Joshua Abelow at Gene’s Presents at Forms, Hamtramck

Once upon a time,
sometime ago –
back on the east coast,
in New York City, to be exact –
a bunch of artists and painters
and sculptors and musicians
and poets and writers
and dancers and architects
all started feeling real superior
to their ego counterparts
out on the West Coast,
so they all got together
and decided they would show
those snotty surfer upstarts
a thing or two about the Big Apple,
and they hired themselves a truck.

It was a big, spanking-new,
white, shiny, chrome-plated,
cab-over Peterbilt
with mud flaps, stereo,
TV, AM & FM radio,
leather seats,
and a Naugahyde sleeper –
all fresh with new American flag decals
and “ART ARK”
printed on the side of the door,
with solid, 24-karat, gold-leaf type.

And they filled up this truck
with the most significant piles
and influential heaps of artwork
to ever be assembled in modern times
and sent it west to chide, cajole, humble,
and humiliate the Golden Bear;
and this is the true story of that truck…

A Truckload of Art
from New York City
came a-rollin’ down the road;
ah, the driver was singing
and the sunset was pretty,
but the truck turned over
and she rolled off the road.

Yeah, a Truckload of Art
is burning near the highway;
precious objects are scattered
all over the ground,
and it’s a terrible sight
if a person were to see it,
but there weren’t nobody around.

Yeah, the driver went sailing
high in the sky,
landing in the gold lap of the Lord,
who smiled and then said:
“Son, you’re better off dead
than haulin’ a truckload
full of hot avant-garde.”

Yeah, a Truckload of Art
is burning near the highway;
precious objects are scattered
all over the ground,
and it’s a terrible sight
if a person were to see it,
but there weren’t nobody around.

Yes, an important artwork
was thrown burning to the ground,
tragically landing in the weeds;
and the smoke could be seen,
ahhh, for miles all around;
yeah, but nobody knows what it means.

Yes, a Truckload of Art
is burning near the highway,
and a tough job for the highway patrol;
ahhh, they’ll soon see the smoke
and come runnin’ to poke,
then dig a deep ditch
and throw the arts in a hole.

Yeah, a Truckload of Art
is burning near the highway,
and it’s raging far out of control,
and what the critics have cheered
is now shattered and queered,
and their noble reviews
have been stewed on the road.

Yeah, a Truckload of Art
is burning near the highway;
precious objects are scattered
all over the ground –
oh, a terrible sight
if a person were to see it,
but there weren’t nobody around.

–    Terry Allen, “Truckload of Art,” from Lubbock (On Everything), 1979