The Best Lincoln Versailles Wasn’t a Car—It Was Velour

We all know the story of the Lincoln Versailles, but many are unaware of its lavish prequel. It’s a bit of Lincoln history worth knowing, as the original reference to the palace was indeed much more opulent than the crudely badge-engineered Ford Granada that followed.

This is where the story gets a little twisted, as this Versailles wasn’t a car. Instead, the name was associated with an expensive option of extreme decadence, reserved for an unquestionably prestigious vehicle.

The year was 1976, and the car was Lincoln’s Continental Mark IV. Having long shed its formerly sleek bumpers in 1972, the final year of this Mark Series was jazzed up with Malasie Era window dressing excesses: unique trim and color combinations, more standard features, and the signature of a famous designer/luxury goods purveyor. Referred in literature as the Designer Series, Lincoln took AMC’s idea of licensing a premium consumer brand for their vehicles and ran it to highly successful extremes. But these models weren’t the pinnacle of American luxury, and it’s all because of that pesky Versailles name.

The new-for-1976 Versailles interior was a standalone option, and arguably more prestigious than any designer’s name that Ford deemed worthy to affix to the Continental Mark IV. It elevated the ownership experience with a handful of unique parts and reams of crushed velour in four unique colors (not just shades of gray as we see today).

I suspect few folks know of Versailles’ existence because it was not associated with a big name like Cartier or Givenchy. But you should know about this crushed velour, as it delights in the details, and set back would-be owners a significant amount of cash.

Like the sales literature suggested, occupants of this special Continental Mark IV felt the luxury of crushed velour “above, around and under you.” The unique door, seats, and quarter panels were upholstered in crushed velour, looking radically different and feeling significantly more expensive than other Mark Series of the era. The unique door panels even had a large slab of convincing-looking plasti-wood at the top, shaped like something a human would actually make in a workshop, providing a deep contrast to the crushed velour around it.

The photos below came from this particular 1976 Continental Mark IV Bill Blass Designer Series, and we are lucky that original owner/selling dealership honored this particular Blass with the upgraded Versailles velour interior.

Perhaps I haven’t sold the relevance of this option package yet, and my editors are patiently waiting for me to get to the point. The Versailles option was $2,000 in 1976, on top of the $11,060 asking price for a standard Continental Mark IV. This interior was 18% of a base model’s value, and equates to $11,089.38 inflation adjusted dollars in 2024. This ain’t chump change, since an entire 1976 Ford Pinto Pony was only $895 more than the Versailles velour upgrade.

All that cash ensured that crushed velour was everywhere, aside from the shag carpet at your feet and the headliner above you. Even the window switchgear demanded clean hands to ensure proper treatment of the nearby velour coverings. And while all Mark Series Continentals were delightful for rear seat passengers with their decadent oval opera windows, they became the automotive equivalent of a hyperbaric chamber when the quarter panels were upholstered in crushed velour. The Versailles’ standard rear center armrest didn’t hurt, either, and there’s some irony to the fact that many personal luxury coupes lacked a fold-down rear armrest. (But that’s beyond the scope of discussions here.)

The front seats were obviously soft and squidgy, but were surprisingly supportive. Not only was your lower back and butt treated to individual pillows, but both thighs were given two such pillows of their own. Sciatic nerves relaxed with Versailles, and speaking from experience, I’d rate this Lincoln even higher than the God-like thrones we’ve previously gushed about with the Cadillac Fleetwood Talisman. The Tally seats didn’t cradle you, as you sat on them and not in them. In contrast, the Versailles seats were like a memory foam bed.

Perhaps these two American deities of pillow-topped decadence are actually a tandemocracy, as both literally crushed velour (sorry) as they gazed down upon the proletariat Broughams and Landaus in their Kingdom of Malaise. Of course, there will always be import-minded luxury enthusiasts of the era, folks who rebelled against the system that created and nurtured the market where Cadillac and Lincoln thrived. More often than not, their luxury vehicle came with something called MB-Tex. And they were proud of owning vinyl seating surfaces in a luxury car? Bless their hearts.

I remember my first “Versailles experience” in the Jade Green crushed velour of a 1977 Continental Mark V Givenchy in the late 1990s. It was at an antique mall/car consignment lot near Love Field Airport in Dallas, TX, and this Mark V was parked next to its older brother, a 1976 Givenchy Mark IV. I was jealous that the owner of these two Givenchys had them for nearly two decades, but there was one clear winner. I was hooked the moment I opened the door of the newer Mark V, as its posh velour was a significant upgrade over the shiny green leather seats in the older Mark next to it.

Years passed until I realized that 1977 Continental Mark V had a naming conflict with the infamous Lincoln Versailles automobile. Doing so meant the Versailles velour of the 1976 Mark IV was renamed “Majestic” velour for that Mark V. The name change necessitated a price increase, now a whopping $2,100. For that much bread, it’s no surprise they managed to get velour this close to the Mark’s door jamb.

For those that never experienced the 1976 Versailles or the 1977 Majestic velour interiors, the photos from Hagerty Marketplace might give you the vibes. They certainly lifted my spirits, as I saw far too many of these interiors in junkyards in the 1990s, living within neglected Continentals sporting so much rust around their opera windows that you could feel the quarter panel’s velour from outside the vehicle. (That’s an exaggeration, but Malaise Era vinyl roofs rusted horribly in moist climates, and more than once I got real close to reaching the velour from outside with a screwdriver.)

Seeing the Versailles Mark IV and Majestic Mark Vs in the junkyard was always a sad and unceremonious ending to a prestigious interior upgrade with a short window of fame. But I never walked past one without giving it the respect it deserved. If mold and hantavirus concerns weren’t present, I’d always hop into the velour-lined rear bench seat, fold down that armrest, and enjoy a final moment of premium craftsmanship before the crusher got its jaws on it.

But these are long gone from junkyards, so life must move on. Rubbery leather is our new automotive passion, thanks in part to our addiction to factory farming. Perhaps leather will fall out of fashion at some point, if a correlation between fancy car interiors and cow burps is drawn by the right people. A monumental shift is required to overcome crushed velour’s negative connotations, and the historical baggage associated with disco-era staples like polyester suits, gold chains, and exposed chest hair is likely a thing of the past.

Lincoln never gave Versailles velour its just desserts, compared to Cadillac putting the word “Talisman” on the C-pillar to ensure everyone knew what was inside. But those with a passing interest in Malaise Era luxury recall that excessive amounts of crushed velour survived until the Mark Series downsizing in 1980, with the Diamond Jubilee (1978) and Collector’s Edition (1979). These trims added to the Versailles package with a leather-wrapped floor console and dash top. Impressive to certain enthusiasts, but they are nothing without the 1976 Lincoln Versailles (as it were).

So if you come across a Continental Mark Series from 1976 or 1977, do yourself a favor and look at the interior first. If you see crushed velour on the doors and four little pillows for your legs, you are in the presence of the King of all Kings. If you have the honor of sitting in one, don’t be surprised if you do all you can to try to make it your own: Crushed velour has its own gravitational pull.