It could only have happened in America. The 1969 Chevrolet Kingswood Estate shared a silhouette with the rest of Chevrolet's full-sized station wagon offerings, but the differences were there if you knew what you were looking for. The faux-wood side paneling distinguished it from the three lower trim levels of Kingswood, Townsman, and Brookwood, as did the optional hideaway headlamps. The interior was the same family-functional layout found in the more affordable cars, but the materials and equipment were subtly better. Finally, there was a small crossed-flag badge on the front fenders denoting Kingswood Estates equipped with one of the two optional 427-cubic-inch big-block engines.

Chevrolet

Together with its competition, the Ford County Squire, the Kingswood Estate represented a particularly American idea: A fully-equipped, nontrivially expensive family vehicle with no pretensions to prestige whatsoever. Chrysler had the Town & Country wagon, but that was a luxury car with a third row, owned and operated by celebrities like John Lennon. The Kingswood was for the Martha's Vineyard crowd and the California gentleman farmers, a luxurious and powerful but ostentation-free vehicle driven by people who could be seen in a Chevrolet because their social position was utterly beyond question.

Chevrolet

In the decades that followed, the Kingswood's social position would be largely assumed by wagons from Volvo, Saab, and even Mercedes-Benz, but the idea of a big American three-row vehicle without the unpleasant whiff of social climbing continued to be popular—think of the families that bought Grand Wagoneers for duty on "the island" or the farm. When GM brought out the GMT400-based Suburban in 1992, it proved ideally suited for that role. Ever since then, the big 'Burb has been a fixture of old-money communities on both coasts, always sporting a thick coat of devil-may-care dust and a full complement of scratches from the active deployment of kayaks, mountain bikes, and other sporting equipment.

It has long been an article of industry-insider faith that the demographics for GMC's Yukon Denali were actually a little bit more impressive than the equivalent statistics for the Escalade, which makes sense because while the Denali is not exactly "stealth wealth" it is a little lower-profile than the big, brash SUV from Cadillac. I suspect, however, that a truly in-depth investigation would show that Suburban LTZ/Premier demographics are skewed even harder towards the kind of people who are, shall we say, free from financial anxiety.

For 2019, Chevrolet is introducing the Suburban and Tahoe Premier Plus, which suggests that GM has, in fact, done the research and come to the same conclusion. The Premier Plus package, which costs $11,700, contains nothing less than the Martha's Vineyard wishlist: A roof rack for the canoe or bikes, a trailer package for the horses, rear-seat entertainment for the grandchildren, and the mighty 6.2-liter variant of the corporate GM small-block.

Until recently, the availability of the 6.2 was the primary mechanical difference between the Escalade and Denali twins, which had it, and the Suburban, which did not. The RST 6.2 Performance Package, which debuted on the Suburban last year, bundled the engine with some blacked-out street-racer aesthetics. Not very appropriate for the club, old chap. So now we have the 6.2 in the Premier Plus.

Fourteen months ago, I bought a Silverado LTZ Crew Cab with the Max Tow package and the 6.2. To say I am satisfied with this vehicle would be an understatement; I've put 23,000 miles on it pulling my race cars around the country. It is extremely fit for purpose, to put it mildly. I'd kind of like to have another one just like it. So when I got the announcement of the Suburban Premier Plus, I immediately started speccing one out. Why not have the same capabilities as my Silverado in an SUV?

Well, the first answer to that is: Because it's much more expensive. My Silverado stickered for $59,000 and change; the equivalent Premier Plus Suburban is $81,295. That's such a staggering number, I reflexively checked how much it would cost me to buy a GMC Yukon Denali XL with similar equipment.

The options are not precisely similar, and I'd imagine that's by design, but the Denali XL with the same capabilities as a Premier Plus Suburban costs ... $81,670. Huh. I wondered what the freakin' Escalade would cost. Again, the options aren't identical, and the Escalade has a variety of trim levels with leather-wrapped dashboards and whatnot, but a generically similar 'Slade costs ... $84,485.

This sounds like the setup for a tossed-off wanna-be-viral internet post: FOR THE PRICE OF THIS CHEVROLET, YOU COULD BE DRIVING A CADILLAC! But here's the thing: GM knows perfectly well how these vehicles line up, and so do the people who buy the Suburbans. Chevy's Premier Plus buyers won't be doing it to save money. They have plenty of money. They'll be buying the Suburban because they'd be embarrassed to be seen "showing off" in an Escalade. The Suburban Premier Plus allows them to have Cadillac power and comfort while still being able to offhandedly reference "my Chevy truck out there in the parking lot." It's the same social message sent by a Kingswood Estate: We can afford anything we want, but we choose to restrain ourselves.

Since I, on the other hand, cannot afford anything I want, I'm a little frightened by that 22-grand bump between the equivalent Silverado and Suburban. And that's where the final part of the marketing genius behind the Suburban Premier Plus comes in.

I happen to be a Costco member. The demographics of the typical Costco customer—older and wealthier than the average American by quite a bit, focused on savings and financial management, disproportionately coastal—happen to be very similar to the demographic profile of someone who would choose a Suburban over an Escalade even if they cost the same.

Costco

GM is offering a unique combination of supplier pricing and an additional $4500 discount to the first 5000 Costco members to get off their butts and order a new Suburban Premier Plus. The order window opens in a month or so and closes three months afterwards. It's a brilliant concept, really. You reach out to the "stealth wealth" types and offer them a deal they can't refuse on an Escalade wearing a Chevy badge. They get to drive the loaded truck with the big motor, save ten grand or so and feel socially virtuous for having done so.

There's just one piece that's missing, and that's the nostalgia component. A while ago, I seriously considered buying an Escalade ESV and having someone CNC-machine some badges to match the look of the "Eldorado" script on my grandfather's '70s and '80s Cadillacs. I think something similar might work for this Suburban Premier Plus. Give it a different name. Something fun, something nostalgic, something unabashedly American. Call it Suburban Kingswood Estate. And I'll see you at Costco with my order form in hand.

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