The auctioneer stutter raps the microphone at a million beats per minute. Around him guys in black jackets and red ties survey their identically dressed colleagues in the bidding pit and grandstands beyond, the beer bars and VIP platforms, looking for a signal. In a dark, distant corner there must have been a nod. Activity ripples outwards from that spot. A Mexican wave crossed with a Chinese whisper communicated via the medium of racecourse bookies' arms radiates outwards as the red ties go into overdrive and semaphore the bid to the stage. The auctioneer, somehow, goes up a gear.
We know car auctions. They're either grotty places populated with car-dealing tyre kickers looking for stock amongst unloved ex-rental repmobiles, or they're ultra exclusive, sip champagne on immaculate lawn events where exotic specimens (both cars and people) preen glossily and desire to be admired for their good taste and breeding.
Barrett-Jackson is what happens when the two are combined and tossed in a blender with a good helping of American showmanship, pizzazz, noise, energy, dodgy artwork, hype, scale, speedboats, dust, liquor, excitement and people. Oh, and the Blue Origin space capsule. It's effervescent and weirdly, oddly captivating.
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