#bogshed

[apdistractions]

Bogshed - artwork by Mike Bryson

[sonofshermy]

[spilladabalia]

Bogshed - I Said No To Lemon Mash

[musickickztoo]

RIP  Mike Bryson  † November 10, 2022

[radiolewes]

Second instalment of requests on the theme of "work".

[mr-ig]

On Bogshed

Yes, the name. Yes. Unavoidable, so let's get it over with. No band has ever conquered the world, or even small parts of it, with a name like 'Bogshed'. Aware of that obstacle themselves, there's an entertaining anecdote, re-told in the notes accompanying a splendid 'Bog-set' reissue of their back catalogue on CD, in which the foursome head to the pub to thrash out a better moniker. After many hours and many pints, they manage nothing better than 'Tarty Lad'. They couldn't help themselves, that's the thing.

And they were widely reviled for it, more's the pity. I do wonder, in passing, if they'd have been quite so thoroughly sneered at if they'd hailed from somewhere less unfashionable (then, if not now) than Hebden Bridge, but they were frequently held up as a scapegoat for all that was wrong with mid-eighties indie: a miserable lack of ambition dressed up as bold independence, a dearth of skill masquerading as an artistic choice. They weren't helped in that by John Peel, who despite being an ardent admirer of the band, hung the word "shambling" around their necks. History insists on telling us that they'd have been long forgotten were it not for an appearance on the NME's C86 cassette.

None of that seems terribly fair, really. Along with Peel, and regardless of the C86 legend, and in spite of there now only being one member still alive, some of us have continued to remember Bogshed with huge fondness as the years have passed. They were an oddity then, they're an oddity now.

What they weren't, however, was wilfully obscure: the mis-labelling of their sound seems particularly frustrating given that, actually, it was remarkably easy to grasp if you bothered to try. Repetitive to the point of making the Fall sound like a free-jazz experiment, the beauty of the perfect Bogshed song is in establishing a simple and entirely logical riff, often led by Mike Bryson's chunky bass and then filled in with Mark McQuaid's spindly guitar before Tris King's drums pin it all to the floor, and then not changing it very much at all for three minutes. If you don't like the first ten seconds, there's nothing for you here. If, on the other hand, those seconds get your foot a-tapping, you're in for a right old treat, my friend.

Pretty much every Bogshed song is a joyous interlocking of those functional drum-bass-guitar parts, a firm-but-fun rhythm section which merrily barrels along underneath Phil Hartley's vocals. Those vocals are bold, sometimes squawky; they're distinguished from the post-punk crowd by a vague air of vaudeville, a whiff of end-of-the-pier entertainment. Even at his shoutiest, you knew that Hartley could be a crooner if he felt so inclined. The lyrics were odd, full of curious characters and surreal references, nostalgic and a bit parochial and occasionally somewhat bawdy, always loaded with Hartley's personality. Even when you didn't know what on earth he was banging on about, there was much to enjoy.

Viewed from the right angle, ignoring the warts and the boils, their essential jauntiness, their geniality, was inescapable. There are very few songs in their catalogue which won't leave you feeling just a little merrier than when they began. Bogshed wrote pop songs for singing in the shower, played them as if people would shake a leg on the dancefloor. Not their fault - name aside - if nobody did either.

Of the box set contents, the disk of Peel sessions is of particular academic interest. As so often, the Maida Vale recordings appear to capture the band as they actually wanted to sound; the rest of their output captures how they could afford to sound. There must be hundreds of bands of whom that's true. The first session, from 1985, finds a band clearly indebted to the muscular sound of the Membranes, on whose label they released a clattering first EP, also included; each subsequent session refines it just a little, fencing off their own patch amid a scene crowded with potential rivals. The different elements become clearer, the intentions less febrile.

Elsewhere, the first album, "Step On It", continues to be a personal favourite, even if its production only seems to have got thinner over the years. Even the cheapest studio can't suck the life out of these wonderful songs entirely, though: the scurrying absurdity of "Fastest Legs", the preposterous glam strut of "Mechanical Nun", the seesaw saaandwiiich-baar lurch of "Adventure Of Dog". A particular soft spot has always been occupied by "Tommy Steele Record", with its gentle trundling bassline and nostalgic tales of chip papers and childhood bed times; no other band of that era would've come up with something so unapologetically warm, so lacking in devilment. It's just a charming song, and it appears to aspire no higher (or lower).

"Brutal", its 1987 follow-up, broadens the palette considerably, but too late to win the wider attention it deserved. There are moments of genuine darkness; there's a punkish anger at play too; Hartley has diversified his range of accents; the differences of opinion that'd make it their last record are pretty easy to spot. And yet there's still a lightness too: "Loaf" releases Hartley's inner crooner to curiously touching effect, "No To Lemon Mash" is knowingly and gleefully ridiculous even by their standards. When they stick with the tried and tested formula, they've rarely been better: "Excellent Girl" is a riotous hoedown of a song, while album opener "Raise The Girl", thrust forward by a relentless chin-jutting riff which just gets more and more insistent for four minutes, would surely have been an indie disco staple if it'd belonged to a cooler band. They never were that band, though. When push came to shove, I'm not sure that they really wanted to be. Not enough, anyway. All four of them came up with that name, none of the four came up with something more sensible to replace it. They were Bogshed, they lived in a cottage on a hillside, they made a jovial racket that you'd never mistake for anyone else. If you succumbed to their charms, you took them warts and boils and all. 

[heeracha]

[ 12:42 AM] — it was official, you were done.

you sit in front of your laptop, hands on the keyboard as you softly tap your fingers against the keyboards. it was the only thing that could be heard. your eyes were on the side, thinking what else to do, but all in your mind was sleep.

thank god for lee heeseung.

he walks in, soft footsteps coming near and then it stops. you feel a soft peck on your head. you sigh, closing your eyes as you tilt your head upwards. and heeseung being the affectionate he is, presses kisses all over your face. with one final kiss on the bridge of your nose, he scoops you in his arms after closing your laptop. he brings you to the bathroom, sitting you on the counter as he puts some cleanser on his hand, rubbing his hands together as it lathers. heeseung then brings his hands to your cheeks, spreading it all over your face as he gently scrubs your face.

you don’t love to admit it, but sometimes, you just want to be pampered by your boyfriend. you were independent, heeseung knows that. but he also loves the times you would just give in to him. it’s not much, but he loves these moments.

he rinses your face, grabbing a towel to gently dry your face. you sigh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you press a kiss against his neck. he softly smiles, kissing your cheek as he wraps his arms around your waist, carrying to your bedroom. heeseung turns off the lights, closing the door as he lays on the bed with you on top of him.

you sigh in satisfaction, snuggling further into his warmth. “this is nice,” you mumble and heeseung hums, kissing your head. “can we stay like this forever, seungie?” you softly ask. you really want to. in his arms, no worries, no problems. just warmth and peace.

and he felt just the same. “i would love that, darling.”

[krnzysh]

Guys guys guess who i am

hulaan niyo daw

[walangmaisippnaurl]

bogsh healthy living na ako. lagi na ako nag jojog. tas naka 6km ako kanina!!!!!!!!!

[stillunusual]

The Legend! (issue #4) YEAR: 1985 CREATED BY: Jerry Thackray LOCATION: London SIZE: A4 WHAT'S INSIDE…. English music journalist and musician Jerry Thackray became known as The Legend! while working as the compere at club nights organised by Alan McGhee in the early 1980s. Thackray's single, "73 in 83" was the first release by McGee's Creation Records, and he contributed to the first two issues of McGee's fanzine Communication Blur before starting his own. He also continued to use the pseudonym The Legend! when he began working for the NME at roughly the same time….

Issue #4 of The Legend! fanzine has a deliberately chaotic layout and was one of a number of zines in the mid-1980s (like Rox, Attack On Bzag and Idiot Strength) that still had the look and feel of the original punkzines and were written with the same kind of attitude by people who were generally old enough to have been part of the original punk rock explosion (although Thackray changed things in the next issue of The Legend!, which was more colourful, stylish and reminiscent of a typical indie pop zine like Matt Haynes' Are You Scared To Get Happy).

He is clearly passionate about music, as well as being keen to share his feelings about life in general. Bands featured include The Mighty Lemon Drops, Bogshed, The Shop Assistants and Age Of Chance (who were from my home town of Leeds and also one of the first indie bands to incorporate electronic beats and samples into their sound). A flexi disc featuring a track each by The Shop Assistants and The Chesterfields was also given away with issue #4 of the zine.

Thackray enthuses at great length about fanzines (and his top 10 zines include all those mentioned above). This issue of The Legend! also features a humorous contribution from Miki Berenyi of Alphabet Soup.

The Legend! was one of the fanzines that appeared in Berenyi's Gutterpress. It was also described as “a load of old cobblers” in issue #2 of Pop Avalanche, but that was probably tongue in cheek….

Thackray is better known as "Everett True", the pseudonym he adopted after he was sacked by the NME in 1988 and started writing for Melody Maker instead.

Click on the title above to see scans of all the zine's pages….

my box of 1980s fanzines flickr

[jowiissaaa]

Bogsh

hi, i feel unsettled. bigla akong nawawala wala. nawalan ako ng gana. parang hindi ako ok today.

actually hindi namna talaga ako ok, i'm still keeping up sa lahat tapos biglang may turbulence ulit. :((

assess yourself jo, fix this kahit temporary muna. there are things na mas importante muna na i-deal atm.

[apdistractions]

Bogshed - Bog-Set (artwork by Mike Bryson)

[sonofshermy]

[spilladabalia]

Bogshed - The Fastest Legs

[lyncbn]

bOgsh