Photo of the day: Vinyl Shop Owner Zhai Ruixin’s Shellac Attack

Our photo theme this week is “The ’90s in China.” Not China in the 1990s, but “The Nineties” as a global pop cultural form as it has been consumed and reworked inside China, both then and now.

Zhai Ruixin is a native Beijinger who operates fRUITYSPACE, a basement music venue near the National Art Museum of China that is home to a healthy cross-section of the capital’s noise makers, amateur rappers and indie rockers. fRUITYSPACE grew out of Zhai’s earlier venture, fRUITYSHOP, which remains one of the best places in Beijing to pick up new and secondhand vinyl records. This summer he launched his own vinyl label, SpaceFruity Records, telling Chinese music outlet Wooozy (link in Chinese): “It was a very natural process. SpaceFruity Records is based on the way fRUITYSPACE developed. The first two records are for Boiled Hippo and The Molds, who often perform here. I like their music and we share a point of view, so I helped them to publish their albums, which are sold at fRUITYSHOP. It’s a proper cycle, a smooth process from self-production to sales.”

We asked Zhai to share his favorite slab of ’90s sound to slot in with this week’s photo theme:

I think the ’90s, worldwide, was the most prosperous decade for independent, underground music. Countless classic albums were made during that time. Choosing just one is too difficult, but if I had to think of one in a hurry, off the top of my head I would say Shellac’s 1994 album, At Action Park. I first heard it around 1998. I’d picked up a dakou version of it because I saw Steve Albini’s name on it. I thought it must be a fierce enough record, and indeed it was. It actually exceeded my expectations, it was different from other noise rock or alternative rock albums I’d heard, from the tone to the style of playing. It was “dry,” it was “noisy,” it was restrained, it was nervous, all of the sounds were pulled taught together. For a restless adolescent like me at the time, that record undoubtedly switched me on to another mode of hearing. It pointed me to further-reaching realms of sound. I think this was Shellac’s best album.

Cover photo: fRUITYSHOP, Beijing (via TK Hunt)

Photo of the day: Mandy Moore Forever

Our photo theme this week is “The ’90s in China.” Not China in the 1990s, but “The Nineties” as a global pop cultural form as it has been consumed and reworked inside China, both then and now.

At record shops in China in the late ’90s, cassettes by local bands were 9.8 kuai ($1.50) a tape, and international tapes went for 13 kuai ($2). Back then Mandy Moore, this somewhat provocative yet also sweet and innocent young lady, caught my attention and compelled me to invest this vast sum in her album. I’ve forgotten how many nights I spent studying that tape, riding my bike listening to her thin, high voice singing about emotions that I couldn’t tell were real or fake. I didn’t even know what “dating” was. At that time I felt that if I could change into Mandy Moore, life might be much easier. Afterwards she and Ryan Adams got married and then divorced, and I totally forgot about her.

Until recently, when I saw her on TV and suddenly realized — Mandy Moore is almost 34 now. But “I Wanna Be With You” is still one of my favorite love songs.

Even now I don’t dare to admit to my friends that I used to be one of the core members of a message board dedicated to The Moffatts. Above the door to my room in my childhood home hung all kinds of posters and magazine clippings about them, large and small.

When I was a teenager I hadn’t seen any foreigners like these four Canadian boys (three of whom are triplets), my heart’s definition of “dream boyfriend.” Every month I’d wait at the stand to buy a magazine called 轻音乐 (“Light Music”) and sing every one of their songs until I knew them fluently (even though they only put out two albums), and I would absolutely not allow anyone to compare them to The Hansons in any way. I tried to save my money to go see one of their farewell performances in Southeast Asia, but I failed.

Later on, they grew up to look like normal Canadian men, unsurprisingly. One of them came out of the closet, and the rest of them disappeared, but every now and then they try to get back together to make some reunion money.

But the posters on the wall above my door in my hometown haven’t moved.

After I went to the movie theater to see Titanic, my classmates all started circulating a dirty little secret: we all wanted to marry Leonardo DiCaprio.

I spent 5 kuai ($0.75) to buy a pirated VCD of Romeo + Juliet, and me and two of my middle school classmates got together at a parent’s house one night and watched it with sinister intentions. To this day I can’t forget those vague, fuzzy nude scenes, and the visual shock we all got from the damp swimming pool kiss scene. It felt like something had opened up, but in the end I can’t say exactly what.

In 2017, this is still one of my favorite romantic films, even if that delicate leading lady has turned into the globe-trotting lunatic on Homeland.

Many Chinese women in their early 30s now can’t admit to themselves that Leo has turned into a middle-aged man concerned with protecting the environment. In our hearts, he’s still our first foreign crush, a young boy in chainmail, and for many Chinese women he’s probably the only foreigner they’ll ever like.

Photo of the day: The Forgotten Teletubby Craze

Our photo theme this week is “The ’90s in China.” Not China in the 1990s, but “The Nineties” as a global pop cultural form as it has been consumed and reworked inside China, both then and now.

Radii contributor Zhao Yinyin brought to our attention one much-loved ’90s phenomenon in China – Tianxian Baobao 天线宝宝 – Teletubbies.

Growing up in the ’90s in Guangdong, with access to the international programming dominant on Hong Kong airwaves, this was one of her favorite shows. The Chinese name translates to Antenna Babies, and boy isn’t that something. Good luck ever getting us to use the English name again.

Some quick digging produced a bit of weirdly juicy intrigue around the Antenna Babies. About ten years ago, China issued a sweeping ban on the babies, and their antennas, from television. The reason being that Teletubbies is a mixed media show, blending cartoon animation with flesh-and-blood humans. Shows that fit the category were banned as a whole in 2006, apparently in an effort to nurture China’s homegrown animation products (not totally sure how those two things are related). And then five years ago, Teletubbies and related terms officially became monitored/censored phrases in online communities, after it was picked up as a codename for premier Wen Jiabao (you’ll note that the bao 宝 in his name is the same as that of our beloved antenna babies).

Whew, this is getting a bit heavy for a Teletubbies post. Let’s cool it down with the show’s original Mandarin theme song:

And here’s a special educational tubby experience, focusing on the ins and outs of Chinese New Year (English):

We really wish we could hang out on this topic for a little longer, but alas, it’s time for tubby-bye-bye. More ’90s nonsense tomorrow.

Twitter Bits: Blue Mushrooms, Pink Grass, and Chinese Dinos

Well, it’s been a pretty full news week what with the big Party Congress happening, but the fine journalists at China Daily know how to take the time out to smell the roses. Or, whatever oddly discolored fauna they might happen to stumble across. Pink grass, for instance:

Neato!

And if you think that was the only member of the plant kingdom blooming in incandescent, otherworldly hues that China Daily got the scoop on this week… you’d be technically correct, but they did manage to cover this radically blue mushroom in southwestern Yunnan, a province known for its prodigious fungal diversity:

We’ll chomp a few of those and report from the other side of the rabbit hole.

What else… Chinese dinosaurs! Lots of them, making many Brits very, very happy. We must say that the Chinasaurs Twitter — the official social media channel for the Dinosaurs of China exhibition currently on view in Notthingham — has been our go-to source for tiny, daily joys lately. Often it’s the vicarious joy of children surmising the selection of “Ground Shakers to Feathered Flyers! Meet Mamenchisaurus — tall as Wollaton Hall, ferocious Sinraptor, and bat-like Yi qi and many more…”

Microraptor! Almost sounds non-lethal!

That’s enough splendor of the natural world for one day. Good work China Twitter.

Cover image: China Daily

Zhibo: How a Racist Doppelgänger Can Ruin Your Day

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Zhibo is a weekly column in which Beijing-based American Taylor Hartwell documents his journey down the rabbit hole of Chinese livestreaming app YingKe. If you know nothing about the livestreaming (直播; “zhibo”) phenomenon in China, start here.

A few weeks ago, I came across this account on Yingke:

to be clear, this isn’t my account

A bit odd, to be sure. But hey, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Of course, the “they” in question are usually people making excuses for plagiarizing, so perhaps I should have been a bit more suspicious.

Nonetheless, I was excited to see that I’d made enough of a splash in the world of zhibo (Chinese live streaming) to have started generating fake Taylors. So with some amusement, I *followed* the fake account and hoped that at some point I’d get a notification that he/she/it was streaming and I’d have a chance to see what kind of fan (or troll) had decided to create it.

The next morning, all hell broke loose.

 

Ok, that may be a bit of an overstatement. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that a moderate dose of some religion’s punishment-based afterlife got out of containment. Within minutes of starting my morning stream, I was seeing messages about my “小号” and accusations of hating Chinese people. Problem #1: I didn’t understand what 小号 (xiǎo hào) meant. 小 means “small” and 号 can mean a bunch of things but usually indicates a number or some other kind of official mark. So it took me a little while (and the help of some fans) to figure out that 小号 means a secondary account — as in, my “little account number.”

Right, first part of the riddle solved — people think this fake Taylor is me. Now for problem #2: why the hell were people accusing me of hating China? Let’s take another (more careful) look at that fake account…

Again, can’t stress this enough, this is NOT ME

Wait, what? “No Chinese people or dogs allowed?” What on earth does that mean? Lemme look this up real quick…

Oh

Oh f@#k me.

Yes, it turns out that the time-honored wisdom of look before you leap still has relevance in the digital age; the fake account was NOT created by some overzealous fan and I should NOT have followed it. As it turns out, “华人与狗不得内入” is a reference to Huangpu Park (黄浦公园) in Shanghai, built in the late 19th century exclusively for foreigners (at the time, it was simply called “Public Garden”). Whether there were really signs specifically forbidding “Chinese and dogs” seems to be a matter of some debate — the picture of the sign that appears in most articles seems to be from the Bruce Lee movie Fists of Fury — but there’s no question that the phrase conjures up real bitterness over real segregation imposed on the Chinese in their own country by foreigners.

[Side note: This is almost certainly a coincidence, but the fake account lists my zodiac sign as Capricorn — the only difference between that account’s profile info and my own. As I’ve learned, Capricorn is symbolized by a half-goat, half-fish. One of the most typical nasty racist terms for foreigners in China is 洋鬼子 — “yang gui zi / foreign devil.” That first character, , has two elements. On the left side are three dots symbolizing water. On the right is the character for sheep. COINCIDENCE? … Yeah, probably. Still cool, though.]

Anyway, this was not good. Imagine if someone took your picture and used it to make a Twitter account with the byline “this water fountain for whites only.” Sure, you’d probably make some new friends in shockingly high places, but I think most reasonable people can agree that it would be a pretty nasty experience on the whole. Ok, thought I – so that’s awful, but surely no one will think *I* made that account, right? I mean, why would I have a weird racist alter-ego account with the same name and picture? People will get that this is just a troll, right?

guess again, genius

As it turns out, there are quite a few people on the internet who a) don’t seem to be very bright and b) are inclined to think the worst of people.

I know, right?

Suddenly, even well-meaning fans were sending me messages asking if that was my account, telling me that I shouldn’t have such a nasty 小号, telling me that I shouldn’t follow it because people will think it’s me, etc. My usually near-zero troll density suddenly skyrocketed as people I’d never heard from before would come into my streaming room and start yelling about how I’m a foreign devil who pretends to be nice but really hates China. Or at least I think they were yelling — sadly (or perhaps fortunately), Chinese characters have no equivalent of capital letters.

It’s worth pointing out that this is pretty much the first seriously negative experience I’ve had on Yingke, and that for weeks I’ve done nothing but write about how despite *annoyances* and petty gripes, I’ve generally always felt good about my time on the app. I’ve claimed before that I’m winning the battle with indignation and am getting good at swallowing my pride when it comes to being laughed at. I’ve even gone so far as to wax poetic about how putting myself in front of thousands of people inspires/forces me to present the best version of myself.

So, this has been a bit of a “walk the walk” moment for me. Being confronted with accusations of racism because people honestly think I’d make a second Yingke account with the same picture and a nasty anti-Chinese bio is mind-blowingly frustrating. Why on earth would I do such a thing? What possible incentive would I have? Even if I was secretly a racist asshole, why would I use THE SAME REAL PICTURE OF ME for my little troll account? Why would I follow my real account with it? WHAT POSSIBLE LOGICAL PATH COULD LEAD YOU TO THE CONCLUSION THAT THIS STUPID F@#KING TROLL IS ACTUALLY ME?!?

 

As satisfying as it might be to scream at my phone in public — hell, everyone’s already staring at me — I think we can all agree that it would be pretty counter-productive. This is a platform where people willingly come to watch me monologue about nothing and throw money at me in the process, after all. Plus, I’ve been seeing real-world improvements in my Chinese. Yingke has done nothing but good things for me. If I want this ride to continue, it’s my job to keep being fun and entertaining and tough out the bullshit.

So that’s what I’ve been doing. When someone brings it up, I laugh and say that although yes, I’m unquestionably dumb, even I’m not that dumb. For particularly loud trolls, I congratulate them on their detective skills and hope the sarcasm plays to most of the audience. For people who seem genuinely angry, I usually go with a quick “sorry you’re upset, but that’s not me and I hope you’ll stick around for a bit and see how obvious it is that I really love China.”

Exhibit A: There is a CHINESE FLAG ON MY WALL

There seem to be three kinds of reactions to my racist little doppelgänger. First, there are people who don’t really care and/or haven’t really given it any thought but are having some fun joking about it. I have one fan who comes in every day, asks me 你今天计划歧视中国人吗 / You gonna discriminate against Chinese people today?, but then chats normally and even gives me gifts and whatnot.

Second, there are people who stumble into my stream for the first time via the fake account (it follows me, of course) and are simply reacting to the only data points they have. These people usually get that it’s fake right away.

But then, there’s a (small) third group who see me talk about studying Chinese and loving living in China, see other people joking about how the account is fake, and still — seemingly genuinely — yell at me about being a sneaky two-faced foreigner who’s here to steal Chinese women and profit off their children and who knows what else. There’s not a ton of those people, but it’s definitely enough to bother and/or worry me.

Things have mostly calmed down in the past week, but this whole thing has gotten me thinking about tribalism and suspicion of foreigners. Personally, I think those natural instincts are essentially bad and counterproductive. I think that most of what the United States has accomplished over the years would never have happened had the nation not been built on the hopes and ambitions and creativity of people from all over the world. When you’re in America, you have no idea who might be a “foreigner” because there’s all kinds of people everywhere. And when Americans act fearful and suspicious of specific groups of “foreigners” or recent immigrants, I think they’re ignoring their own history, ignoring the values and ideals of the country, and ignoring the statistical realities of what’s most likely to take their job (mechanization, not Mexicans) or their life (heart disease, not terrorists). As an American, I feel justified and righteous and all kinds of soap-box-y when I see my own country turn against “foreigners” for intellectually lazy, lizard-brain reasons.

But here’s the problem. That feeling of righteousness doesn’t really make sense when I try to transfer it to my experiences in China. China isn’t a nation of immigrants; it’s been a famously walled-off (sometimes literally) country for enormous swathes of history. The language teaches every child from a very young age to define the world in terms of in-the-country (国内) and out-of-the-country (国外) — to the point that simply using “外国 / out-country” as a prefix is good enough for describing any foreign person, place, food, film, etc. without requiring any additional clarification.

Related:

For example, did you know that my enjoyment of spicy food is, in fact, quite unusual, as foreigners don’t like spicy food? Someone should probably inform India.

 

But there’s no self-contradiction there. China has never proclaimed that anyone can “be Chinese” — quite the opposite, in fact. And while I don’t like that and don’t agree with the underlying philosophy, Chinese people aren’t violating any mission statement when they treat me with suspicion simply for being a foreigner. This is a nation with plenty of ideals — a perfectly harmonious society made up of strong family ties, stability, prosperity, a position of leadership in the modern world, etc. — but being open and unquestionably welcoming towards anyone from anywhere isn’t one of them. So regardless of what makes more sense or what’s right (whatever that means), it makes no sense for me to stamp my feet and pull my hair over Chinese suspicion of foreigners — even if it seems really contrived and dumb at times.

After all, I don’t get a vote. And that asshole did use my picture.

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Xi Writes Himself into the Narrative of China’s Modern Rejuvenation

While we wait for the final denouement of this month’s Party Congress here in Beijing, what is striking to me is not that Xi is making history, but that his ideas are set to fundamentally alter the historical narrative of Modern China according to the CCP.

Author Damien Ma offered this quick take on Xi Jinping and the 新时代 or ‘New Age.’

Xi’s ascension into the pantheon also makes it likely, as US-based China watcher Bill Bishop has suggested, that regardless of what titles Xi does or does not have post-2022, his power is near absolute so long as he is alive. His ideas now carry the weight of Party Orthodoxy. Challenging Xi is akin to challenging core doctrine.

(By the way, if you’re not following what Damien is doing on his MacroPolo site or have yet to sign up for the premium version of Bill Bishop’s Sinocism Newsletter, you are missing some of the best analysis of China’s political and economic trends.)

Related:

But apart from whatever the enshrinement of Xi’s “New Era of Socialism with Chinese Characteristics” (新时代中国特色社会主义思想) means for Chinese politics in the short-and long-term, it also signals a historiographic shift and a departure in the Party’s own understanding of Chinese history, as well as its own place in that narrative.

In the years after the death of Chairman Mao — particularly the difficult period following the Tiananmen demonstrations — Party theoreticians looked for a way to embed the Party in the broader context of China’s history. The Party would still represent a unique and inevitable force for China’s modernization and liberation, but it would also be a cultural steward, both defender and heir to China’s long history, a history which itself would be deployed as a narrative counterpoint to China’s development and modernization even as the Party mined China’s past for elements useful in the alchemy of national identity in an increasingly globalized world.

Marx — and Mao, at least publicly — had little use for China’s not-so-distant past. Yet Marxism and Maoism were losing their mojo. A new narrative was needed. A narrative of not only revolution, but of rejuvenation.

One of Xi Jinping’s first acts as the Party’s new leader in 2012 was to take the other members of the Politburo Standing Committee on a field trip 500 meters across Tiananmen Square to the recently renovated National Museum and the museum’s flagship exhibit: “The Road to Rejuvenation” (复兴之路).

As Ian Johnson wrote in the New York Times Sunday Review earlier this month:

Two weeks after taking China’s top office in November 2012, Xi Jinping took part in what seemed like a throwaway photo op. He took his top lieutenants to the newly renovated National Museum of China, a vast hall stuffed with relics of China’s glorious past: terra-cotta soldiers from Xi’an, glazed statues from the Tang dynasty and rare bronzes from the distant Shang dynasty.

But Mr. Xi chose as his backdrop a darker exhibition: “The Road of Rejuvenation.” It tells the story of how China was laid low by foreign countries in the 19th and 20th centuries but is now on the path back to glory. There, in front of images of China’s subjugation, Mr. Xi announced that his dream was to complete this sacred task. This soon became the “China Dream” and has shaped his rule ever since.

This narrative of rejuvenation is a story understood best if one imagines hearing it delivered by a fire-and-brimstone evangelical. Not a preacher of any particular pure faith, but an evangelist of an inevitable path of development: one which begins in deepest antiquity and rolls, inexorably, to the moment when China under the leadership of the Communist Party realizes Xi’s Chinese Dream of how to be a strong, powerful, independent nation which is both fully modern and fully Chinese.

It begins in a glorious and ancient — if partially invented — past. The oldest continuous civilization. 5,000 years of rich culture, of unity and continuity, defining an exceptional community of people. Then there was a fall from grace beginning in 1842 with the Opium Wars. It was a fall brought about by the violent and ravenous actions of aggressive foreign powers and traitorous collaborators from within.

It was a fall which led to a Century of Humiliation. For 100 years after, China was groping in the dark, a nation calling out for redemption: Who could save China?

Many were called, few were chosen. Men with names like Sun Yat-sen, Hong Xiuquan, Zeng Guofan, Song Jiaoren, Li Dazhao and others. All tried, none truly succeeded.

Sun Yat-sen led a revolution which toppled the imperial system, but it was — according to this narrative — a revolution left unfinished. Imperialism and inequality, chaos and corruption still plagued the nation. And then, even as China entered its darkest hour under the occupation of the Japanese Imperial Army, a true savior emerged. In 1949, Mao Zedong stood atop the rostrum at Tiananmen along with many of the first generations of Party leaders and proclaimed that the Chinese people had stood up. One Man and One Party. The only force which could truly redeem China.

In the narrative that emerged in the Post-Mao era, the Party’s legitimacy rested not only upon revolutionary credentials, but also the Party’s role as the saviors of Chinese civilization (never mind the Party’s role in the destruction of that legacy during the early years of the PRC). The Party presented itself as a bulwark against a lurking foreign menace, guardians against subversive elements looking to pull the Chinese people back out of the light. And even though Deng Xiaoping’s ideas on how to save China differed from those of Mao, the measuring stick remained China’s fall and humiliation. China would develop. It needed to catch up. It needed to modernize.

This was a narrative about redemption and regeneration.

The previous administration, Hu Jintao and Wen Jiabao, may have likely felt that the story ended with them. With the Olympic Games. With the WTO. How naïve they — and we — were.

Xi’s ideas about a “New Age” clearly has him presiding over the final stage of this passion play. He’s said that it is time for China to take center stage in the world, and to make a greater contribution to humankind. The “New Age” then is not about China catching up or achieving modernity. The dream is achieving modernity on China’s terms, laying claim to what it means to be modern, ripping global standards from the grasp of Anglo-Europeans who have for 200 years defined what it meant to be civilized, to be modern, to be developed. This is why Xi feels that the “China Model” can be a model for other countries to follow. He’s not talking about Portugal but about Angola. Not the UK, but Malaysia. Not the United States, but perhaps Peru.

Whether that’s a good thing or not — and as a globalist-liberal-humanist, I tend to think “not” — the Developed West ignores the power of Xi’s message for those listening in China, and even those beyond China’s borders, at its own peril.