Nothing says Retrofuture more than the age-old dream of launching a flying car. The latest project to create a media buzz is being developed by former NASA engineers based in Massachusetts.
The Terrafugia Transition (a mouthful of a name it is) uses a tank of everyday unleaded fuel and, thanks to its fold-up wings, fits neatly into a typical suburban garage.
To combine an airplane and a car has been the dream of engineers for almost a century. These Jetson-like fantasy vehicles present engineering issues as well as FAA airspace obstacles. But if you’re a believer and you’re ready to buy into the dream this nifty looking “roadable light sport aircraft” is yours for the nice round sum of $200,000.
Terrafugia claims that twenty have been pre-ordered already. They hope to have the Transition out in 2010.
I have uploaded my old Firebird III dream car piece from 1999 which features the work of the great designer Harley Earl. The so-called “Dream Car” has a long and hallowed place in our collective imagination. It looks like we’re getting closer to an environmental “Dream Car.” If the 2e (pictured above) is any indication it will look less like a flying Batmobile and more like the Ansari X Prize winner SpaceShipOne.
Another 1999 Retrofuture original…the concept of pre-fab housing is making a comeback.
How strong was the Monsanto House of the Future? Let’s just put it this way—when it came time to be demolished, a wrecking ball bounced off its plastic exterior.
The popular and durable Disneyland exhibit—which resided at the foot of Tomorrowland from 1957 and 1968—was there to “demonstrate the architectural potentialities of plastic.”
That it did with flying colors. The Monsanto House was resilient—in fact, it was nearly indestructible. “Wrecking ball, blowtorches, chain saws, and jackhammers all failed” to bring it down, reports Professor Jeffrey L. Meikle in American Plastic: A Cultural History. In a last ditch effort, he writes, the demolition crew attached cables to the building’s plastic exterior and proceeded to shred it into pieces.
The final stand of the Monsanto House was further proof, if any more was needed, that plastic had “potentialities.” It was the stuff of miracles: flexible, affordable, lightweight, energy-efficient, and astoundingly durable.
So why didn’t the plastic house phenomenon catch on? Primarily because the construction industry viewed plastic homes as a threat to their very existence.
Prefabricated homes like Eliot Noyes’ 1964 “Wonder House” (see above) offered advantages that traditional homes could not match. Plastic, with its malleable qualities, could be industrially produced, mass-marketed, and sold cheap. For some, plastic homes seemed like the logical solution to a housing shortage.
But, by the eco-conscious 1970s, the public image of plastic began to plummet. “Like a sci-monster in a cheap horror flick,” writes Stephen Fenichell in Plastic: The Making of Synthetic Century, “plastic had metamorphosed in the contemporary environmental drama as the great Eco-Satan.”
The allure of prefabricated plastic homes began to fade until the early 1980s, when the idea was briefly revived by Bob Masters and Roy Mason and their Xanadu foam houses (pictured left).
Xanadu homes were fabricated by spraying a thick layer of polyurethane foam onto preexisting balloon-like forms. The result was both fanciful and futuristic looking.
Life compared Xanadu to “an Olympian soufflé or a giant mushroom with portholes.” The public was invited to tour the homes, which were stuffed with the latest electronic gadgetry.
Unfortunately, for the wizards of Xanadu, their colorful creations ended up being a kitschy roadside attraction, not a radical new way to construct housing.
Of the three Xanadu homes constructed, only the prototype in Kissimmee, Florida survives, and barely at that. The last reported plan was to turn the quirky shrine into a daycare center.
To date, the only successful mass-produced plastic buildings have been the “Radomes” created by Buckminster Fuller (of geodesic dome fame). Thousands of these fiberglass-reinforced polyester structures were built along the Arctic circle as early warning stations in case of a nuclear attack in the 1950s.
Fuller’s Radome (pictured left), like the Monsanto house before it, proved to be an incredibly durable structure, even in the harsh Arctic climate. According to author Stephen Fenichell, none of the Radomes ever collapsed or had to be replaced.
“These were…pup tents with the structural specs of the Pyramids,” writes Fenichell. “Plastic—in the form of polyester film—had conquered the elements.”
Here’s another Retrofuture original written back in 1999.
It’s July 10, 1962. Millions of people are watching television hoping to catch a glimpse of the first transmission from a tiny communications satellite called Telstar. Among those who are sitting glued to their TV sets is a British music producer named Joe Meek.
An avowed space buff, Meek watches with wonder as the first transmission is relayed and the first TV picture—an American flag—is beamed from space. The age of telecommunications has begun.
The next morning, he gives a call to the Tornadoes, a crack instrumental outfit popular on the British club circuit. They trek up to Meek’s studios at 304 Holloway Road in North London to give a listen to Meek’s latest stab at pop immortality. Although they are not immediately impressed by “Telstar,” they decided to give it a try anyway.
After the session is completed, the Tornadoes leave Meek’s studio and go back on the road. But Meek—a visionary producer with an abiding love for weird special effects—is far from done. He knows his ode to “Telstar” needs something extra. First, he overdubs the sound of a Clavioline, an electronic keyboard with an otherworldly sound.
And, finally, for extra effect, Meek adds the reverberation of a rocket lifting off (purportedly the sound of a flushed toilet played backwards).
In one frenzied burst, Meek creates a three-minute pop music masterpiece. Decca Records, hearing its potential, rushes the record out with the shortened title “Telstar” and, in short order, it vaults to number one on the British music charts. Eventually, it becomes the best-selling instrumental in the country’s history.
Overseas, “Telstar” is an international sensation. When the single climbs to number one in the U.S., the Tornadoes achieve the notable distinction of being the first British group to top the charts in America, a full year before the Beatles and the British Invasion.
Meanwhile Telstar, the satellite, is making quite an impression in space. The 170-pound experimental “bird,” created by AT&T’s Bell Labs and launched into elliptical orbit by NASA, is transmitting international phone calls, television programs, radio signals, and newspaper stories. When a Washington dignitary accidentally rings up a bewildered woman in Texas, the satellite makes news again: Telstar has sent the first wrong number through space.
Telstar is considered an unqualified success for AT&T. But then, without warning, the satellite falls silent. Radiation from a nuclear test back on Earth has destroyed Telstar’s delicate circuitry. The satellite that captured the world’s imagination is suddenly nothing more than a very expensive piece of space junk.
Not long after the satellite is damaged, Meek’s life, as if linked by fate, begins a long downward spiral. His obsessions with the occult and his sexual orientation make him an outcast in British society. An even-more devastating blow comes in the form of a frivolous lawsuit filed by a French composer who insists the melody to “Telstar” has been lifted by Meek.
Broken-hearted, disillusioned, and washed-up in the music industry, Meek takes his life in 1967.Despite the tragic ending, Meek’s stature as a producer and songwriter continues; in particular, his contributions to the recording process—pioneering experiments in compression and close-miking—are belatedly been recognized by his peers.
A whole new generation of listeners pick up on the quirky, atmospheric quality of the “Meeksville Sound.” Almost four decades after its release, “Telstar” is still one of the finest examples of instrumental rock ever created, evoking that brief moment in time when a telecommunications satellite could inspire a stirring anthem to the space-age.
To hear “Telstar” by the Tornadoes click on the video below.
It’s been almost ten years since I updated Retrofuture.com. It seems like a good time to relaunch the concept as a blog. The Retrofuture looks at fantastic plans from the past that never happened. Some of those plans are still be working on and, with the launching of this blog, I will attempt to update readers with recent developments.
My primary research into the topics I’m covering began in the mid-1990s In 1999, I began writing a series of columns for AOL’s “Countdown to the Millennium” called Retro Future (I will archive those old articles on this blog as things develop) in which I wrote about flying cars, jet packs, and other dreams of the imaginary year 2000.
I wrote 50 weekly installments of the series before the countdown clock began ticking down to those final seconds of 1999 and…and…
And nothing. January 1, 2000 arrived, the world did not end, computers worked and we moved on. It was just another year. Or so it seemed until a real Y2K crisis began in Florida. We all know the story after that.
The Retrofuture, to me, is a mindset. Optimistic at heart, it’s also cautionary, filled with the tales of irrational exuberance that lead to hubris. We’ve had a lot of hubris in the last eight years but not a lot of optimism. There’s a sense that dreaming of a better futures no longer seems so far-fetched. Let’s hope it’s a trend.