Doot Doot Parade (67) is our second lullaby, and honestly, the demand was real. Parents kept telling us "6, 7… 8" was the only thing that got their kid down at night, then asking, politely but insistently, if we had another one. We didn't, yet. So we wrote one.
The title is the joke that started the whole song. Doot Doot (67) is Skrilla's original, the Philly drill track that put 67 on the map in the first place: real block, real weight, real story. We took the "doot doot" and marched it about as far from Southwest Philly as a phrase can travel: a candle-lit parade of small children through a fairy-tale medieval town, everyone in matching pajamas, nobody older than seven. If Skrilla ever hears this version, we owe him an explanation and possibly an apology.
The town itself is Rothenburg ob der Tauber, the walled medieval town in Bavaria with the towers, the cobblestones, and an actual professional Night Watchman who still walks the streets after dark telling people to go home. We did not hire him. We did not ask him. We are fairly confident he would not approve of a children's parade shouting "six-seven" through his cobblestones at bedtime, which is exactly why we found it funny.
Sonically it's a chill trap lullaby at around 80 bpm, built around a gentle, whispered female vocal that never once tries to compete with the room. The marching percussion opens light and playful, a little snare, a little shuffle, and then slowly settles until it's basically just a heartbeat keeping time. Warm pads underneath, a soft dusting of reverb, enough space to feel like a room and not a cave. Still playful in its bones. Just quieter with every bar, like it's tucking itself in.
The "flags are folding down" line is doing double duty. It's the parade ending for the night, sure. It's also just what happens to any four-year-old holding a flag past their bedtime. The flag droops before the kid does, every single time, and every parent reading this knows exactly the moment we mean.
We tried to make the ending disappear rather than finish. No big last chorus, no key change, nothing that would wake anybody back up. Just "doot doot" repeated slower and slower until it stops being a word and starts being breathing. If "6, 7… 8" was the album closing its eyes, this one is the whole town closing its eyes with it.
This one's for every kid who's ever been marched to bed by two hand-clapped syllables and a made-up number, and every parent who's been grateful for it. Doot doot. Six-seven. Goodnight, little marchers.
Perfect State