The Father of the Austin Music Scene
A. Dillo was the influence of a generation of Texas musicians and tunesmiths. This precocious little tank was found on the lawn of the state capitol one hot day in September 1970, by a group of hippies that were lounging on the grass sunning themselves, and smoking pot.
He was a sad little armadillo, lost, searching for his family unit, after being separated from them in Zilker Park a few days earlier, during a vicious thunderstorm and flash flood. A happy reunion was not to be. His mother and father were tits-up on Congress, and his siblings had been lunch for a pack of wild dogs. He was an orphan.
The dazed but kindly kids were drawn to the friendly little tank. They took him back to their pad just off Congress and proceeded to raise him as one of their own. They christened him A. Dillo.
One of the girls in the house was majoring in animal behavior and journalism at UT, and soon, was tutoring the ardent little critter in reading and writing.
Within six months, A. Dillo had mastered penmanship and was writing prose, and within a year he was writing short stories and speeches for the universities gaggle of prolific student protesters.
He experimented with strange substances and started hanging out with artist types and deep thinkers. He could write about current events, political science, theology, and music with the best of them, and, was invited to entertain the guest with his written word, at the many counter-culture parties that were now the rage in Austin. He was in a sense, a critter version of Alan Ginsburg.
But, being an armadillo, he couldn’t wear human clothes, so he employed an artist friend to decorate his shell to resemble a fashionable tie-dye t-shirt. He took to wearing round, rose-colored sunglasses and a variety of peace symbols and buttons. He was beyond cool.
His popularity, rapidly spreading beyond the tribal bounds of the Congress neighborhood, and into the local community of aphorism, infuriated his adopted bohemian family. Jealous, though silently envious, they accused A. Dillo of ” selling out” to the man.
The bad vibes from his former adoring family were bringing him down, so unable to create in the inimical atmosphere, he packed his sparse belongings in a Piggly Wiggly shopping bag and headed for Barton Springs, to find some peace and tranquility among the woods and good water.
While shuffling down Barton Springs Road, he happened upon a building that had recently opened called Armadillo World Headquarters. He was delighted to find a place that so openly celebrated his kind, and immediately scurried through a hole in the fence and took up residence beneath the beer garden stage, enjoying the clamorous musical atmosphere and the continual supply of spilled Lone Star beer that flowed through the cracks of the stage floor.
A group of guitar picking musicians that frequented the clubs beer garden eventually befriended the little fellow, and soon he was anointed as the “official mascot” of the headquarters. He was cool again, but he didn’t understand this new scene where long-hairs wore cowboy hats and listened to country music. He just assumed it was not his to follow.
The little poet was soon inspired by his energizing surroundings, once again, began putting his thoughts and prose to paper. In a moment of trusting innocence, he exposed his talent, and shared his library of work with a few of the beer garden musicians, hoping for a morsel of recognition.
The musicians were so impressed, they immediately confiscated his poems and lyrics and made them their own. That this library of written work came from an Armadillo, at that time, to this group, seemed utterly reasonable. After all, it was Austin in the early 70s, and it’s a well-documented fact, that if you remember that time, you weren’t really there.
Within a few months, the musicians and wailers at the headquarters were singing songs about Austin and everything Texas. A handful of the local artist was drawing A. Dillo’s likeness on their concert posters to promote the rapidly changing musical landscape.
Willie and Waylon took up residence at the headquarters and became the shaggy royal ambassadors of Austin music. Heady times they were.
A. Dillo was heartbroken. He had been bamboozled by the “love your brother and sister” preaching musicians. All of them to the bone, scoundrels, and thieves, false profits. His trust had been violated. His soaring soliloquies, his enlightening prose, his ramblings about his Texas, all stolen or plagiarized, with no hope of recovery, in a hundred different tunes. One cruel musician, blatantly and without remorse took his favorite poem and made a song about taking himself “Home with the Armadillo.” That was the deepest cut of all. He was a broken critter. ” Oh the pain of it all,” he wailed.
He soon left the headquarters, again packing his Piggly Wiggly bag and stealing away into the night.
He returned to Zilker Park, where he reconnected with the inhabitants of the park, giving in critter language, nightly readings of his poetry, to an enthusiastic and adoring crowd. He was elevated to star status among the parks animal population, and his name was known to all creatures for miles around. He was finally at peace with himself, his life, and his destiny.
He came to realize, that his life with human-kind was never meant to be, and, for all his talent, and the education they bestowed upon him, he had been destined to be viewed as an oddity, a circus freak of nature, never to be recognized for his contributions to their world.
Maligned and forgotten, A. Dillo was the real spark of inspiration for Austin’s progressive music scene of the 1970s. Without his influence, and the spread of his stolen words, tunesmiths, musicians and vocalist all over Austin would still be writing, and singing those dreary Three-chord hillbilly songs.
Jerry Jeff, Willie, Waylon, and the boys would have had to seek inspiration elsewhere, and the city would not have evolved into Austin as we know it today.
It was rumored that some years later, on a stormy night, much like the one that started his journey, while in the throe’s of a religious “out of body experience,” A. Dillo was hit by a vehicle while attempting to cross Barton Springs Road.
An old lady that lived in the Shady Grove trailer park scooped up his remains and fed them to her two Chihuahuas, using the painted shell as a planter to adorn the steps of her small Air-Stream trailer.
That little shell, its colors faded from time, sat on the steps of that old trailer for decades, and, Couples with gray hair, walking to one of the many restaurants on the street, grandchildren, and dogs in tow, would sometimes notice the little shell full of colorful flowers. The ones who had known the little poet, or knew the legend, would approach the small shrine and pay homage by explaining to their grandchildren, the true story of the “real” father of Austin music.