Periodical Deathmatch

Two men (er, bound volumes of printed matter) enter, one man leaves.
Round One: W versus Mojo.

[A note on technique: people usually make these comparisons about related magazines, like, say, Bitch versus Bust or Readymade versus Make. I thought I'd let fate, or the mailman, set the terms, so I'm comparing the two most recent magazines that arrived in my mailbox. And in a way they're related--they both seek to relay a individual sensory experience--touch for W, hearing for Mojo--through words and pictures. But, in another, more accurate way, they're not at all alike. All the more challenge for me then.]

OPENING IMPRESSIONS: Mojo comes with a CD, which is nice. Imagine if W tried to ship out a Marc Jacobs shoe as a ridealong. Unfortunately, that CD is "Psych Out!: 15 Nuggets from the scene that spawned Pink Floyd." Hmm. And there's a photo of David Gilmour on the cover too. At least it's not a current photo. W has Jessica Simpson attempting to be Jerry Hall, with a greater degree of success than I would have thought.

FIRST PAGES: Mojo starts strong. There are many funny quotes from British musicians that I have not heard of, a tribute to Wilson Pickett, Carlos Santana on how A Love Supreme changed his life, and a spread called "Time Machine:1956" in which I learn that Nat King Cole was attacked on stage by the KKK at a whites only show in Birmingham, AL, and had the following comment about it: "I just came here to entertain you. That's what I thought you wanted. I was born here in Alabama. But those folks hurt my back. I cannot continue because I have to go to a doctor."
W: Gee, there are a lot of ads here. I think I also see a runway report and a few shorts on film and television personalities, but it's hard to tell amid all the heavy lidded partially undressed women. Hey, that Prada ad has kittens!

MIDDLE PAGES: Mojo features a transcribed interview with Van Morrison. And then one with Morrissey. And then, a little later, one with coverboy David Gilmour. In between are histories of Wire and Billy Bragg. All right, Mojo, we get that you're a niche publication, but could you mix it up a little? Also, the type size is miniscule. I have to resort to reading only every third paragraph out of eyestrain. As a result, I have a very confused idea of just what happened to poor old Syd Barrett.
W: Oh my god I had no idea so many fashion brands existed. And those "secret" beauty treatments women won't admit to described on the cover? Toe-waxing, and crotch facials. Yecch.

CLOSING PAGES: Putting in a P-Funk review doesn't change the fact that the only non-white musicians you seem to be interested flourished prior to 1980, Mojo. And lovingly reviewing a RECENT Rolling Stones concert doesn't help.
W: Oh, here are the articles! And incredibly disturbing photographs of Shalom Harlow playing dead! As for the Jessica Simpson piece, well, I give you this: "Since age 11, she's been keeping a diary and feels that the time is right to publish her innermost thoughts, favorite quotes, and musings on life." The world has been warned.

BACK PAGE: Mojo's gimmick is "Hello Goodbye," which tells the story of how something began and ended. This week it's on Chaz Jankel and Ian Dury, which, okay, I have no idea who those two are. W features a supposedly-hilariously-scathing commentary by a faux European countess of a certain age. This is always lame, though this month it does remind us that Marie Antoinette's dressmaker said her role was to "give protection against the cold, the dirt, and the hardships." Tell that to Shalom Harlow.

LOOKS: The Mojo graphics department clearly needs a shot in the arm. They've done the paint-splatter "graffiti" headline so many times it's not funny, not to mention the signature Sex Pistols typography. As for W, well, design is basically their all in all, so of course they do it well. But does the magazine have to be so frackin' heavy?

OVERALL: Mojo on content by a nose, subject to the approval of my opthamologist.

NEXT UP: Special all-Victorian edition--The Girl's Own Paper versus Godey's Lady's Book. Kidding!