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 didn’t 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 for the founder of local music zine Rotten Times and gig photographer, Yong Chern Han (48), commonly known as Cherny mentions “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’ll soon realise that there’s a share sentiment among us all, that while the origins of producing physical media lies in the undeniable love for the scene, there’s 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 wasn’t as prominent as now. With that in mind, I decided to jump onto this topic and dig deeper, mostly out of my own curiosity but also to shine the 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 had been 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 partook in. You can track its origins back to as far as the 1920s. Derived from the term “fanzine” (pronounced as “zeens”) and started during the Great Depression era when editors became increasingly frustrated with letters detailing the impossibility of their science fiction stories, their response by publishing overly-scrutinising letters with return addresses led to fans doing the same thing with each other.

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

When you think “Where do I find more information on local bands?” Social media is the first thing that comes to our modern minds. Back in the 1990s though, zines were at the forefront of music discovery, especially for the punk scene. It was a form of insider communication. You would find a range of content like reviews, interviews and about upcoming gigs. These zines also went beyond borders when local bands were on tour, it was a way of exchanging information and learning about a 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." It was easily accessible and affordable for the laymen who were curious.

While the debate for how a zine should look remains 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 closure for the defunct newspaper Singapore Monitor happened, the journalists of the music columns were faced with a passionate response from their readers to continue their works, which eventually led to the start of BigO. The group—which included brothers Michael and Philip Cheah, their friend Stephen Tan, as well as contributors like Chris Ho (also a musician, a radio DJ and a music columnist for The Straits Times), Lim Teck Lin, and Gerrie Lim—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 their significance in spreading about the scene.

Other noteworthy zines founded in the 1990s are Vortex and Bigot, hardcore/punk zines alongside Red Letter Day and Filterlanes that started during the emo boom. It was also around the time when zines started having more introspective writing, poetry, and journaling-style articles. There were even zines like Flammable Sheet and Primary Concern that focused on subgenres like grindcore, crust and powerviolence. With such a variety of zines available, it’s 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. From cable TV and having access to channels like MTV and even YouTube, my main source of music introduction was rarely from physical media, which got me thinking about how these publications navigated their way during that specific time and how different the experience of being one would’ve been as compared to modern times.

I had reached out to Eddino, music correspondent for Singapore newspaper The Straits Times, who is also part of the pioneer band Force Vomit. He interestingly mentions that for local interviews, it was usually face-to-face, but for foreign zines, he highlighted that “they will 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 do a Zoom call to interview them.

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 because each issue takes up the majority of his free time and sleep, that’s also the major thing that holds him back from starting another issue. He stresses: “There’s that great obligation to finish it so that the interviewee's efforts don't go to waste."

For Alter Start, I approached it a bit differently. Given how I’m juggling school and part-time work, I’m aware of the financial strains that may occur in the long run. To ensure longevity for the publication, my main focus is pushing out zines annually, usually focused on a certain topic and dabbling in other things like gig organising while we’re on a break. I’ve also made it my mission to integrate zine culture back into gigs. Part of the experience of going to any of our gigs is bringing home a complimentary mini zine about the gig’s lineup.

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 (ranging from $20 onwards), the profits mostly goes 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 isn’t colossal. In simpler words, the creatives have to eat too.

The process of zine making is laborious—from curating the creative direction, graphic design and liaising with musicians to the nitty-gritty details of cutting and exploring a variety of binding methods, it’s 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 how everything is easily accessible online these days, I feel there has been a little more leniency in the articles that are being put out 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 with posting gig photos on a profit-oriented platform that only focuses on ad targeting and training AI models. Just like him, pushing out physical zines has been a way for me 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 rather, create something meaningful solely for the love of the game.

Despite being separated by eras, Philip's experience highlights a common obstacle faced by local publishers: the yearning for a sense of control in our works and freedom of expression. Strict censorship that prevails in a country often pushes creatives away from discussing social commentary in their works openly, which can make consumers feel like our art is lacking; at least that has been the common notion I have been hearing. Zines were essentially an object of resistance, and I believe their ethos is still evident in our local music scene. In spite of everything, people continue to create, and that stubborn survivability is the reason local music is even more accessible now.

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

Nowadays, music-centric zines have been popping up at booths and gigs. With new faces like Earplugs, 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 usage, we believe that it is the most effective way of reaching people both locally and around the world; in fact, most people got to know of our publications through it.

“I do see a revival in zine culture. It’s 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 pioneer 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 never get to hear the true and raw stories from the scene but from these independent music zines themselves.