Dick Dillof (Dobro Dick)Richard Dillof ( Dobro Dick ) of Livingston, MontanaWriter, Musician and Antiquarian
Dick Dillof grew up back east and began studying old-time music at an early age. He started hopping freights and playing music and writing about his experiences, ending up in Montana where he’s spent most his adult years. He is a passionate antiquarian. His house is full of instruments, art, and curiosities, all with a story full of sound and romance.
We asked Dick, “What was it like to grow up in the east and then become a westerner, a Montanan?" He wrote out this answer when we last crossed paths:
Musical instruments in Dick Dillof's home"Once in my younger days I was crossing the state in a boxcar, feeling kinda jittery, when this tramp turns to me and says, "Here, take a slug of this. It'll settle you down some." He saw my discomfort. He didn't judge, just offered some Western hospitality. The West was rough edged but kind. The dominant male image was not that of the suave wealthy playboy of the East who had it all figured out, but that of the old seasoned cowboys of a Charlie Russell painting – curious, philosophical, soul searching, who enjoyed the ride along with the bumps. You were judged by your character more than your car. Even the professionals I met played down their status.
Out here there wasn’t that pressure to fit in like back East. There wasn’t any crowd to fit in to, lest it be the clan of the misfit. Contrary to the myth of the tough taciturn cowboy, the ones I met and worked with were expressive, eccentric, true individuals, rejoicing in our differences. They paid no more notice to a stutter than a scar.
It was a motley crew of rope throwers, saddle carvers, rail riders, and tale spinners, all creative types who could embellish anything and apply as much art to a lie as to a yodel. They made art out of the day, out of the moment.
I got to writing, took my tales east, played my music in some of the big cities, but it was the West that gave me inspiration. It was my tonic, like that hobo's whiskey, brewed in boxcars, bunkhouses and old fleabag hotels. I'm still sippin’ off it."
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