Acura Needs to Rediscover Its Importance

From Road & Track

Blame it on the Koyama SHOTEN. I spent my early teen years in a central-Ohio neighborhood that was known as "Little Japan" because it served as a temporary home for all the home-market Honda executives who were getting the new Marysville Assembly Plant up and running. About half of my little brother's classmates were Japanese. In the afternoons, we'd visit their houses and play burgundy-cased Nintendo Famicoms while their mothers served us a variety of incomprehensible snacks on silver trays.

There were so many Japanese people in our two-square-mile subdivision that a bona-fide Japanese grocery store opened up there in 1984. Called "Koyama SHOTEN," it stocked a bewildering array of candy and toys. Some of those toys were cars. Although the store's owners were profoundly nervous about raucous six-foot-tall American children running around the aisles and buying random items, they treated us kindly and smiled when we bought the toys. And that's how I learned about the Honda Quint Integra, a badass sport-hatch with an exotic twin-cam engine and pop-up headlamps.

About a year later, our neighborhood gained an Acura dealership right next to the Honda one. They had two cars: the hot Integra and the cool Legend. It was obvious to me, even at the age of 14, that the idea behind Acura was to bring us Hondas that, for whatever reason, were too awesome for regular Honda dealerships. A succession of ever-more-amazing Integras and sculpted Legend Coupes did nothing to dismiss that impression.

Everybody knows what happened next. The Integras and Legends disappeared, replaced by a string of alphabet cars and SUVs that had most of the classic Honda virtues but which did not particularly stir the blood. Toyota's Lexus division, which upon its debut seemed almost criminally fuddy-duddy with its bland lineup of Mercedes-esque two-tone sedans, ended up eating Acura's lunch and then adding insult to injury by introducing some really neat sporting cars like the LF-A and RC-F.

A quick survey of any Acura dealership lot shows that the brand is definitely and thoroughly out of the "JDM" business. So what does the brand mean nowadays? To find out, I drove a new Acura TLX from the approximate vicinity of the Koyama SHOTEN all the way to Watkins Glen and back over the course of a long weekend.

I own a 2014 Honda Accord Coupe EX-L V6, which shares the TLX's platform, general proportions, and interior hard points. After 34,000 miles spent behind the Accord's wheel driving everywhere from New York City to the Putman Park racetrack west of Indianapolis, I know the car backward and forward. Much of this knowledge transfers seamlessly to the Acura sedan.

Although the TLX costs a few grand more than my Accord, it's powered by the direct-injection 2.4-liter four that, in a slightly less tuned form, powers entry-level Accords. The primary powertrain difference is that you get an 8-speed DCT in the TLX against a prosaic CVT in the Honda-branded car. It's a worthwhile upgrade; a 2.4-liter TLX feels much faster and more alive than a CVT Accord. Of course, you can get the V6 from my Honda in a TLX, and you can get it with AWD, which can't be had in any Honda-badged sedan at any price. What you can't get, however, is the manual transmission that can be had in both four-cylinder and V6 Accords. For those of us who remember Acura as the "sporty Honda," that's a real let down.

Some of the "Acuraishness" in the TLX makes little or no sense. The simple and easy-to-use mechanical trunk and fuel-door releases in the Accord are replaced by two hard-to-find small electronic buttons tucked under the dash. The Bluetooth and phone control system is basically the same thing you get in the Accord, but it has a few more menus and is more annoying to use. It also buzzes when you touch it. The center console offers a nicer cover but less storage space. The climate-control vents have separate flow regulator knobs but are a little smaller in consequence. The heated seats and temperature control have to be done through the infotainment screen instead of with simple, dedicated buttons.

The TLX looks different from the Accord, but I'm not sure it looks any better or worse. This is differentiation for its own sake, from the same mindset that gave us Monte Carlo and Cutlass Supreme variants of the General Motors A-body coupe. It also costs money; some percentage of the TLX's additional sticker price no doubt goes to the expense of stamping different body panels. An Accord with all of the TLX's features would cost less and deliver the same experience.

On the highway, the TLX is quieter than the Accord, and it has one absolutely killer feature: the brilliant sound system with the ability to place a center stereo image directly in front of both front-seat occupants. I'd pay somewhere between one thousand and one zillion dollars for this feature in my Accord; it has to be heard to be believed. I'd say that the stereo system, the dual-clutch transmission, and the LED headlamps are the primary upgrades from Honda to Acura.

During the long night drive through Pennsylvania and western New York, I came to have a genuine fondness for the TLX. The fuel economy was a commendable 33.5 mpg on the open road. The lane-keeping auto-steering system, which I'd initially dismissed as a repugnant imitation of the "autopilot" features entering high-end sedans, is actually brilliant at reducing fatigue and keeping you alert. You keep your hand lightly on the wheel and your attention forward. All of those constant small steering motions that you perform to stay in the center of a winding freeway lane are handled by the car. It really makes a difference. As of this year, it's also available on the Accord in conjunction with laser cruise control.

In many ways, the TLX really is a modern Cutlass Supreme sedan. It's recognizably upscale yet bland. It swallows freeway miles and seats four in reasonable comfort. (In this case, our "four" was three people and my Rainsong carbon-fiber acoustic guitar.) It has all the features you could want and a few you probably don't need. I'm sure it will be flawlessly reliable; if it's not, the warranty is slightly longer than the ridiculous and anachronistic 36/36,000 Honda guarantee.

The problem is this: I can't remember what it looks like, even though I just got out of it 72 hours ago. I can't remember the exterior, can't remember the interior without reference to a photograph. The TLX exists in my mind like the Predator aliens: There's a vague shape that blurs the background like hot air rising, but no well-defined features. I could sit down right now and draw you a 1986 Integra right down to the goofy stickers on the sides, but I can't really hold the TLX in my head. It's slippery.

I'm told by the people who know about these things that Acura truly exists nowadays to sell the crossovers, the MDX and the RDX. They do huge volume, and they're very profitable, and they have outstanding customer retention. The sedans are an afterthought. The coupes and hatches don't exist at all, with the exception of the new NSX. The days when Acura was the enthusiast's Honda, the Honda for the cognoscenti? They're as dead as the ain't-braggin'-if-it's-true Legend nameplate.

As an owner of one Honda car and three Honda motorcycles, I'd like to own an Acura that stood in relation to current Hondas the way the original Acuras stood in relation to their contemporaries. Maybe a TLX with a higher-revving variant on the V6, some serious suspension tuning, and some authentic JDM wackiness. Put some decals on it. Give me the impression that it's straight outta Roppongi. I'll pay extra. I want that stereo. But it has to be installed in a car that feels as special as the stereo it contains.

Last week, I drove my Accord by the Koyama SHOTEN. I had my son with me, and I thought it would be fun to let him prowl through the aisles the way I did some 30 years ago. But it's gone. Closed. There aren't enough Japanese people left in the old neighborhood. The Honda plant is mostly run by native Ohioans now. Honda is a very American company nowadays. Maybe that's part of the problem. Or maybe it just means there's room for the next Acuras to be different in a completely new and totally American way. That, too, would be just fine with me.

Born in Brooklyn but banished to Ohio, Jack Baruth has won races on four different kinds of bicycles and in seven different kinds of cars. Everything he writes should probably come with a trigger warning. His column, Avoidable Contact, runs twice a week.