Every first weekend of the month, a white tent pops up at the concourse of Katong Square. Its hours are unpredictable, subject to the whims of its eccentric proprietor—Zali Ismail, 58, a vowed metalhead and devilishly stylish elder. It houses Zali’s travelling vintage clothing store, genially named Peacencheers. Established in 2000, the stall has become a fixture at the monthly Katong flea market, known officially as The Retro Factory, and is conspicuous among its tchotchkes and crystals as a temple of metal and grunge.
Aside from Delphic opening hours, customers know to expect a booming stereo and distinctive wares of unusual denim, band T-shirts, boots and the occasional leather. His idiosyncratic, ’70s-inflected garb—leather vest and flared pants—has made him something of a local celebrity and he is still bemused whenever someone asks for a picture. “I don’t understand why also, I just wear what I feel like,” he says, with a blushing shake of the head, though he is more than happy to headbang with willing customers.
Invariably, he is joined at these pop-ups by old friends who faithfully come to visit, other men of his age kitted out in black band T-shirts. By now, the sight of a group of men sitting in a ring of beach chairs near Zali’s tent, laughing and smoking without compunction as the market winds down, isa familiar tableau. Somehow, in one of the country’s most gentrified neighbourhoods, Zali’s tent has become the last outpost of a dying local subculture: metal.
On the day of our interview, he asks me to meet him at the smoking corner of Peninsula Plaza, spurning the coffee shop we had earlier agreed on. I get there first and watch him amble towards me, a slight man, with a tangled thatch of long hair. Up close, he has an unconventional face:a diminutive jaw is set off by large, busy eyes—dark and kind. After some time, he steers us to a clothing shop tucked in the basement of Peninsula Plaza, run by Rashid Yusoff, metal compatriot and long-time pal. Immediately, they slip into the smooth banter of old friends.
“In those days, there were no phones and no social media but everyone knew where to go. We were always at the same place. On weekdays, Forum, on weekends, Liat Towers, just drinking and listening to music.”
“There was no time like the ’80s,” they say, in the settled tones of fact. “It was the golden age of metal.” Hollywood had grown tired of punk and a black-leather tide was rising. Motley Crüe were lighting up the Sunset Strip, Guns N’ Roses were assembling and for one dizzying decade, angry boys with long hair and axes to grind were the world’s biggest rock stars, spawning bands like Poison, Ratt and Quiet Riot. Reverberations were felt even in Singapore, and Zali and his posse were in a frenzy. Only, in place of the Sunset Strip’s infamous felt-walled clubs, they had Forum and Liat Towers. “In those days, there were no phones and no social media but everyone knew where to go. We were always at the same place. On weekdays, Forum, on weekends, Liat Towers, just drinking and listening to music,” says Zali.“I don’t want to brag, but we made Forum the place for punks. We were there first.”
As we chat, it becomes apparent that Zali and Rashid were at the centre of the metal scene in 1980s Singapore. “I was making compilation tapes back then and was in touch with over 100 bands from allover the world,” says Zali. “Anywhere there was metal, I wrote to them.”
Adds Rashid: “I designed the T-shirts to go with his Witching Hour tapes and the first volume completely sold out.” They have an elephant’s memory of the time, rattling off band names and countries they corresponded with. Zali was the official distributor of Norwegian death metal band Mortem’s merchandise. He designed and made their first band shirt in 1989 using silk screen printing,“the old school way”. The modern method of direct-to-garment printing irks them and the preponderance of bootleg band merchandise confounds them. “Last time, it was original or nothing,” says Zali.“Nowadays, people are all right with fakes.”
To hear them talk is to piece together the history of counter culture in Singapore. Passed over by the rest of the world—touring acts seldom came to Singapore—they contented themselves with local bands, who had names like Abhorrer, Dread and Infidel. In a muddle of shoving limbs and stamping feet, they slam danced at California Jam and The Substation, punks and metalheads mingling freely. It was spirited moshing, fit for an age of joyous division.
One was either a punk, metalhead, mat rocker or a square. “You could tell them apart by what they wore,” says Zali. “The metalheads weren’t posers. We had long, unstyled hair and we wore band T-shirts and fitted jeans. Not like the mat rockers who had bandannas round their arms.” He hints at more granular niches, mentioning with a touch of approval, an “art-pop guy”who introduced him to Doctor Martens. Music was a constant preoccupation and they got their vinyls from institutions likeValentine, Roxy and Attic. In that way, they created a milieu defined by subcultures, a time when the crux of one’s personality boiled down to what one wore, listened to, and what one, ironically, was not.
Eventually, they get to the end of the story. Their old haunts have since shuttered. Even The Substation, which for a time seemed like it would endure, closed in 2021. In 1990, Zali would release the final Witching Hour volume. Slam dancing would be banned in 1992. The metalheads would become fathers and so a decade, and an era, ended. In the silence that follows, the rich tenor of Lionel Richie’s ‘Say You, SayMe’ spills out from overhead speakers, seeming to fill the room. Zali grins atRashid: “You still listen to this song?” He grins back. “I never stopped.”
Photography Benita Leong
Styling Jasmine Ashvinkumar
Make-up Sha Shamsi using Chanel Beauty
Photographer’s assistant Jonathan Lum
The July/August ‘Reverie’ issue of Vogue Singapore is available for sale online and in-store from 13 July 2023.
