Underground Reading Material

Pick up Issue 4 of Singaporean indie mag, Meantime, and you might wonder what happened to the rest of it. The magazine is (and I'm ashamed to say I had to google this) trapezium-shaped. A rectangle severed on a random diagonal, like some penny-pinching publisher used a guillotine to chop off the bottom half. And, well, that's pretty much what happened. Minus the penny-pinching bit.

"The shape always reflects the theme of the magazine," says Meantime's editor, Pang Xue Qiang. "Basically we wanted to give people a reason to own it. Like, physically own it. When we started Meantime, most people felt that articles should be available free online, but by playing with the form, hopefully we've given people a reason to actually hold the magazine. And to keep it."

Meantime's mission, according to itself, is to "document Singapore stories lost to time". Trapezoidal Issue 4 was all about 'Bad Stories'. Issue 5 is Breakups. For that one, Pang and his crew covered Meantime in irregular golden cracks, à la Japanese kintsugi joinery, hand-shaving the magazine's fore-edge into rough, uneven shapes.

"The printers cut it first with a machine," Pang says, "but it was a very neat, clean cut. And breakups aren't like that. So we shaved down the edge of each magazine by hand, which means every single copy is unique. Just like every relationship."

Between the non-rectangular covers of Meantime, you'll find stories and ideas that would never in a million years make it into the mainstream Singaporean media¹. A guide for breakup bouquets (foxgloves to represent insincerity, white flytrap for deceit, and so on²). The secret language of stamps. Leather-clad 1980s Singaporean 'hell riders'. An Agony Aunt section, curated by ChatGPT. A story about all the things banned in Singapore (if you're travelling here for chewing gum and pig's blood, well, keep on travelling).

Pang says the mag's remit is deliberately broad, with a loose focus on memory, storytelling and Singaporean history. Three things you don't tend to find on the six o'clock news. "When we created the magazine, we were all journalism students," he says, "and we knew we wouldn't be able to compete with the major news outlets on news news. There weren't even a lot of print publications in Singapore back then.

"That's where the title Meantime came from. Stories to pass the time. It's a little pause where people can stop and revisit the past. In Singapore we only have one or two big organisations that dominate the media scene, so I think people really do crave these more offbeat stories."

To understand Singapore's independent publishing ecosystem, and where exactly magazines like Meantime fit into it, you first have to understand the broader political context. To start with, what Pang says is basically true. Singapore's media landscape isn't a total state-controlled blackout zone, but it is highly concentrated, like orange juice. Most Singaporeans get their mainstream news from just two sources: SPH Media Trust (who control pretty much every paper in town) and Mediacorp (who have an iron fisted grip on free-to-air TV, the 24/7 CNA channel, and most of radio too).

Media publications in Singapore also tend to operate under strict state licensing and defamation laws, which means that editorial lines usually flow in one direction and one direction only: towards the middle. No real partisan tantrums.

Nothing too crazy. Just very cautious, middle-of-the-road, pro-establishment, insomnia-curing stuff³. Under conditions like this, the digital and indie publishing space is where things actually get interesting, and where Singaporeans are allowed to experiment and express themselves. Online outlets like Mothership, Rice Media and New Naratif, plus zines, magazines and local Substack writers – they're the bits that add colour and texture. They also tend to focus on all the stuff lacking from the mainstream channels: culture, youth, identity and (quiet) dissent.

"Traditionally, information in Singapore has always flowed from the top down," Pang says. "But now we're starting to see this ground-up, grassroots publishing movement. And I think the Singapore government is starting to see the value in it, too. That ordinary citizens and writers and photographers can really contribute and offer something different."

'Something Different' is a pretty good description of Singaporean independent publishing in general. Not 'Something Radical' or 'Something Rebellious'. Singapore doesn't really have that kind of vibe. It's just, well, different. Like Jeanette Yap's⁴ kooky, exquisitely hand-drawn comic zines. Or Science of the Secondary – the so-called "Atlas of the Everyday", published by Atelier HOKO⁵– where every edition is dedicated to a single ordinary object. Want to know everything there is to know about t-shirts? Try Issue 14. Features include: the history of the t-shirt, the surreal beauty of armpit stains, and the correct way of putting on a tee. Which sounds kind of obvious, but in this case takes up a full four-page spread. "We start by invariably putting the same arm through the bottom hem," the article goes, "but we cannot remember, until we actually put on a t-shirt, which hand goes in first"⁶.

Science of the Secondary goes into so much mundane detail that it's hard to tell, as one critic noted, whether it's a serious examination of our socio-psychological relationship with inanimate objects, or an incredibly subtle parody of magazines that specialise in this sort of thing. Heck, maybe it's both.

"I think what's special about Singapore's magazine and zine scene is that, unlike a lot of other countries, we don't really have a legacy," says Pang. "And I don't mean that in a negative way. But Chinese publications, Japanese publications, Thai publications – when you think of these countries, you already kind of know their design language, right? Singapore, on the other hand, we're such a young nation, and our culture is so diverse, that we're open to and influenced by everything.

"There's no fixed idea of what a Singaporean zine is. And because of that, we get to decide what it looks like."

One of those people deciding is Pann Lim, co-founder of local Singaporean creative agency, Kinetic. He's also the co-founder of Rubbish FAMzine, a family fanzine (geddit?) that he started in 2013 with his wife, Claire, and his now-teenage children, Aira and Renn. On the nebulous, nobody-knows lexical seesaw between 'magazine' and 'zine', Rubbish very clearly falls into the latter category. It's a zine, and proud of it. Pann and the family publish approximately one issue every year, and each one is like a little experimental time capsule, full of memory and story and familial in-jokes, pushed out into the universe for anybody that wants to read it.

"The third edition came out in a vintage biscuit tin," Pann laughs, "which we had to procure from this company, and they assumed we were rivals in the biscuit business. I had to explain to them, no no, it's just a pack for some zines!"

The name, Rubbish, originates from dinner table conversations at home. "That's just the language we use," Pann says, "like 'Don't talk rubbish' or 'Oh, that's some rubbish'. It's a way of showing that we're doing rubbish work, but I think it's good rubbish. We're not going to take ourselves too seriously, right? We just say, 'Here's some rubbish. We hope you like it.'"

Like most good independent publications, Rubbish started with a critical need. In this case, a need to reconnect with family. In 2012, Pann realised that, between his agency and other creative work, he was only seeing his kids on weekends. He wanted to make that time more meaningful, so he started toying with the idea of turning the kids' drawings and doodles into some kind of publication. Then, in 2013, the family travelled to Tokyo together for the first time. Pann, a self-professed film photography nerd, bought some cheap point-and-shoot cameras, gave them to his kids, and asked them to document whatever the hell they wanted.

"When we got back, we processed all the film, and it was just so funny, right, to see what everyone was shooting. We had all these images, and I was wondering, what could we use them for? It would be a waste to just throw them on a hard disk. I wanted something more consistent, so that we always had a reason to spend time together. So I thought, let's do it. Let's do a zine."

Those Japanese photos became Issue 1 of Rubbish FAMzine. And over the following 12 years, Pann, Claire, Aira and Renn published 12 more⁷. Over time, a small but dedicated readership started to grow. People eagerly looked forward to the next edition, like Rubbish was some very slow, family-driven, Singaporean soap opera. Follow the zine long enough and you could literally watch Renn and Aira grow up, see their tastes change and evolve. Issue upon issue, year after year. For Issue 10, which came out during Covid, the family actually revisited the very first edition of Rubbish, with the kids updating their favourite bands and playlists, and recreating some of the original pics from Issue 1.

Some families keep photo albums or scrapbooks. The Lims have a zine.

"There's always this debate, right, like what is a zine?" says Pann. "Zines started in like the 1950s and 60s. They're meant to be old school and a bit rough around the edges. But the scene has evolved so much that now you have zines that are so well produced, it's hard to tell. Are they a zine or a magazine?

"For me it's like music. There are all these genres, and the best artists manage to blend a lot of disciplines together. So call these things what you want – I think the focus needs to be on whether a publication moves you. Does it make you feel something? Do you want to follow up on the next issue? That's what's important."

Pann's music analogy is a good one for independent publishing. Food is another. Experimental, surprising, delicious and not easily categorised. Which brings us to The Slow Press, another Singaporean indie mag, which started as a food-themed newsletter but has since morphed into something bigger, spicier, more ambitious.

The Slow Press was founded in 2021 by then-communications students Christy Chua (founder and editorial director), Tan Aik (editor-in-chief) and Melody Koh (art director). Originally, it was a quick way to point readers in the direction of the best mala bowls, but Christy knew right from the start that there were deeper, more important stories to tell.

"We started with the intention of doing long form writing about Singapore's food scene," she says, "because nobody was really doing that at the time. There's so much to talk about in terms of Singapore's food history and culture, but the mainstream media wasn't covering it. They tended to just further government goals, or promote certain policies.

"We felt like the people writing about food, they always needed some kind of accolade to give them authority. Like a degree. That's kind of the way it is in Singapore. But we were just normal people who liked to eat – and to write."

What began as a newsletter quickly turned into a physical publication … then several publications. The Slow Press is now something closer to an independent media house, with a small-but-growing collection of zines, magazines and merch. They even host food-themed events throughout Singapore. Unlike food bloggers, whose content tends to be sponsored and geared for click-through, or the government-backed media channels (who focus more on Top 10 lists and new café openings), Christy and the team have dedicated themselves to hard-nosed, long-form, 100 per cent independent storytelling. Stories like: nutrition and food hygiene among Singapore's often-neglected migrant worker population. Or: first-hand accounts of working in Singaporean kitchens, as told by real-life sous chefs and line cooks. Or how about: a beautiful handmade zine dedicated to the lost art of Singaporean foraging?

Since they don't rely on government grants for survival, The Slow Press is free to say and publish, more or less, whatever they want. Their only loyalty is to the truth, and I suppose to the attention of their readers, which really shouldn't be as radical as it sounds.

"Our story about migrant workers, and how their employers don't give them enough food, that's the kind of story that you won't find in the newspaper, because it reflects badly on the government," Christy says. "They can't publish these kind of things, so it's up to us to fill the gap.

"There's a lot more stories and a lot more communities in Singapore than people think. They think Singapore is just this shiny business city. That it's just chicken rice. But everyone has a different story, and after we started meeting more and more people for The Slow Press, we realised, 'Hey, this story is never going to end.'"

Singapore is known as a country that always looks to the future – always one eye on tomorrow, always facing forwards. But publications like Meantime, Rubbish and The Slow Press are useful, because they remind us of the value of looking backwards, or sideways, or underneath the glossy, government-approved narrative. There's always a good story somewhere, if you search hard enough. And sometimes those stories – the small, quiet, messy ones – are the ones most worth telling. Not because they're big, but because they're real. And because nobody else is paying attention.

"These offline spaces – bookshops, zines, independent publications – that's where the light happens," Pang says. "That's where the culture is. When I'm reading a zine, I'm always looking for a point of view. People who care and have something to say. A story only they can tell."

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^{¹ Which, if it had a shape, would almost certainly be a square.}

^{² In the Victorian language of flowers, also known as floriography, yellow roses are apparently associated with sexual infidelity. The more you know.}

^{³ And look, there are worse things.}

^{⁴ She/They also go by the pen name, Jhawnette. You can find more of their amazing stuff at jhawnette.com.}

^{⁵ An independent research lab-cum-publishing thing, founded by Alvin Ho and Clara Koh in 2002.}

^{⁶ I immediately put on a t-shirt myself to confirm this, and it's true. I always go right arm first, although I had no idea that was the case until now. I'm unsure what to do with this information.}

^{⁷ Issue 14 was due to come out this year but has been postponed while Pann's son fulfills his 24 months of Singaporean National Service.}