Speedy Sparks

Thinking a few things about Speedy Sparks….

He was one of the first friends I made through music when I moved to Austin in 1973, working for Carlyne and George Majewski at Soap Creek Saloon bartending and helping out Jim Groenewegen, Doug Sahm’s official roadie. He was from Houston, I was from Fort Worth. We both moved to Austin for the music.
He was there when Freddy Fender emerged from obscurity to play a show at Soap Creek with Doug Sahm, a gig that effectively jumpstarted Fender’s career, and when Esteban Jordan aka Steve Jordan brought his psychedelic conjunto accordion to the club.
Next thing I knew, Speedy was playing bass in El Molino, the Tex-Mex ensemble put together by Joe Carrasco, a Sir Doug protege. He was paired up with drummer Richard “Eh-Eh” Elizondo, a four-fingered dwarf from San Antonio with his own language to make for one of the unlikeliest rhythm sections I’ve ever heard.
Speedy’s father was an opera singer.
Speedy resided for many years at the Red River Motors/Washington Motors compound on Red River Street south of Cesar Chavez Street, a collection of houses and cars and trucks and buses overseen by Artie Osborn and Doug Breeding, directly across the street from what is now the tallest skyscraper in Texas. This was the last honest hippie hang in Austin – a great place to find a cheap used car or hear great music, usually on Speedy’s record player.
Speedy was an accomplished musician, but also had a deep understanding where music came from. He knew his history. He told me when he was a teenager in Houston, he used to run with Chuck Dunaway, the disc jockey on KILT radio, Houston’s Top 40 station, who had the ears of teenagers throughout the Houston area. Dunaway took Speedy to see and hear rhythm ‘n’ blues acts like Bobby Blue Bland and Little Junior Parker.
Speedy started playing with several bands, notably the Bizarros, with whom he shared the stage with drummer Bill Bentley and guitarist Sterling Morrison, a University of Texas grad student of Medieval Literature and former member of the avant-garde band The Velvet Underground.
By 1981, he was the bass player in the reconstituted Sir Douglas Quintet and hit the road with Doug Sahm and Augie Meyers throughout the United States and Europe. Speedy emulated Doug in finding good places to eat on the road, no matter where they were, and on his own, sought out landmarks and points of interest, especially related to music. His curiosity was unlimited.
Ask music people in Amsterdam, Stockholm, and Norway: they all know Speedy Sparks.
When Patrick Mathe of New Rose Records in Paris, France came to Austin, Speedy became his producer, A&R man, and bandleader, producing and playing on Roky Erickson’s album All That May Do My Rhyme, featuring “Clear Night For Love,” the psychedelic singer’s most Buddy Holly-esque rendering ever. Roky and Speedy were Buddy Holly nuts.
A connoisseur of the 45 rpm single, Speedy started his own company, Dynamic Records, as a goof. He collaborated with an exceptionally talented guitarist named Junior Brown to release the single “Too Many Nights In the Roadhouse” b/w “My Baby Don’t Dance to Nothing But Ernest Tubb,” unwittingly launching the solo career of the master of the Guit-Steel. (Read Junior’s recollections on Facebook: Speedy and Junior weren’t trying to do anything other than have a goof making a record).
He said he wanted to make a record singing in Czech. He grew up loving Tex-Czech because that was what he heard when he visited his grandparents in Brenham.
Speedy was a happy sideman. He wasn’t a mic hog and didn’t need the spotlight. Playing in the band is what mattered. He made his own record on Dynamic – “OK, Let’s Play,” which became the title of Speedy’s solo album.
He revived the career of George Tomsco, the guitarist in the West Texas-New Mexico rock and roll band, The Fireballs, by accompanying George on playdates around Austin.
He raised Charlie and Will Sexton. Speedy had dated their mother Kay Sexton, and took them in when they left their home in Wimberley in their early teens, providing them a musical education as they grew into artists in their own right.
He played bass in the Texas Tornados, the supergroup with Freddy Fender, Flaco Jimenez, Doug Sahm, and Augie Meyers – Sahm called them “the Tex-Mex Beatles,” won a Grammy, and toured the world.
He understood Homer Henderson.
He understood James Hand, the prickly neo-traditional country singer, and played in his band until Hand’s passing.
He played in more bands in Austin than any single person I know – Del Rio, the Nortons, the Mystic Knights of the Sea, the Koolerators, TG Band, the John X. Reed Band, Alvin Crow, Leroi Brothers, Teddy and the Tall Tops, The Texas Mavericks, The Rhythm Rats, Ben Vaughn, Lazy Lester, and….[add your band here].
He drove cabs for Roy’s Taxis, along with songwriter Rich Minus.
He was a regular at the Continental Club, the Hole-in-the-Wall, Black Cat, Saxon Pub, C-Boys, Soap Creek, Antone’s, Blondie’s, After Ours, Austex, Duke’s, Club Foot, Sam’s, Ginny’s, Henry’s, Giddy Up’s– anywhere where there was music
He was part of the Eve Monsees-Mike Buck orbit as a charter member of Eve & the Exiles, and traveled with them to the retro-rock Ponderosa Stomp in New Orleans several times and recently played and recorded with them in Memphis and in Mississippi.
He was the best, most honest character in my documentary film “Sir Doug & The Genuine Texas Cosmic Groove
His bass was always refined and understated, simply pouring the foundation for any cool groove. His style provided the path for several generations of bassists who have followed him.
He liked to ride trains and to smoke good weed.
He defines everything great and lasting about Austin music.
The last words I spoke to him was “I love you.”
His last words to me were “I love you too.”
So long, Speedy, it was really, really good to know you.
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Gliding over Marfa

https://texashighways.com/travel/gliding-through-the-skies-over-marfa/

A man in a red button-down shirt and red sunglasses stands next to a small glider plane in the desert.
Sarah M. Vasquez photo  – Burt Compton has been flying in Marfa since he moved to town in 2001.

Long before Marfa was an art town, a wedding events destination, the embodiment of small town cool—and even before the Marfa Lights—there was the Marfa Dry Line. It’s the invisible division where dry Pacific air meets warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico that made Far West Texas weather special.

Burt Compton saw it as a teenager.  “Dad and I came here in ’67 to fly,” he says. His father, a glider pilot who owned a glider port in south Florida, regarded Marfa highly. The location had all the right ingredients for the pursuit of motorless flight: vast flatlands surrounded by mountains with plenty of thermal updrafts to ride, along with the Marfa Dry Line.

As an adult, Compton became so smitten with the conditions, he sold his glider operation in Miami and moved to Marfa in 2001.

“Marfa’s the place for soaring in America,” he declares emphatically. “The World Gliding Championships in 1970 [in Marfa] was the first championship ever held in the United States. Neil Armstrong flew gliders here before he walked on the moon.”

It was the golden era of gliding thanks to improved technology and use of fiberglass and composites in construction. On July 31, 1964, Al Parker became the first glider pilot to soar more than 1,000 kilometers nonstop when he piloted his Sisu sailplane from Odessa to Kimball, Nebraska, a distance of 647 miles.

Compton’s FAA certification as a gliding instructor and pilot examiner takes him around the United States and frequently to Germany, where soaring first took hold, to certify pilots who want to fly in the U.S. on vacation.

In Marfa, he’s either flying, instructing locals, piloting passenger rides, or hanging out in the hangar, which is the staging area for the current Oktoberfest Annual Vintage/ Classic Sailplane Rally that runs through Oct. 18.

I booked a ride for $160, arriving at Marfa Municipal Airport at the appointed time on a weekday afternoon in late September. I follow the glider signs on the gravel road to an isolated hangar at the north end of the airport, headquarters of Compton’s Marfa Gliders Soaring Center. Compton and his crew of two, James Lewis and Bo Peebles, stand outside, scanning the skies looking for a glider circling high above the airport. A single engine Cessna piloted by John Cone flies by the hangar, dropping a tow rope.

Several white signs that have different town names, states, and countries plus mileage from Marfa are attached to a metal post facing the directions of their location.
Sarah M. VasquezThese flags represent the places Compton has been around the world.

It’s a “Blue Day,” in glider speak, meaning no clouds. Dry thermals, the magic ingredient that gives lift, are hard to see. With clouds, the thermals are directly beneath them. “That’s OK, because there’s still updrafts,” Compton explains. ”The sun heats the ground, the warm air is less dense than the surrounding air, so it rises in a column.” That’s what he’d be looking for.

Think of it as on ocean of air, he says. “There are currents and eddies. My Cessna 182 single engine airplane will tow us skyward with a 200-foot rope, like a motorboat towing a water skier,” he says. “I’m trying to fly just above the tow plane’s wake for the smoothest climb up that we can. That’s the bumpiest part of the ride.”

Lewis and Peebles push the glider, a German Schleicher ASK-13 two-seat trainer with a bright red fuselage and yellow wings, out of the hangar. They scan the skies for incoming air traffic. KMRF, like 95% of all airports in the United States, does not have a control tower, Compton explains.

Once the glider is in position, Compton shows me how it all works inside the cockpit. “There’s one lever here, we don’t know what it does. So don’t touch anything,” he jokes. He explains that the spoilers on the wings are air brakes, which are used to slow down, and how the glider flies without an engine. “Wings resisting gravity makes us fly forward, like a sled on a hill. A motorized plane is like a speedboat. This is like a sailboat, you got to keep thinking about the wind, updrafts. It’s like chess to checkers.”

My small frame allows a relatively easy squeeze into the seat behind Compton, although space is so tight, I remove my gimme cap lest it scrape against the clear canopy. A side vent is left open for air. Compton points to the side pocket where the barf bag was in case of motion sickness.

The day before, my wife reminded me that I’ve tossed my cookies in a helicopter flying over the Grand Canyon and in a DC 3 flying over the Rockies in a very turbulent snowstorm. Heck, I’ve gotten sick on a Tilt-A-Whirl. This would be interesting.

Safety harness secured by the crew, Compton continues the prep. “I’m going to ask you every few minutes, ‘How do you feel on a scale of one to 10?’ 10 being you’re good, 11 being this is the coolest thing you’ve ever done in your life,” Compton says as the cockpit closes. “If you’re below a 9 or 8, I’m going to bring you down smoothly and quickly.”

He completes his checklist, announcing his airbrakes are closed and locked. “Just don’t touch nothing,” he says. “Here we go.”

Compton warned me the takeoff would be noisy but as soon as the tow plane was airborne, I felt like I was waterskiing, sliding over the water from wake to wake. Then came enough of a bump for me to go “Whoa!” loud enough for Compton to chuckle over my response. “As a glider pilot, I’m saying ‘Good! There be updrafts!’”

A small glider plan lifts off the tarmac in the desert.
Sarah M. Vasquez photo   Compton flies his glider at the Marfa Municipal Airport.

We release from the tow plane and things go quiet. No more engine buzz from the tow plane, just the sounds of the cool wind rushing through the side vent. Compton’s relaxed, clearly in his element, as he begings pointing out features in the brown landscape we’re flying above. “This is the Marfa plateau—desert grasslands. No oil here,” he says. “They keep trying to find it. There’s Cathedral Peak out there. There’s our golf course over there, with the trees. Highest in Texas, nine holes. There’s Marfa town.”

He keeps asking about my welfare and I tell him I’m a 9 or 10, although I did say 9 or 8 once. It’s an exciting sensation floating on an ocean of air, enough of an exotic thrill that Compton’s experience and constant monitoring of my well-being puts me at ease.  As he reminds me, “I can land anytime you say.”

In the bright blue sky, I squint to see the Chisos Mountains of the Big Bend visible to the south through a faint haze.

“We’re just riding the waves,” Compton says. “Isn’t this beautiful?’

He talks about the history of Marfa as an 1880s railroad water stop named by a rail engineer’s wife who was reading the Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Our conversation turns casual to menu prices at local restaurants while the side vent blows cool breezes into the cockpit like a big fan. Although summer is peak season for thermal updrafts, Compton says he prefers gliding in late spring and early fall to avoid the heat.

After about 20 minutes of circling over the Marfa Highlands, Compton checks in with the crew on the runway to see if it’s clear to land, then announces with a trace of resignation, “Well, I guess I better go on in.”

“Noooo” I protest.

“You want to go again?” he asks as we descend.

So we do. The second time around, Compton catches more updrafts, with the needle on the variometer in front of me jumping as the glider climbs hundreds of feet in altitude in a matter of seconds. No barf bag needed. In that moment, I know what it feels like to be a bird. Maybe even better.

 

 

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Who is Bozo Texino?

Bill Daniel knows more about Bozo Texino than anyone on this planet.

https://texashighways.com/culture/in-search-of-bozo-texino/

In Search of Bozo Texino

Who is Bozo Texino? That’s a good question in need of some explaining. But better to ask first: What is Bozo Texino?

Bozo Texino is graffiti. The marking is a simple image of a human head with a pipe or a hand-rolled cigarette—also known as a “quirly”—extending out of the side of the mouth, topped by a cowboy hat whose wide brim resembles the infinity symbol. Sometimes smoke-like dots rise above the cig. The name, often paired with the cowboy doodle, is an intriguing mix of “The World’s Most Famous Clown” from long ago and geographic-specificity with a hint of Spanish thrown in.

The drawing, which is sometimes in chalk or oil bar, started appearing on railroad cars and in railyards 90 years ago. For the next 50 years, Bozo Texino became an iconic figure among hobos, tramps, rail riders, and train buffs.

But Bozo Texino almost disappeared until Bill Daniel came along. Daniel is a filmmaker, photographer, and curator who grew up in Dallas. He once lived near the Santa Fe railyards next to Exposition Park where he developed a fascination with trains and, especially, boxcar graffiti. Here was an underground culture like the punk scene he knew.

That prompted Daniel to ride the rails for 16 years, 16mm Bolex camera in hand, documenting the rail-riding culture in black and white “at considerable risk from speeding freight trains,” he says.

His adventures “in search of unknown folk heroes and graffiti artists,” as he describes them, culminated in an experimental documentary film, a DVD, and a book all about the 100-year tradition of hobo and rail worker graffiti, with a specific focus on the graffiti image of Bozo Texino.

Who Is Bozo Texino? The Secret History of Hobo Graffiti is a rugged ride on the rails with independent-minded, artistic misfits who choose to live outside traditional boundaries and laws.

The film is edgy and archival at once, drilling deep in the nomadic lifestyles of the hobo and the tramp, profiling graffiti artists including Herby, The Rambler, and buZ blurr aka The Colossus of Roads, while pointing out the differences separating hobos from tramps and bums. Austin punk rock trailblazer Tim Kerr contributed several tunes to the bluesy, acoustic soundtrack.

Since its completion in 2005, Who is Bozo Texino?  has screened at over 400 venues, including the Museum of Modern Art in New York, Slab City at the Salton Sea, Key West, and earlier this year, Amsterdam, since its completion in 2005. He has earned numerous citations for his efforts. As he writes on his website, these accolades include “Illegal Inhabitation of a Motor Vehicle, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and a prized NYC Open Container Violation.”

I’m not going to give away the plot, other than to say there is resolution to Daniel’s question, and that Houston, San Antonio, and Laredo are involved. You’ll just have to watch the film to find out. billdaniel.net has DVDs available.

Daniel has occupied odd and unusual spaces around Texas over the years in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Dallas, Pasadena, and New Braunfels, where he was caretaker of a shuttered textile mill. These spaces also include a warehouse in Galveston and a former washateria in Waxahachie. He is currently ensconced in a toyhauler RV in the Sacramento Delta of California, “eight feet below sea level,” while he’s fixing to move into a studio in San Francisco.

More Bozo Texino ephemera is tucked into the third edition of Mostly True, The West’s Most Popular Hobo Graffiti Magazine, a book disguised as a magazine, dated February 1923 but actually published last year by Microcosm Publishing in Portland. The fanzine of boxcar graffiti and railrider culture, and what Daniel describes as “obscure railroad nostalgia” further cements the bond between hobo and punk cultures.

Daniel credits punks for keeping the hobo and Bozo tradition alive. “Train punks rediscovered freight riding culture in the 1990s, co-inhabiting railroad jungles with the last of the previous generation of hobos, Vietnam veterans, primarily,” he says. “Punks have actively preserved and added to the culture. Who knows where the next generation will come from?”

Bozo Texino, the graffiti, is still around, even though the original artists who created him have been gone for decades. “There are other people who make the drawing and write the name in homage,” Daniel says.

As for the question, who is Bozo Texino? Daniel laughs. “The answer turned out much greater than the question. I’m still surprised at where ole Bozo still pops up,” he says. “Bozo Texino just keeps going in the world because of two things—graffiti culture and punk train rider culture. They’ve spawned a new form of rail fandom. The world of rail fandom now includes graffiti nerds and moniker nerds.”

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The Cadillac Ranch at 50

The history of the Cadillac Ranch for  TexasHighways.com

https://texashighways.com/travel-news/fifty-years-of-cadillac-ranch/

How the Amarillo art installation became an iconic American roadside attraction

The vintage Cadillacs at their original location in the 1970s

Fifty years ago on the summer solstice, three experimental architects and artists completed Amarillo’s iconic Cadillac Ranch. Facilitated by a larger-than-life eccentric millionaire, the permanent installation of 10 Cadillac sedans buried nose first at a 60-degree angle into the dirt of a flat field within eyeshot of Interstate 40 has become the Panhandle city’s No. 1 tourist destination and biggest roadside attraction. It’s a must-see for road trippers touring Route 66, America’s Mother Road, seen by more than 1.4 million visitors a year.

Cadillac Ranch at 50, an exhibit documenting the strange and quirky history of the site at the Amarillo Museum of Art, opens June 1 and runs through Aug. 15, with a special celebration on June 21. One hundred enlarged photographs by Wyatt McSpadden, who has documented Cadillac Ranch since its inception, share space with videos, drawings, and ephemera from Chip Lord from the Ant Farm art and architecture collective that dreamed up the project.

Lord and fellow outsider architect Doug Michels formed Ant Farm in San Francisco in 1968 for underground design projects. “We were doing concepts, sketches, and photo collages of imaginary landscapes and environments,” Lord says. “It was a way to realize some ideas that would expand on conventional architecture.”

When Hudson Marquez joined the group, the three bonded over their shared obsession with automobiles. “At Ant Farm, we were car crazy,” Marquez recalls. “It was always drawing cars, collaging cars, making art with cars. I had an idea to make seed packs where you could plant seeds that would grow cars. You could have a field of ’49 Fords or ’59 Cadillacs that would grow out of the ground.” But to realize any concept, they needed a physical site. And money.

Installing the vintage Cadillacs was no easy feat

The Ant Farm sent out letters with their idea to a number of eccentric millionaires around the country. Prominent Amarilloan Stanley Marsh 3 answered back with an oversized letter written in 36-point type. “I’d love to do something with you, but I only do things here in Amarillo,” Marquez recalls him saying.

Lord and Michels stopped in Amarillo after finishing the House of the Century, a tubular ferro cement lake house near Angleton built with Houston architect Richard Jost. By the end of their visit two days later, Marsh asked Lord and Michels to draft a proposal. “We went back to California and drew up this idea of making a monument to the rise and fall of the Cadillac tailfin,” Lord says. The drawing had a text box in the corner—the budget. They would need $250 to hire a backhoe, and $300 for each of the 10 cars. Marsh gave the Ant Farm the green light.

The Ant Farmers descended on Amarillo. They placed ads in the Amarillo Globe-News seeking used Cadillacs and checked out Marsh’s land holdings. They picked a site near Interstate 40 and the old Route 66. “They were mysterious, these three hippies,” says Wyatt McSpadden, the young photographer who worked for Marsh at the time. He remembers Lord, Michels, and Marquez lived on the property while putting the site together. “They were gone a lot because they were out shopping for cars, trying to make deals, get cars as cheap as they could.”

Finding the first car, the 1949 Cadillac, proved to be a struggle. They found one on the east side of Amarillo, though it cost them a whopping $700—far over budget. “As soon as Doug had the title, somebody pulled the canvas off the bed of the truck,” McSpadden remembers, “and it was full of sledgehammers and axes. Doug took an axe out and started beating on the front of the car. They didn’t care what the front of the car looked like. That was my first involvement with the Ant Farm and the Cadillacs.”

The Cadillacs were moved from their original spot to its current location in 1997

The first hole was dug, and they got the car into the ground. “We didn’t really know what we were doing,” Marquez says. “We hadn’t dug holes to put cars in before, and we didn’t know anyone who did, so we were just flying by the seat of our pants. We just dug some holes and drove the cars in at 60 degrees, same angle. We didn’t talk about that. It just happened to be. It looked good.” The whole endeavor took less than a week.

The day after the Cadillac Ranch was finished, Marquez rose before dawn and drove out to the site to watch the sunrise. “I was blown away,” he says. Marquez remembered a talk the radical French artist and sculptor Marcel Duchamp gave in Houston. His idea was that when someone sets out to create, they start from what they think is zero and in their mind is 100% of what they want to create. “It’s in your mind, but you never get to 100. That doesn’t happen,” Marquez says. “But that morning was as close to 100% as I ever got.”

On June 21, 1974, a huge party was held in celebration of the ranch, a big tent, open bar, and Amarillo notables included. Shortly after, the Ant Farmers returned to San Francisco to work on other ideas. “When it was first built, it wasn’t hyped yet,” says David Turner, who was the assistant director at the Amarillo Art Center at the time. “People didn’t know what it was. It was just this oddball group of cars some crazy rancher planted in his field.”

There was no signage identifying the site, making it hard to convey the installation was an artist-made sculptural piece. Seeing the installation up close required some want-to. “You used to have to stop on the road, take your life in your own hands, go through a barbed wire fence, and hope for the best,” says Tom Livesay, director of the Amarillo Art Center in 1974.

Though grafitti wasn’t part of the original plan, it’s become tradition for visitors to leave their mark

A year later, journalist Charles Kuralt, host of the folksy On the Road program on the CBS television network, passed by in his bus, pulled over, and put Cadillac Ranch on the map. He was charmed. “At first, we thought someone might be trying to raise little baby Cadillacs,” Kuralt says. “Then we thought maybe the farmer just parked them this way each year after he bought a new model.”

Marsh talked up the Ant Farm and compared the Cadillac Ranch to Stonehenge, declaring, “It’s the most important roadside attraction of our generation.” Kuralt ended the segment waxing poetic over “a cowboy herding steers out there where the tall tailfins grow and the traffic heads west on Route 66 and the Texas sun goes down on the chromium bumpers of the American dream.”

Next came the bullet holes, an instinctive reaction around the Panhandle. If there’s something out there and you don’t know what it is, shoot it! “People would take their keys and scratch their initials into the paint,” Lord says. “Eventually, we went out there and signed it, to copyright.”

Then came the spray paint. First as simple graffiti tags—names, expressions of love, expressions of hate. Then wholesale paint jobs. “I was kind of outraged when people started spray-painting it,” Livesay says. “I asked Stanley what he thought of that, and he said, ‘I don’t give a damn.’ It showed ownership. People had to care enough about it, or hated it enough, to come see it. And they did.”

In 1997, Cadillac Ranch moved 2 miles west to its current location. The city of Amarillo was growing, and parking lot lights were visible at the installation. “That property was getting more valuable,” McSpadden says. “It was harder digging them up and replanting them than it was putting them in the ground the first time. From the road, it didn’t change at all. It was still the same flatland background.”

The relocation coincided with the dawn of the internet. Cadillac Ranch had become a featured attraction on RoadsideAmerica.com. Social media further broadened its reach. Cadillac Ranch remains a metaphor for the Golden Age of the American automobile, but over 50 years, it’s taken on many meanings and interpretations. A search for “Cadillac Ranch” on Instagram retrieves images of the Cadillac Ranch at sunrise, sunset, during dust storms and blizzards, and as a backdrop for selfies.

The scent of Krylon is fairly constant. On Cinco De Mayo, red, green, and white paint have dominated. The Cadillacs have been painted pink for child cancer awareness. After Michels died in 2004, the Cadillacs were painted black, his favorite color.

McSpadden spent two days at the site in October 2022, making portraits featured in the Cadillac Ranch at 50 exhibit. “I got people from England, Switzerland, Italy, the Netherlands, Germany, Ireland,” he says. “People paint, they leave, and 20 minutes later somebody comes up and paints over what they painted.  They don’t just paint the cars, they paint the dirt, they paint the access road, the barriers are painted, the trash cans are painted.”

Four years ago, Marsh’s son, Stan Marsh 4, added a merch truck that sells spray paint, beverages, and tchotchkes on the site. “The Cadillacs are one of the last things in the nation that are truly wild,” he says. “There are no bathrooms. There is no running water. There’s no shade. There’s a different energy out there. It’s an adventure every time.”

Marquez says he’s only had two good ideas in his life. “One was the Cadillac Ranch. The other was copyrighting Cadillac Ranch,” he says. “Ant Farm owns the copyright to Cadillac Ranch. For many years we’ve made money, it’s like an annuity. Commercials, clothing lines, billboards, print ads, everything.”

Marsh’s heirs still own the Cadillac Ranch. Following a series of debilitating strokes, ownership of the land was transferred from Marsh to a family trust. He died in 2014, shortly after facing allegations of sexual abuse by multiple minors. Though perception of Marsh’s reputation may have changed following the allegations, Cadillac Ranch’s legacy continues to stand the test of time.

Today, people come from all over the world to see Cadillac Ranch

Stanley Marsh 4 regards the Cadillac Ranch as a participatory work of art that everybody is welcome to collaborate on. “Every mark is permanent, but it’s also temporary,” he says. “You can say anything you’d like to say with absolute freedom—but it’s going to be covered up in 30 seconds.”

The next 50 years are less certain. “We’re looking at options to preserve and protect the Cadillacs for future generations,” Stanley Marsh 4 says.

Lord is not so sure. “I favor not doing a restoration. With farmers, when a truck stops running, they put it out in a field and it rusts away.  Just let it rust down to nothing, which eventually it will,” Lord says. “That’s the most logical end of Cadillac Ranch.”

Whatever Cadillac Ranch’s future holds, Livesay appreciates what it means to the Panhandle city. “It’s wonderful it’s lasted so long and generated so much excitement for the town,” he says. “It’s grown with the times. You can’t argue with the facts.”

 

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Terry Allen and The Truckload of Art

https://texashighways.com/culture/a-new-book-details-the-life-of-terry-allen-and-his-truckload-of-art/

Terry Allen at Arlyn Studios in Austin in May 2019. Photo by Barbara FG

Maybe you’ve seen Terry Allen’s work.

His sculpture Caw Caw Blues, which contains the ashes of his friend Guy Clark, stands sentinel at the entrance of The Wittliff Collections at Texas State University in San Marcos. Countree Music, a 25-foot bronze cast of an oak tree and a map on the terrazzo floor depicting Houston as the center of the world, accompanied by music, is planted in Terminal A near Gate 17 of Bush International Airport in Houston. Passengers entering security gate D30 in Terminal D at DFW International pass under a 30-foot bronze wishbone titled Wish. A life-size statue of CB Stubblefield of Stubb’s BBQ fame stands on the site of his first restaurant on East Broadway in Lubbock. Nestled in the palmetto palm thicket outside The Contemporary Austin-Laguna Gloria on the banks of Lake Austin is Road Angel, a bronze cast of a 1953 Chevy coupe, the car Allen drove as a teenager, accompanied by more than a hundred audio soundbites (including one of mine), that was permanently installed in 2016.

 

More likely, you’ve heard Allen’s work.

His song “Amarillo Highway,” about a “Panhandlin’ man-handlin’ post-holin’ Dust bowlin’ Daddy” is a much-covered Texas country classic. The churning “New Delhi Freight Train” was first recorded by the rock band Little Feat. At 80, he’s still out there performing with his Panhandle Mystery Band which includes family and friends, among them son Bukka Allen, pedal steel maestro Lloyd Maines, guitarist Charlie Sexton, and fiddler Richard Bowden— often in conjunction with an art opening.

You may have even seen Allen without realizing it. He and his wife Jo Harvey Allen play Oklahoma couple Aunt Annie and Uncle Jim in the Martin Scorsese film Killers of the Flower Moon.

He’s been awarded a Guggenheim fellowship and is in the West Texas Walk of Fame by the Buddy Holly Center in Lubbock. Texas Tech is finalizing plans for the Terry and Jo Harvey Allen Center for Creative Studies.

Call him what you want: the patriarch of Lubbock creatives, the greatest living visual artist from Texas, the other Texas music godfather besides Willie, the storyteller of the American West. It’s all pretty much true.

In 2016, Allen created Road Angel which can be seen at The Contemporary Austin-Laguna Gloria. Photo by Brian Fitzsimmons/courtesy of The Contemporary Austin

 

Now comes Truckload of Art, a 500-page biography by Brendan Greaves, to explain it all.

The first Terry Allen art I ever saw made me laugh out loud. The Paradise was a stark diorama of three spaces, the primary space—a parking lot—bathed in red light with the word “Paradise” in pale blue neon script on the back wall as the centerpiece. Directly below is a planter with three measly cacti, two plastic palms, a car tire, and a pair of plastic flamingos. Flanking the planter were doors marked Lounge and Motel in red neon. Beyond the vinyl-covered doors was a motel room with shag carpeting and a honky-tonk bar space with a jukebox. Paradise was part of The Great American Rodeo Show at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth in 1976. Eleven artists were given a year to develop a rodeo-inspired piece. Allen paid homage to the kind of spaces where a real rodeo cowboy would feel at home.

The first Terry Allen music I really paid attention to was the 1979 album Lubbock (on everything), marking the artist-musician’s return to his hometown to collaborate with a new iteration of Lubbock music makers, among them singer-songwriter Jimmie Dale Gilmore, who was two classes behind Allen at Monterey High. “I always knew I was destined to write songs,” Gilmore told me recently. “But I thought you had to be really old to be a songwriter. Terry was the first person I saw perform original music. He sang ‘Red Bird’ while playing piano one day at Monterey. That really inspired me.”

Allen and Jo Harvey had been living in Fresno, California, when he came back to make Lubbock (on everything). He instantly became the Don of the Lubbock Mafia of music maker. The Allens eventually moved back—sort of—settling some years later in close-enough Santa Fe.

It’s hard to ignore the tall polymath with stooped shoulders, the piercing eyes of a hawk, and a wide rubbery mouth that can hardly contain his unapologetic flatland twang. Art and music are the same coin, as far as he’s concerned, means to tell stories, which he is very good at doing, in many different ways. He’s so prolific, and so driven to create, he demands to be heard.

Greaves is founder and owner of Paradise of Bachelors Records in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, which has reissued Allen’s older recordings and released his most recent albums 2013’s Bottom of the World and Just Like Moby Dick in 2020. Greaves, a self-described “lapsed art worker,” met Allen through the gallery where he worked. He’s collaborated on several projects with Allen and received a Grammy nomination for his liner notes, but taking on the monumental task of telling a very dense story while explaining the dual worlds of art and music, working off journals Allen has kept since junior high, was a whole other deal.

Allen’s father, Sled, a former minor baseball player who promoted wrestling and music events in West Texas, including Hank Williams, Ernest Tubb, T-Bone Walker, Jimmy Reed, Ray Charles, Little Richard, and Elvis Presley, who Terry met on one of the six times he played Lubbock in 1955-56, long before most of the world knew who Elvis was. His mother, Pauline, a onetime professional piano player and full-time alcoholic, was 18 years younger than her husband. The biography shows how both inform Allen’s love of performance, his skill at promotion and showmanship, but most of all, his creative drive, providing the inspiration for his DUGOUT series of works.

Allen got his art education at Chouinard Art Institute (now California Institute of the Arts) in Los Angeles. One professor brought visiting Dadaists and surrealists such as Marcel Duchamp, Max Ernst, and Leonora Carrington to lecture. The surrealist Man Ray often stopped by the school to talk to students about the life of an artist. Allen was hooked.

Concurrent with his Chouinard schooling was his pursuit of music. The first song he ever wrote “Red Bird” scored him an appearance on the music television series Shindig! in 1965, generating enthusiasm from Brian Epstein, the manager of the Beatles.

In 1969, he wrote “Truckload of Art,” a song about a real truckload of art from New York destined for Los Angeles to show the upstart West Coast artists how art was supposed to be done, that crashed on the highway. Two years later, a snippet could be heard coming out of the radio of Warren Oates’ GTO in Two-Lane Blacktop, an arty feature film about street racers on a road trip across the southwest.

After graduating from Chouinard in 1966, he began teaching there and followed by teaching gigs at UC-Berkeley and Cal State Fresno.

Truckload of Art focuses on relationships, beginning with Allen’s partner in crime and marriage, the toothsome Jo Harvey. Theirs has been a tempestuous, sometimes competitive coupling while he chased myriad muses and she pursued her career as an actor, playwright, poet, radio producer, and songwriter—whenever they weren’t working together. He thought she should perform only original pieces she created. She enjoyed working in film.

Also documented is Allen’s long friendship with Dave Hickey, the acerbic writer, dealer, curator, and university professor from Fort Worth who opened A Clean, Well-Lighted Place gallery in Austin in 1967, and became the most incisive art critic of his time. Like Allen, Hickey wrote country songs, too.

Allen’s Corporate Head outside the Citicorp Plaza in Los Angeles. Photo by William Nettles

I’m not schooled enough to pass judgement on the art beyond my immediate reaction, and Allen usually makes me laugh. That was the immediate response when I saw Corporate Head, the life-size bronze of a businessman burying his head in the wall of a Los Angeles office building. The publication Atlas Obscura describes the work as “almost whimsical, yet rather grotesque.”

Sometimes the work has an edge too sharp to appreciate. That speaks to Allen’s interest in Antonin Artaud and his Theater of Cruelty, which strived to “shock the audience.” Allen was drawn to Artaud’s 1937 travelogue A Voyage to the Land of the Tarahumara about time spent in Mexico among the Tarahumara people experimenting with peyote. His curiosity led to staging his own play about Artaud Ghost Ship Rodez in Lyon, France.

The downs are as interesting as the ups. Juarez, the first of 13 albums he’s recorded, failed to launch as a Broadway musical, despite his collaboration with David Byrne, best-known as the lead singer of the band Talking Heads. The run of the 1994 theatrical play Chippy: The Diary of a West Texas Hooker, co-written with Jo Harvey for the American Music Theater Festival, turned out to be brief, but yielded the song “Fate with a Capital F” cowritten with Joe Ely and Butch Hancock, which remains one of my favorite Allen songs.

Some sweet bits pass by too quickly, such as Byrne’s bewilderment participating in a guitar pull with Allen and friends, and Allen’s dust-up with Tommy Lee Jones over verisimilitude. And I would have enjoyed eavesdropping on Hickey and Allen debating art.

It’s the little things that impress. Allen played in a band in high school with David Box, the teen chosen to replace Buddy Holly in the Crickets after Holly’s death in a plane crash in 1959, only for Box to die years later in a plane crash. In 1972, he played the Dripping Springs Reunion, the precursor of Willie Nelson’s Picnics, thanks to a Dave Hickey booking. Even Andy Warhol and the Manson Family make cameos. He’s been everywhere—Cambodia, France, London, Mexico, and India, telling stories every which way. And he took notes.

With Greaves’ help, Allen tells his most compelling story yet, the story of his creative life.

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