The Sheepdogs stumbled out of Saskatoon like a drunk looking for a fight in a bar that closed hours ago. They had the hair, the denim, the cowboy shirts, and the kind of swagger that only comes from believing your own myth before anyone else does. They were a band built on nostalgia, a time machine that only went backward, and for a while, people bought it. Hell, even Rolling Stone did, slapping them on the cover of their “Choose the Cover” contest in 2011. The Sheepdogs won, and suddenly, they were the poster boys for a rock ‘n’ roll revival no one asked for.

But let’s start at the beginning, because every story about a band that almost made it needs a beginning. The Sheepdogs formed in 2006, a time when rock was already gasping for air, strangled by the cold hands of pop and hip-hop. They played the kind of music your dad might like if he still smoked weed and wore his old concert tees from the ‘70s. Their sound was a Frankenstein of classic rock—a little Allman Brothers here, a dash of Creedence Clearwater Revival there, and a whole lot of Lynyrd Skynyrd worship. It was safe, familiar, and just edgy enough to make you think they might have something to say.

For a while, it worked. They toured relentlessly, churning out albums like Learn & Burn and The Sheepdogs, which sounded like they were recorded in a time capsule buried in 1973. Critics called them “authentic,” and fans called them “refreshing.” But authenticity is a funny thing. You can’t wear it like a cowboy shirt or grow it out like a mustache. It either is or it isn’t, and The Sheepdogs were always trying too hard to convince you they had it.

Their rise was meteoric, but meteors burn up, don’t they? By the time they released Future Nostalgia in 2015, the cracks were showing. The songs were still technically sound, but they felt hollow, like a beer can crushed under a boot. They were chasing a Southern rock sound that wasn’t theirs to claim, and it showed. Cowboy shirts and long hair don’t make you Skynyrd, just like living in a garage doesn’t make you a car.

The Sheepdogs’ problem wasn’t talent—they could play, sure—but originality. They were a cover band for a genre that died decades ago, and no amount of facial hair could hide that. Their music became predictable, a pastiche of riffs and harmonies that felt like they were pulled from a classic rock Mad Libs. They were stuck in a feedback loop of their own making, too afraid to evolve, too comfortable in their vintage leather jackets.

And then, just like that, the world moved on. The Sheepdogs became a footnote, a band that almost mattered but didn’t. They’re still out there, playing festivals and small clubs, peddling the same sound to the same people who still think rock ‘n’ roll is coming back. But rock ‘n’ roll isn’t coming back, not like this. The Sheepdogs are proof that you can’t resurrect the past by dressing up like it.

So here’s to The Sheepdogs, a band that tried to bottle lightning but ended up with a lukewarm beer. They had their moment, and maybe that’s enough. But in the end, they were just another bunch of guys in cowboy shirts, chasing a dream that was never theirs to begin with.

And if that’s not rock ‘n’ roll, I don’t know what is.