Why Fish Piss Matters: On the Last Authentic Bohemia

You don’t just get “the two solitudes” unless you’ve lived it—unless you’ve sat in a Montreal café and flipped between French and English three times in one conversation. The tension between the two isn’t polite or polished; it’s messy, raw, and real. But that friction? That’s where the good stuff comes from. It’s not background noise—it’s the whole damn soundtrack. Out of that weird cultural collision came Fish Piss magazine, a punk-fueled byproduct of division, defiance, and something uniquely Montreal.

Fish Piss emerged quietly within this charged atmosphere, slipping into the consciousness of unsuspecting readers with its offbeat voice and irreverent tone. It made its mark over just 11 issues—brief, but memorable—before vanishing beneath the surface, leaving behind echoes of a moment when underground publishing captured the pulse of a divided, but undeniably dynamic, city.

Spawned in Montreal and fueled by the city’s vibrant bilingual arts scene, Fish Piss was an explosive blend of comics, essays, spoken word, politics, music, and everything in between. It was loud. It was raw. It was real. Launched in 1996 by Montreal legend Louis Rastelli, it captured a moment—post-Referendum, pre-social media—when artistic communities collided in the best way possible. It started scrappy, photocopied and punk-rock in spirit, then evolved into a polished 160-page publication with global distribution via Tower Records. Over 11 unforgettable issues, Fish Piss became a beacon for Montreal’s bohemian creatives—anglo, franco, and everything in between.

The ’90s were a perfect storm for this kind of DIY publishing—raw, rebellious, and often pretty punk in spirit. It was all about self-expression and building community outside of the mainstream. One standout from that era was Fish Piss, a quirky, short-lived zine that gained a cult following before fading out. But now, it’s making a comeback—reintroduced to a whole new generation who might’ve never heard of it before. It’s not just a nostalgic throwback—it’s a chance to revisit a time when Montreal’s underground mags were buzzing with weird, wild, and wonderful ideas that helped shape the city’s creative identity.

Vice magazine, like Fish Piss, was born in Montreal in 1994, emerging from the gritty, rebellious spirit of the alternative punk scene. Both publications tapped into the raw energy of a generation that craved something different—something louder, edgier, and unapologetically bold. While Vice eventually pivoted toward global ambition, transforming into the youth media empire we now know as Vice Media, Fish Piss stayed true to its punk ethos, carving out a fiercely independent path and cultivating a loyal underground following.

It’s compelling to look back and see how two zines, birthed in the same city and year, diverged so dramatically—one riding the wave into mainstream culture, the other proudly swimming against the current. Perhaps the world just wasn’t ready to chug a tall glass of Fish Piss, opting instead for the more palatable branding of Vice. But today, we’re not here to toast marketability—we’re here to honor the raw, weird, and wonderful spirit of Fish Piss.

Language debates can get people seriously riled up in la belle province—no surprise there. But here’s a twist: sometimes, a little piss can spark beauty. Literally. Just like fish urine nourishes coral reefs—feeding the algae that bring the reef to life—so too can cultural “waste” and friction nourish a thriving creative ecosystem. That’s exactly what happened with Fish Piss, one of Canada’s most influential and gloriously irreverent zines.

Now, after years of silence, Fish Piss is making its return—this time as a book, published by Véhicule Press—and I couldn’t be more thrilled. This isn’t just a reprint; it’s a resurrection. A celebration of a time when zines weren’t just content—they were community. They were messy, defiant, and bursting with originality.

Andy Brown’s new book, Why Fish Piss Matters, dives deep into the cultural legacy of the zine. He unpacks how Fish Piss bridged the city’s linguistic divide, giving voice to a generation of artists who went on to do big things—Kid Koala, Geneviève Castrée, Catherine Kidd, Heather O’Neill, Jonathan Goldstein, just to name a few. With an insider’s perspective, Brown explores not just the zine’s impact, but its place in Montreal’s long, rich tradition of bohemian enclaves stretching back two centuries.

In the late 1990s, I was just struggling to get by like everyone else I knew, bulking up on bagels and cheese pizza slices to absorb the beer and save money, trying to write stories in shotgun apartments interrupted by screaming neighbours, freelancing, dodging the circumstances that would bring me to welfare. What was it about the time and place I was such a part of, that shaped who I am today, that mattered to someone who wasn’t there? -Andy Brown

Reeling in talent like this doesn’t happen every day. Fish Piss was a creative reef—fed by chaos, sustained by diversity, and beautiful in its defiance. And now, it’s back. Long live the piss.