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Dog Folk

by Tyler Dettloff

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about

I haven't released many instrumental or folk songs. Deciding to release them together was at the advice of my dog, Banjo, who is the actual writer of these songs. He got me thinking about how I see myself, dogs I once had that are now gone, friends with personas so big they resonate an entire town, and how many killers there are in the world while I wrote these songs. Banjo is not my muse, rather, he is the embodiment of these songs. These songs fit together because they are what I share with my dog and myself on the porch. That is why the album is titled "Dog Folk" and features instrumental songs to remember dead dogs. It's cryptic to remember the dead, but it is a celebration to remember the dead with the living. Remember with me. Remember those dogs and folks we all lost. Remember the lost with others. Even if you only have a dog to share memories with.

credits

released February 28, 2015

All songs written and performed by Tyler Dettloff.
All songs recorded and engineered by Raymond Little.

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Tyler Dettloff Marquette, Michigan

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Track Name: Buck-Tooth Riddle (Uh Dud)
Well I ain't no Rock N Roll Man,
but I sing the best I can.
No underground-stud
singing in a basement.
No. I'm just uh dud.

I'm a slow wick, spit coal fumes,
pick like the devil 'n sing like the news.
I'm bad, I'm always bad.
I'm a lit spark, never light enough dark
to warm your heart. Just a low hum-drum
and I taste like Granddad's 5-O'clock rum.

Well I ain't no Nashville picker,
this rhythm hand won't get quicker
than doom-punk high on resin 'n chewin street-tar.
I could tell ya all about how I know myself,
what I'm not, what I am, and how it feels
to hold this totem pole but there's a mean
ol' orgy goin on up there.
All sorts uh cussin 'n cryin.

I'm a slow wick, spit coal fumes,
pick like the devil 'n sing like the news.
I'm bad, I'm always bad.
I'm a lit spark, never light enough dark
to warm your heart. Just a low hum-drum
and I taste like Granddad's 5-O'clock rum.

Most the time when I drink myself sleepy
I'd rather be pickin 'steada drinkin this wine
but this time I'm happy. You know, man,
I'm set.
Cause wine can make me feel as quick as a fiddle
or fragile as peanut brittle but when I pick a guitar
and sing a little I've seen more smiles.
And I feel like I'm in the middle.
That's it, man,
One ol' big ol' bück-tooth riddle.

I'm a slow wick, spit coal fumes,
pick like the devil 'n sing like the news.
I'm bad, I'm always bad.
I'm a lit spark, never light enough dark
to warm your heart. Just a low hum-drum
and I taste like Granddad's 5-O'clock rum.
Track Name: The Ballad of Blind Bob
Blind Bob Quinn was a man who couldn't sin.
Out all night drunk 'n rilled, hooting' hollering,
gettin wild. I bet one day he'll go

Up to heaven and cut a rug for us all.
His foot-fall thunder'll make you roll.
Get back up, don't you fall down flat,
Blind Bob jives with a cane and a hat.
He'll knock you down just to pick you back on up

Just to knock you down again 'n call you a friend,
'n say, "you looking mighty ugly these days,"
but he loves ya smile, can't get enough.
Every cig he smoked is a stolen puff.
That Blind Bob Quinn got the blues.

I'll tell ya a story about Blind Bob's soul,
the lost-and-found of the Soo folklore.
He lost it way back before he knew he had it
to a parkin' lot pirate on a tricycle
when he gambled away Sault. Ste. Marie.

That town with the locks, speckled 'n chicken-pocked,
ore-frieght industry ticked the tock.
That ain't steam it's coal fumes.
As a child Bob cursed the plumes
he wished that town would burn.

So he read the books and he learnt the words,
talked 'bout traveling like a mocking bird.
Never had no whip, no wheels to spin,
he always hitched rides from the trouble he in.
Never got caught, but that shit got old.

So he walked down to the Co-Op grocery store
where a pirate on a tricycle out the door said,
"I bet you think you know what real trouble is, boy."
But Blind Bob, man, he ain't no fool.

Bob said, "You sure are right, I know how to lose a fight,
but I always win at this gamblin thing. So, If I guess
what's under that eye-patch, old man,
you gotta buy my way

'Cross the country with this here guitar.
All I wanna do is travel far. An if I lose
I'll give ya my soul, old man.
I'll even throw in my clean record, too."

Well the parkin lot pirate thought it musta been a joke.
He leaned right back 'n drew a long toke
'n said, "If you guess what's 'neath my eye-patch, boy,
I'll lay a curse on all this land

that when you play your guitar wherever you are
folks'll drop money down on the floor.
You won't go hungry but you might get blue.
If you're wrong, I get your soul
and clean record, too."

The bet was fit 'n they both was smitten.
The devil never been this north of the mitten.
The pirate grewed horns 'n got out his pitch fork,
a crowd had gathered to see it all happen.
Bob had till the freighter passed to place his guess.

The fudgies all watched the boat go by.
Townsfolk looked at Bob 'n cried.
No one ever knew what's under
the Devil's old eye-patch.
So, Blind Bob was sure to lose.

But he'd hear this story before in a book
'n he recognized the Devil's stanky look.
He said, "I know what's under your
greasy ol' eye-patch:
the stink-sack of a skunk.

That's why your eyes burn when you laugh so loud
and you stink so bad you can never keep a crowd.
You a bad boweevil, you always been evil.
But I lock the lakes and I shake the gates.
I got six bullets and they're all for you,
Rock 'n roll, motherfucker.

The Devil hung his head away in his hands.
Blind Bob exposed all his plans.
He channeled the smokestacks 'n cursed the lands.
Lightnin struck 'n the world shut up.
He said, "Blind Bob, go, man. Play

Wherever you will, just don't sit still.
Play your guitar to empty a till.
Keep your soul 'n clean record, too.
I don't need 'em anyway."
The townsfolk all hoorayed.

Finally, Bob could lit outta town,
no one wanted to see his face around.
All the nasty jokses 'n no-good hoaxes
left town with Bob.

And that's how Sault Ste. Marie lost it's charm.