Burlap Wolf King — “You Can’t Be A Byrd If You Can’t Fly” / Ryan Kickland — “The Valley”

Vinyl, 7", 33 ⅓ RPM, Single

It was 2005 when Bad Religion’s Greg Graffin put out a folk record, and so that means it was 2005 when I finally asked why the hell all of my punk heroes were slowly turning into Kris Kristofferson.

Let me preface this: I didn’t mind. Avail’s Tim Berry and Hot Water Music’s Chuck Ragan had already made the splash, and their records were soon to be released, not counting that amazing Rumbleseat discography. Graffin himself had put his first solo acoustic record out in 1997, when I was still fresh from graduating high school, when I wasn’t aware punk could cross waves with anything, to be honest.

It all makes sense. It’s the music of southern punk — acoustic beer drinking music for dudes who like to fish, but also like to get loud in shitty Floridian bars. It was bound to happen.

And then it started happening in Sioux Falls. The punk kids I grew up with all picked up their acoustic guitars and their Townes Van Zandt and now, suddenly, the city is lousy with talented folk singers and it’s the good punk bands who are impossible to find. It’s a far cry from the late 90s, when even the shittiest punk bands were tapped to open for Napalm Death at the Pomp Room.

It’s great. I love it. I think it’s fitting that everyone grew old. But, still: when did all the punk get so old?

It’s a silly question, because it didn’t. It stayed where it was. Where it belonged. And we slowly shifted toward something else.

I figured this out a few months back, when I saw my friends and contemporaries settling down for a punker-gone-folk show recently, and the grey hairs started showing and the “we’ve got kids” curfews were set up and we all sat down and relaxed. Life changed. Punk got old. And we’re not weirdly co-opting folk and country — we’ve just finally learned how to grow into it, because while punk got old, we got older.

Smarter. Better.