s charms is impressive, a particularly besotted Sir Peter Ustinov still using his right up to his death in 2004. This gold example, a manual 4.1-litre from 1964, has been in the same family since new, the present owner’s uncle having bought it straight off the Geneva Show stand that year.
 

It has spent most of its life in Monaco (to where it has since returned) and for 20 years stood largely neglected in a Monagasque car park, before being re-commissioned in 2004 by Bill McGrath Maserati. But it has never been restored and oozes originality – paintwork, leather, the lot.

In fact, it’s a real time-warp interior. It wouldn’t win many prizes at Pebble Beach, but it’s all the better for it. The driver’s seat is a bit low and doesn’t offer much lateral support, but it’s comfy – like your favourite old armchair. Behind, there’s more than enough legroom for my average frame, and behind that a boot capacious enough for all the Gucci luggage your wife could ever fill.

The QP shared its Turin debut with the two-seater Mistral, and the fascia and controls are similar to my early Spyder, and were instantly familiar. All the usual dials are present and correct, including a 300km/h speedo and a rev-counter red-lined at a modest 5000rpm. In the centre of the dash, seven identical toggle switches do this and that. They’re identified only by emblems that are hard to interpret at a glance, but one of them affords you the pleasure of watching the fuel gauge needle go up when you switch between the twin 45-litre fuel tanks. Keeping that V8 on the boil reverses the process… Other nice touches are the little winding handles for the quarterlights and a period Autovox radio.

It’s surplus to requirements, though, that last item – once you start the engine. You can forget the ‘Italian Rolls’ bit – this V8 bellows ‘Maserati’ at you, with feeling. Utterly belying the car’s dignified, foursquare appearance, its beguiling growl is always present. It’s too intrusive for Roller Man, without a doubt, but I wouldn’t tire of its company on a quick transcontinental trek.

And it pulls the old thing along with aplomb. The power band is linear, and strong all the way from around 1500rpm to the 5k limit. The performance isn’t eye-popping by today’s standards, but it’s far more than adequate. Accessing it, too, is easy, thanks to the electric-switch precision of the ZF gearchange – also shared with the Mistral, and again reassuringly familiar.

Your feet have an equally easy time, with a light clutch and a highly efficient brake pedal ideally located for toe-heeling. Whether the likes of Leonid Breznev or Prince Rainier (two more A-list QP owners) availed themselves of this particular appurtenance is questionable. As is so often the case, it is the (unassisted) steering which betrays this 42-year-old’s age. Round the twisty bits, you’re twirling that lovely Bakelite-rimmed Personal wheel a fair bit. Typical of the period, there’s considerable free play around the straight-ahead position and an exponential weighting-up as you apply lock.

That initial vagueness tends to exaggerate the understeer, which you expect, but which in truth is quite mild. In fact, the QP changes direction with surprising agility for a car 16ft 4in long and weighing well over a ton-and-a-half. The big V8 sits well back, behind the front axle centre-line, which contributes to the sense of balance and to surprisingly neutral handling. Overall, it feels extraordinarily modern, with finely-judged damping and plenty of grip from the slightly lower-profile-than-standard Pirellis.

Pushing a bit harder increases roll angles considerably, but then given its age and architecture you’d hardly expect otherwise. It’s still well ‘planted’, and never once did I feel the tail threatening to cut loose. In fact, you really would have to be some kind of nut to get it seriously out of shape – on the road, anyway – and a pretty sharp pedaller to get it back intact if you did. There’s no downside in terms of the ride either, which, while perhaps not as cossetting as a Royce, is still far better than acceptable. A comparison with a second-series live axle car would be interesting here.

Someone forgot to tell this original Quattroporte, the ‘paterfamilias’, what its role in life was intended to be. But then Maserati could only ever be true to its instincts, and play to its strengths. The result was a sportscar masquerading as a limo, a benchmark in the history of the serious sports saloon, and an absolute hoot to boot – in any language.

Words by Simon Park / Photography by Michael Ward