Punk Perfect Awful: The Little Magazine that Could... and Did | Hanna Hanra
Written by Eloise King-Clements
On their about page, Beat Magazine says they’re “put together on a wing and prayer, with enthusiasm and sticky tape.” But after flipping through the pages of Punk Perfect Awful, I say they’re being modest. The book is an impressive photographic line-up of every artist on your playlist.
“There’s nothing I hate more than when labels are like, ‘this is the latest hot producer, you should be in the room with them.’ To me that’s not inspiring.” - Charli XCX, issue 21
The head honcho at Beat, Hanna Hanran, punctuates the pages with short stories reflecting on the birth and life-force of the magazine. Her maxim—“music has been twisting people’s melons for at least 13,000 years”—illustrates her leadership ethos: tenacity with a proclivity to embrace the diy-ing, the serendipity and the creativity that can result from relaxing your grip. The first chapter is entitled “Brian May’s Underpants,” after all. The photographs are perfectly imperfect. Light leaks blaze through frames, doodles tumble into frames, and many photographs are collaged together (David Bowie’s cover being torn photographs from different eras, layed out to represent the many identities of his face). Yet, it all feels intentional, but not contrived. It’s not too predetermined.
Laura Les: “Did you know that everything is in retrograde right now? There’s six planets in retrograde, or something. I don’t know what that means, but I do know that shit’s crazy.” - 100 Gecs, issue 32
The pages are filled by large prints of artists ranging from Charli XCX, the pop star reposed in a meadow, to Dylan and Laura of 100 Gecs, clutching each other around a metal pole and giving the camera a dubious grin. The caption quotes Laura Les: “Did you know that everything is in retrograde right now?...I don’t know what that means, but I do know that shit’s crazy.”) The text is sparse but when it appears, it’s fruitful. Below the portrait of Obongjayar, he muses, “I used to be called Steven but fuck that.” and St. Vincent recalls, “I remember seeing Peaches play a club ages ago and her backup dancers had strap-ons and there was a lot of... making them helicopter.”
“I remember seeing Peaches play a club ages ago and her backup dancers had strap-ons and there was a lot of... making them helicopter.” - St. Vincent, issue 26
While the magic comes from Hanran herself, it takes shape through the photographers: Alasdair McLellan, Ryan McGinley, Tyrone Lebon, Rosie Marks, Jack Davison, Clare Shilland, Sue Webster, form a roster of London’s finest analogue photographs. The film is off the cuff and unselfconscious—out of focus, mid-sentence, cigarette smoke lacing the frame—it feels like we’re friends with the people. When the shots are in a studio it’s not cold or plastic, but cozy, like it’s a closed shoot and you’re the only witness.
Issue 21, Spring 17: Honey Hahs, Little Sims, Olly Alexander, The xx, Charli XCX, Blondie
Surprisingly, we see very little of the artists actually on stage, singing to a crowd. This serves to bring the celebrity back to earth—I’m just like you! I lounge in pjs playing the electric guitar! And emphasizes the art doesn’t begin and end on stage. Photographs of adoring fans are misleading. They bypass the work, they ignore the subject, and instead honor the power that comes with fame. The photographs inside Punk Perfect Awful depicts each person as a person, their fame resulting from persistence, passion and maybe some luck, too.
“You rarely meet someone who’s like,’I used to be into jazz but I’m not anymore.’ Once you get that freedom, you never really let it go.” - Kamasi Washington, issue 26
Leafing through the book feels like making music—the photographs improvise on instinct, sometimes soft, sometimes loud—an exquisite corpse of tones that congeal to form a figure that, hopefully, has a good beat.
