Given how everything is accessible simply with a tap these days, I seem to find myself craving for more tangible and DIY things in my life. Something that felt truly mine and did not come in the form of digital “ownership.” That feeling eventually led me to start my own publication, Alter Start, a zine primarily focused on the underground music scene.

Similarly, Yong Chern Han (48), commonly known as Cherny, founder of the local music zine Rotten Times and a gig photographer, says, “Putting snippets of this organic DIY culture of the scene on an exploitative platform like Instagram, mostly purposed for ad targeting and training AI models, it was very cognitively dissonant to me.”

When you converse with modern-day music zine makers, you will soon realise that there is a shared sentiment among us all, that while the origins of producing physical media lie in the undeniable love for the scene, there is also a strong connotation of being part of this culture in an attempt to subvert from the current state of affairs, where society has become digital-centric and AI-reliant.

As someone who participates in this creative medium, I was fascinated to learn about our zine culture and its significance in preserving our underground scene, especially back when digital media was not as prominent as it is now. With that in mind, I decided to jump onto this topic and dig deeper, mostly out of my own curiousity, but also to shine a light on local publications that sometimes get overlooked in their role for keeping our underground scene’s legacy alive.

Before the popularity of digital media, music zines were a substantial platform for the underground scene. Away from mainstream narratives, zines were a medium for people to share the raw and untold stories of the communities they took part in. You can track their origins back as far as the 1920s. The name derives from “fanzine” (pronounced as “fan-zeen”), a form that started during the Great Depression, when editors became increasingly frustrated with letters detailing the impossibility of their science fiction stories, which led to fans do the same with one other.

Music zines like Sniffin Glue’ and The Next Big Thing, however, were adopted by the punk music scene in the 1970s, and you can now find zines across all genres. With their roots in a non-commercial, independent and DIY (do-it-yourself) ethos, alongside their affordability, it is no wonder that zines were one of the best-known mediums for music promotion and a form of preservation in the underground scene.

When you think, “Where do I find more information on local bands?”, social media is probably the first thing that comes to mind. Back in the 1990s though, zines were at the forefront of music discovery, especially for the punk scene. They were a form of insider communication, filled with content such as reviews, interviews and listings of upcoming gigs. These zines also crossed borders when local bands went on tour, becoming a way of exchanging information and learning about another country’s music scene.

Cherny mentions that rather than looking at zines as collectibles, they were treated just like newspapers back then: “For every issue that came out, at least one person in our circle would buy a copy, and it would get read and passed around until it got lost." They were easily accessible and affordable for the laypeople who were curious.

While the debate over how a zine should look remains up in the air, as a zine maker myself, I personally believe that as long as a publication’s ethos lies in being independent and DIY, we have other problems to worry about.

Launched in 1985, BigO was initially a photostated, black-and-white zine before transitioning into a full-fledged colour magazine in the early 1990s. When the now-defunct newspaper Singapore Monitor closed, the journalists who wrote its music columns received a passionate response from readers urging them to continue their work, which eventually led to the start of BigO. The group comprised brothers Michael and Philip Cheah, their friend Stephen Tan and contributors like Chris Ho (also a musician, a radio DJ and a music columnist for The Straits Times), Lim Teck Lin and Gerrie Lim. They set sail on their journey in the local music scene as an independent publication. “We were tired of how Singapore mainstream music journalism at that time was merely a regurgitation of press releases without analysis, reflection and originality,” notes Philip, on the other factor that pushed them into starting the publication. Ask anyone who was around the height of BigO’s time and they would also tell you about its significance in spreading word of the scene.

Other noteworthy zines founded in the 1990s include Vortex and Bigot, which were hardcore and punk zines, alongside Red Letter Day and Filterlanes, which started during the emo boom. It was also around this time that zines started to feature more introspective writing, poetry and journaling-style articles. There were even zines like Flammable Sheet and Primary Concern that focused on subgenres such as grindcore, crust and powerviolence. With such a variety of zines available, it is evident that music zines were the main form of communication for the scene back then.

Then came the digital media boom. As a 2000s-born kid, I recall digital media being pretty advanced when I was introduced to it. Between cable TV, channels like MTV and even YouTube, my main source of music introduction was rarely physical media, which got me thinking about how these publications navigated their way during that specific time and how different the experience of running one would have been compared with modern times.

I reached out to Eddino, music correspondent for Singapore newspaper The Straits Times, who is also part of the pioneering band Force Vomit. He interestingly mentions that local interviews were usually conducted face-to-face, but foreign zines worked differently. He highlights: “They would usually send a physical letter for Force Vomit via my home address. Sometimes the answers were handwritten, while other times they were typed and printed on a computer before being mailed back to the zines”. These days, you can just email the bands or even interview them over a Zoom call.

Beyond that, in modern times, creating a zine and managing the expenses that go into making one are highly challenging, especially when you can find most information online. When Cherny founded Rotten Times back in 2023, during the peak of social media, he accepted from the beginning that zine-making would likely be a loss-making project, especially if he wanted to keep the price as low as $9. He also acknowledges that each issue takes up the majority of his free time and sleep, which is the major factor holding him back from starting another issue. He stresses, “There is that great obligation to finish it so that the interviewee's efforts do not go to waste."

For Alter Start, I approached it a bit differently. Given that I am juggling school and part-time work, I am aware of the financial strains that may occur in the long run. To ensure the publication's longevity, my main focus is putting out one zine annually, usually centred on a certain topic, while dabbling in other projects such as gig organising while we are on a break. I have also made it my mission to bring zine culture back into gigs. Part of the experience of attending any of our gigs is bringing home a complimentary mini zine about the gig’s line-up.

Most of my inspiration lies in my adolescence experience with magazines. Our zines are often sold as a set with a variety of knick-knacks. Though some may disagree with how the zines are priced (starting from $20), the profits mostly go into future zine funds and compensating those involved. I’m a firm believer in paying creatives when you have the means to, even if the amount is not colossal. In simpler words, the creatives have to eat too.

The process of zine making is laborious. From curating the creative direction, designing the graphics and liaising with musicians, to the nitty-gritty details of cutting pages and exploring a variety of binding methods, it is definitely not an effortless project. So, why do people continue making zines despite the hurdles?

From my interview with Philip, he briefly mentioned that “censorship was a constant headache then.” Publishing licences were annual, and to renew them, publishers had to attend annual meetings to discuss the material in their works. “Subjects that you never imagined could be a problem became issues. For example, when Batam launched 101.6 FM in 1989 and we covered it as news, we were censored for that.” Given that everything is easily accessible online these days, I feel there has been a little more leniency in the articles that are published locally. This does not mean, however, that taboo topics must remain completely off-limits.

As for Cherny, who is repulsed by AI scraping, he believes “physical zines are a way to regain control from big tech companies, which have no business being so deeply entrenched in a DIY subculture.” His primary motivation for starting Rotten Times was rooted in the cognitive dissonance he experienced when posting gig photos on a profit-oriented platform that focuses only on ad targeting and training AI models. Just like him, I have found that putting out physical zines is a way to slow down my artistic process and appreciate art as it is, not only to step away from viewing art through a capitalistic lens but also to create something meaningful solely for the love of the game.

Despite the gap between eras, Philip's experience highlights a common obstacle faced by local publishers: a yearning for control over our works and for freedom of expression. Strict censorship in a country often discourages creatives from offering social commentary openly in their works, which can make consumers feel that our art is lacking; at least, that is the common notion I have been hearing. Zines were essentially objects of resistance, and I believe their ethos is still evident in our local music scene. Despite everything, people continue to create and that stubborn resilience is why local music is even more accessible now.

While I believe digital media will remain at the forefront for this generation, music zines will continue to serve as a form of preservation, especially for generations to come. People will still seek ownership beyond digital platforms and DIY culture will continue to prevail, as it does right now.

Nowadays, music-centric zines have been popping up at booths and gigs. With new faces such as Earplugs and Infinite Feedback, and even bands like Blush, making their own zines, it is evident that participation in this movement is thriving. While Cherny and I are not enthusiastic about heavy social media use, we believe that it is the most effective way of reaching people both locally and around the world, and in fact, most people found out about our publications through it.

“I do see a revival in zine culture. It is a very exciting time from a journalistic point of view; mainstream media has been almost entirely co-opted. So, the role of fanzines, even in music reporting, can be very important," says Philip, a pioneering music journalist.

Ultimately, I feel there is immense importance in music zine culture and its role in preserving the underground scene. Especially now, when mainstream publications such as Hear65 are slowly disappearing, music zines fill those critical gaps directly from the communities involved. I personally believe you will only get to hear the true and raw stories of the scene from these independent music zines themselves.