I never went to see Shaking Tree in concert. I never bought one of their three albums. And now I regret that I never did and never will. On one hand, Shaking Tree are, literally, like thousands of other bands: College rock from a band formed in college, get a loyal local following, bring out some records and grow their following, are on the edge of signing with a major label, and then - boom, nothing. Band is gone, their records are gone. I think about all these other bands who dreamed to go bigger than local, the elation they must have felt when that first album was out. And I'm thinking about all the music that is now lost, probably forever. Sure, some of these albums still exist, maybe in some cutout bins in whatever record stores still exist, but more likely in the garages or basements of people who liked the band back in the days and haven't thrown them in the trash, yet. But if you were a fan from when the band existed, so between 1995 and 2007, you are now middle-aged, have your I-Phone or Alexa play music and probably got rid of your CDs at least a decade ago. The title of this write-up is of course a riff on a very well known saying/philosophical riddle, but its aim is the same: What does it mean for Shaking Tree and its music if no one remembers them?
To be fair, when I first heard of the band, I was still getting my feet under me, in a strange place, in a strange land. It was literally my first day of university classes, and the band - eager to grow their local fanbase among freshmen I imagine - had pinned a couple of maxi-CDs for promo purposes on the announcement boards in university building hallways, together with a reminder where they'd play that weekend. Not knowing any of the music clubs in town, nor having yet a reliable crew of friends to join me, I passed on that concert, though I did pocket the CD, played it once, thought 'hey, that's pretty neat' and then left things there.
A couple of years ago, on a whim, going through my old Maxi CDs I threw in that Shaking Tree promo disc and was blown away by how great "Memory Of Me" sounded. Shaking Tree's music with its reliance on mandolin and/or violin to fuel their songs is definitely different from the usual drums-bass-guitar four piece. Founder, lead singer and songwriter Dain Estes originally wanted the band to sound like Talking Heads circa Naked, with World Music beats and influences, but after cycling through dozens of band band members settled on a four piece with him on vocals, guitar and mandolin, plus a violin player, bassist and drummer. He found a reliable vioolonist in Dan Waddington, who stayed with Shaking Tree throughout most of its tewelve year run, whereas the staff turnover in the rhythm section was more frequent.
Shaking Tree didn't and don't sound much like Talking Heads, but they do have a slight resemblance to the Dave Matthews Band who started to blow up at the time Shaking Tree were active. I never had much use for the Dave Matthews Band, finding most of their material bland and boring, and while the sound and feel throughout these ten Shaking Tree numbers and three Dain Estes solo tracks doesn't change much, it's more lively and memorable than its much better known counterpart, at least for my money.
This is some fabulous music, and I'm happy I at least still have those thirteen tracks, even if that's all that remains, here, 4550 miles from where the band once roamed. And yet I have a drink and a thought for the thousands of bands whose music lies now on obsolete albums in an obsolete format in obsolete record collections. Or landfill. A drink to all those who made music when they were young, or younger, who continue to make music, for ten or ten thousands of people. Keep on making that music, and we'll keep on listening. And maybe we'll find local bands like Shaking Tree that left no footprint, but the ones in the fading memories and music collections of those that were there. Or almost there, like me.
For those about to rock, in adulation or anonymity, we salute you.
