As cabin fever kicks in and each day blends into the next readers may seek something different. A book does wonders for the mind; but a magazine, ah, now that is something different. The notion of the magazine shouldn’t be synonymous with cheap nonsense. The print world has taken a hammering in recent years, yet a surprising array of periodicals remain. Beyond the portfolios of ultra-nice, small batch, independent magazines (like our upcoming print edition, raising money for the British Lung Foundation!), there exists solid industry staples that, whilst having respectably big readerships, deserve an even broader audience. I fervently believe that good quality journalism can be found in spaces beyond the broadsheets. Here then, are my favourite magazines.
Monocle Magazine – Midori House Marylebone, London. Monthly.
Nothing matches Monocle in terms of boldness, style and status. Monocle has built a reputation for its wide scope – a month on Korea, another on wellness. Articles on Japanese department stores and the romances of Finnish food critiques living in Turkey. Defense briefings on the Balkans are lined up next to interviews with fashion house icons. Architecture, design and literary critique are bundled together in a tight, informative manner.
And don’t assume it is second rate material. Careful research and an attention detail help the outlet chart global events and highlight the best of it all, whilst simultaneously avoiding some of the more crass features found in elitist rags (see Tatler). Tyler Brule, Editor in Chief and man at the helm, keeps the magazine plotted on its international course, having fastidiously set up bureaus in destinations as varied as Zurich, Tokyo, Toronto and Los Angeles. Global correspondents in every country write home with the local scoop. Countries beyond the big hitters where Monocle takes a moment to stop, reflect and report back on the lesser known, meatier and more gripping stories that make you feel as if you’re a fly on the wall listening to an off-the-cuff conversation between two locals in the know.
Monocle doesn’t read like a networking book for the globalist wannabe. It’s more a high-energy reportage for the already cosmopolitan world. More times than I can count people have recommended to me some obscure location, thing or regime – and I’m able to turn around and say, ‘Oh I heard about that a few months back in Monocle magazine.’
This is why interior design and geo-political analysis are so easily married, and it is why big industry names advertise with this fairly modest distribution. Those in government are more than happy to give up their time for interview. The likes of President Macron (France) and President Tsai Ing-wen (Taiwan) discuss their chances at the next polls next to a ranking of the best sandals to come out of Mexico City. More than anything, Monocle offers readers a colour palette – a distinguished means to define themselves.
The New Yorker – 1 World Trade Centre, New York. Weekly.
For the many recent generations of literary types, The New Yorker has served as a place where they can safely live out their lives as ‘serious writers’ amongst their columns. The magazine’s rigorous fact checking, coupled with its signature ‘New Yorker’ format has helped to define the weekly’s pages and project its musings far beyond the boundaries of New York City. Anyone hoping to grapple with the subtleties of the contemporary New York intellectual scene would do well to bless the New Yorker with a once over. It is, in my opinion, the principle document for the metropolitan American. Its audience is entrusted with a weekly round of up commentary, criticism, and critique as well as a decent walloping of satire, fiction, thought pieces and cartoons.
The New Yorker is a cultural phenomenon. People live and die by the magazine, devouring its content and describing the process in a way that would be unheard of for a newspaper. They make jokes about its’ content, its’ design; what it stands for – as if it has a life and opinion of its own and deserved as much love and attention as a well-informed great aunt. It is treated as if it we’re an institution. And for many smart types, in some ways it is.
The New Yorker’s editorial team have managed to instil militaristic standards upon their writers. At their head offices teams of copy writers enforce strict rules. They insert commas and the magazine’s famed in-house placement of diaeresis marks in words with repeating vowels with technical precision. Re-elected becomes reëlected and so on.
Each week I plop my latest edition atop my pile, smiling at the amusing and infamous covers and remarking, ‘man this magazine is weird.’ The now – Conde Nast – production’s eclectic weekly outbursts are hard to pin down, but they continue to garner my love and attention. My uncle often asks me, “are you reading this week’s New Yorker? It’s brilliant!”
The London Review of Books – Bury Place Bloomsbury, London. Fortnightly.
Where The New Yorker is varied, the London Review of Books (LRB) is outrageously single-minded. It is the gold standard for consequential literary critique. The copy I have in front of me contains a five-page rich description of war time exploits; two thousand words on the writer’s time at the Ashmolean museum and an advertisement for a reading lamp. My Gosh, what a lot. This magazine redefines the long read; perhaps the very long read. But this doesn’t matter. The LRB is the only magazine where I found an article genuinely so well written and interesting that I took the time to type out the pages one by one to send to friends. The London Review of Books is such an outstanding contribution to the literary scene, it is no wonder that the Observer asked in 2014, ‘Is the LRB the best magazine in the world?’
The format is simple enough, with articles and essays on fiction and non-fiction alike. Though structured like book reviews, pieces frequently wander off the trail, where every opportunity for wider discussion is pounced upon like a tiger leaping on some unsuspecting explorer. The London Review of Books is not the only literary magazine, but to quote the Los Angeles Review of Books, ‘[a]fter four decades of not just sustained existence but increasing circulation (not that that has meant profitability), the LRB must have figured out things that other, now-floundering publications haven’t.’
The typically British Bloomsbury office churns out reliably interesting work on a fortnightly basis. Those on the hunt for something gripping – not necessarily those who have a history with literature but those willing – take time to open the London Review of Books and breathe a sigh of relief. For those pictureless pages offer space and time for the tired-out reader. Go on. I dare ya.
The Yale Record – New Haven, Connecticut. Quarterly.
The great tradition of student journalism dictates that I include one such publication. The Yale Record is a shining example of what small print satire can be. The enigmatic creation myths that underline such Ivy League publications work only to disguise the rich tapestry of journalism that lies below.
Not much needs to be said about the magazine, other than it will impress you and make you laugh in equal measure. The comedy is sharp, even if fifty percent of the references will zip over your head. The Record punches way above its weight class, with many big-name journalists having sprung from its fertile comedic soils – and whilst other student publications remain a source for promising minds, the Record’s ground proves particularly ripe. Big sponsors and heavy hitters. The Yale Record shows us what the best can be. Funny.
Popeye Magazine – Ginza Chuo-Ku, Tokyo. Monthly.
Popeye romances the world in a way the great magazines of the golden age of print once did. The self-proclaimed ‘Magazine for city boys’ was the first to capture my own identity. It understood the dynamic and cultured characteristics of young men seeking to master living in large and seemingly endless urban spaces. It knows that visions of old and new can be coupled to explain the modern man; Popeye is curated sophistication without having to explicitly announce it. Its pages are filled with bold imagery of the latest fashion straight out of the Japanese capital. The gentle, fashion filled Popeye intends to show readers that clothes should be accessible and lasting.
Popeye is known, both in Japan and abroad, as the MUST have mag for men who feel as comfortable driving a convertible through the Riviera as they would be in a nail bar in eastern Taipei City. An internationalist outlook is what keeps Popeye fresh. Issues are devoted to individual subjects – curry, New York, travel. Popeye’s publisher, the mighty Magazine House, has done well to make sure it remains original above all else.
Unfortunately, getting hold of this thing isn’t easy. All my issues we’re brought back from Japan with me. You can import it – at some expense – though your best bet is to get a friend to hunt them down if they’re ever in Asia.
Amidst the Corona fiasco I encourage you to experiment and buy magazines – these outlets won’t last long without you.
Times are tough.
Budgets are tight.
Your mind wanders.
Pick up a periodical.
Find out.
Words by Callum Ruddock