In the frenetic, beer-soaked, tinnitus-inducing atmosphere of early-2000s Detroit, the (other) Big Three ruled the conversation. The White Stripes, Electric Six, and the Von Bondies dominated the bold print and rained buzz and music industry expense accounts upon the scene. Amid this madness, there was one band — Bogue — that could have ruled them all.
With all the raw power of Detroit’s gritty rock legacy and a deep, intricate sound that drew from punk, soul, and heavy blues, Bogue had the guts, the swing, and the punch. It was the proverbial favorite band of your favorite band. And its live shows were sweaty, howling celebrations of heartbreak and good times. But by the time the bloom was off the “Detroit is the next Seattle” rose, Bogue was no more and all the band had left behind was a demo recording, made on the quick and cheap, that was passed hand-to-hand.
Now, more than 20 years since its recording and the passing of band co-leader Dan Maister, Bogue’s music has been remastered and is finally getting a shot at a proper release as the album How’d You Feel About Talkin’ to Me on the Jett Plastic Recordings label.
A band born from the Cass Corridor
Bogue could only have been born in one place, the Cass Corridor (not “Midtown”), the funky pumping artistic heart of Detroit, where genres and boundaries and hearts go to be broken. Guitarist-singer Maister and drummer (and acclaimed sculptor) Matt Blake formed Bogue as a two-piece in 1999, shortly after Maister left his spot as bassist in PW Long’s Reelfoot — the outfit that Mule mainman Preston Long spun out of the ashes of that legendary band.
They hadn’t played long before they hooked up a gig at the Gold Dollar where Mike Walker (late of psych noise titans Gravitar) worked as a doorman. “As soon as I saw them, I said to myself, ‘I have got to be in this fucking band,” recalls Walker. Turns out, Walker and Maister lived across an alley from one another in the Corridor and had been head-nod-familiar from the neighborhood. It made it easy to give jamming together a shot.
The trio’s chemistry was immediate, their collaboration organic. It helped, says Walker, that “I think Dan was ready to be the songwriter he always wanted to be.”
Their proximity helped cement their bond and made it easier to woodshed the jams Maister had written and practice five times a week.
The result was Bogue — a band that married the blues punk energy and legacy of the Laughing Hyenas with the soulful groove of Detroit’s deeper musical roots.
The lost demo: Capturing lightning in a bottle
Bogue’s music has the raw intensity of the city’s most iconic bands, but there was something more underneath. Beneath the gut-punching power of their live shows was a surprising intricacy — an almost jazzy interplay between the musicians that never veered into indulgence. The band’s sound drew from a wide range of influences, from classic rock to Southern soul, with a heavy dose of punk rock attitude.
“We listened to a ton of the Meters, Otis Redding, and the Stones,” Walker says. “But we also came from a punk rock background. We loved Mudhoney and the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. We wanted to create something that merged all those influences.”
In 2002, Bogue entered the studio to record what they thought was just a demo, recorded by Jim Diamond at Ghetto Recorders to be shopped to the swirling industry interested parties of the day. The recording process was rushed. They had only two days to capture their sound, with seriously limited resources. “We didn’t have any money for tape,” Walker recalls. “So, Diamond let us record over two reels — 40 minutes of tape, like, old Hentchmen part recordings maybe.
“It was super tight, but we didn’t care. We just wanted to get it done.”
What that time constraint did, though, was capture on tape the urgency of the band’s live show. Walker remembers the process as almost impulsive: “We tracked all the music in one day, and Dan laid down vocals the next. We were in the studio, but we didn’t have time to be precious with it. We were like, ‘cut it, print it, let’s go.’”
“Diamond would just be like, ‘Sounds like another hit to me!’ and we’d move on,” laughs Walker.
“It was really about capturing the energy. We didn’t want to spend time obsessing over every detail.”
There’s a distinct vitality to the demo that was preserved even in the remastering process. The spontaneity, the sweaty joy of playing together as a band, is all there. The music wasn’t overworked or overproduced, and that’s part of what made it so compelling. “It’s a young band cooking live in the studio,” Walker reflects. “It’s messy, but in a good way.”
So, while it wasn’t supposed to be the final product, the demo captured the essence of Bogue at that moment in time — hungry, confident, and ready.
The recordings immediately became a cult classic for those who managed to get their hands on the burned CDs.
At the time, Bogue had serious interest from labels. “We were shopping the demos around, trying to find a label that understood us,” Walker recalls.
At one point, the band thought they might be the flagship act for a new label started by and named after Diamond, its trusted producer, financed by New York-based investors hot on the Detroit sound.
“Jim understood us. He got the soul in our sound, and he loved the dirty, loud side of our music,” Walker says.
“I remember they couldn’t wrap their silly heads around what ‘bogue’ meant,” says Diamond, “and wanted the band to change their name!”
The label was ready to launch, “I had a logo, etc., etc., the record was done and then they lose the distributor!” says Diamond.
“Now we have an ‘if a tree falls in the forest...’ scenario.”
This experience left a bitter taste in the band’s mouth. “It felt like people saw Detroit as a commodity,” Walker explains. “[The money people behind the label] wanted to capitalize on the scene, but they didn’t care about the music. It was just business for them.”
“It got really dark there,” says Walker. “It was difficult with the lifestyle choices we were making.”
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The band, nevertheless, continued full court press trying to break through. Maister and Walker joined the band the Detroit City Council, led by pal and scene stalwart Tom Potter of Bantam Rooster, for a U.K. tour. They toured backing up and opening for PW Long.
“We were all in,” says Walker, “We were going to make Bogue happen.”
The pressure nevertheless mounted and Matt Blake left the band to focus on his sobriety. The band recruited a new drummer, Bill Hafer, a fine art painter who had most recently been in an East Side Guns N’ Roses cover band. While Hafer brought new energy to the group, the internal struggles, including addiction and creative differences, began to erode the band’s momentum.
“It got really dark there,” says Walker. “It was difficult with the lifestyle choices we were making.”
The band’s trajectory inevitably slowed, and the excitement that had once driven Bogue backslid to entropy. The final note was Maister’s tragic suicide in January of 2005. He was just 34 years old. Original drummer Blake, too, died suddenly of a heart attack in 2008 at the age of 43.
Walker continued in other musical projects and eventually re-settled in his hometown of Marquette. It is from that geographical, temporal, and psychological distance that he now has the chance to see the work the band produced and shepherd it into the light.
A powerful legacy
For Walker, the decision to release the record was a personal one. “It’s been 20 years, and I’ve accepted that it probably wouldn’t come out.” But then Walker contributed an interview to an oral history accompanying the 20th anniversary reissue of Electric Six’s album Fire.
“And it just hit me, I need to get this out,” he says. “I didn’t care if people thought it was a vanity project. I just wanted to see it through and put it to rest. This is something I was part of, and I’m really proud of it.”
It made perfect sense, then, to go back to the source and see if the recordings could get that final push, the last bit of “oomph” and polish from the man who recorded them two decades ago. So it was that Diamond was tapped to remaster them. The difference is both subtle and startling.
“When I found the stuff to master,” says Diamond, “it was just to make it big and loud and keep true to what we had recorded over 20 years ago. Nothing fancy needed.”
“I had basically zero input, and honestly I was kind of relieved,” says Walker.
“I didn’t know what to look for when he sent the masters back to me. I’d listened to the rough mix quite a few times in the previous months, trying to decide the order. So, when I put it on the stereo, I was totally shocked. It sounds ferocious!
“I texted Jim right away, and he’s like, ‘Yeah. It *should* sound ferocious!’
“I think my wife was laughing at me because I’m sure I was making stupid faces,” says Walker. “Like I was watching a boxing match or something.”
Despite the passage of time — and with the weight of the intervening challenges and tragedies of two decades — Walker feels a deep connection to the music.
“I’m proud of what we did with this stuff. Pride is something that’s new to me, but this is what helped me get to a point in my life that I can accept that as a concept.”
He cites the song “I’ll Regret This,” a slow instrumental, as an example.
“When I was still drinking, I couldn’t hear it and not cry, for missing both Dan and Matt. Now I hear it, and I want to climb on the roof and play it for the whole town, ‘You hear that, fuckers?! You can’t step to that!’ kinda vibe,” he laughs.
“The most regrettable part is that I don’t get to see Dan and Matt’s reaction to this. There’s so much work that went into it, and every decision I make now, I wish I could run it by them. But I know it’s the right time to release it. At least it’s getting done.”
Bogue may never have become a household name, but with the release How’d You Feel About Talkin’ to Me?, folks will finally get to hear a lost classic of Detroit rock properly — a record that was never meant to be heard as loud and proud as it should have been.
As Walker reflects on the band’s legacy, he remains proud of what it achieved. “We never really got to be the band we could have been, but that’s just how it goes sometimes,” he says. “We were part of something special, and now people can finally hear it. Better late than never.”
A record release party will go down at 8 p.m. on Saturday, Nov. 23, at Donovan’s Pub; 3003 Vernor Hwy., Detroit; 313-964-7418. DJ Anytime (aka Steve Nawara of the Detroit Cobras, Rocket 455, and Wildbunch) will spin jams.
