Zhibo: Ten Thousand Down, a Billion to Go — What I’ve Learned So Far

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.

It seems like it’s becoming something of a tradition for me to open with an observation that I find exciting and most everyone else figured out 5-6 posts ago, so here goes: it has recently come to my attention that a few people might actually read this column because they want to learn more about Chinese live streaming (rather than the pseudo-intellectual tangents I keep managing to just-barely connect to live streaming).

It has furthermore (and slightly more directly) been brought to my attention that there are more than a few foreigners in China who are actually interested in trying zhibo (livestreaming) for themselves and would rather read helpful hints than look at collages of my confused-looking face sporting a wide variety of fake ray-bans.

pictured: hard-hitting journalism

This coincides nicely with the fact that I recently hit 10,000 on the ol’ fan counter and in fact have stumbled my way onto the #1 spot on the app for the past few days running. I’m aware of how badly I’m tempting fate here, but I thought I’d take advantage of my currently over-inflated ego and share with you what little I’ve learned about what works and what doesn’t on the live-streaming platform 映客 (yingke, Inke — but you know that by now, right?).

…I must be doing something right

Point #1: Play music (or sing, or both!)

As any good dating profile can tell you, most people like music; or at least, most people who lived before what I can only assume historians will refer to as the Great “Look What You Made Me Do War” of 2017.

Moreover, people are genuinely interested in knowing what kind of music you might be into; it’s not that we’re anything special, but when you hardly ever talk to foreigners and are constantly exposed to Western culture, you’re going to be naturally interested in what a real human being from outside of China thinks about your favorite songs and artists.

You can play a selection of KTV (karaoke) tracks in the app if your Chinese pop song knowledge is on point, or simply play music from a speaker near your phone — as long as there’s an audible song and your speaking voice is reasonably balanced, it’ll be fine. There’s also the option of buying one of the many external sound cards flooding the market so you can pump music and sound effects directly into your stream from an external source and use a real microphone instead of the earbud mic. I’d caution against this: a great sound setup can enhance a stream that people already like but I don’t get the sense that it can summon an audience from the ether.

no word yet on the effectiveness of ritual sacrifice

Being a (very unprofessional) musician, I already owned most of the necessary equipment and got really into the idea that I would create a professional radio-style stream with a proper mic, sound effects, etc, but quickly abandoned the idea and haven’t looked back. The improved setup didn’t draw a bigger audience; it just mildly impressed the small audience I already had. I might revisit this in the future, but my best advice to anyone starting out is to focus on what you are like, not the sound quality of a stream that, at the end of the day, most people are watching on their phones without headphones anyway.

To put it another way, don’t waste money on amplification until you have something worth amplifying.

On the topic of things worth amplifying: sing. Trust me, the bar is so low that [insert joke about digging to China here]. Absolutely everyone asks you to sing — if you can sing something in Chinese, you’ve got appeal. If you can sing in both Chinese and English, you’re golden. Turn up the reverb, pretend you’re in the shower, and remember that it’s a lot easier to sing to an audience that you can’t actually see.

gotta give the people what they want

Point #2: Have an interesting (and varied) environment

An interesting background is definitely a plus. I don’t stream from home all that much any more, but the first time I ever managed to get a decent-sized audience was when I started sitting on the couch with my American flag and Chinese flag side-by-side on the wall behind me. You’d think that having an American flag in my username and a giant version right behind me would stem the tide of “where are you from?” questions, but no such luck — on the bright side, it opens up all kinds of comic opportunities when it comes to answering those questions.

though sometimes “sigh” doesn’t quite cut it

On a somewhat-related note, people constantly ask me if I’m in an embassy or work for one (it seems that’s the only reason there could be flags from multiple countries). After I say no, the question becomes WHY I would have flags on my wall. When feeling charitable and/or corny, I respond that I care about the future of Chinese-American relations (I mean, I do, but that doesn’t make it any less corny); when I’m feeling honest, I tell them I hate my plain white walls.

Either way, it’s an icebreaker and attention-grabber.

The real turning point for me, however, was when I started streaming in small doses while out and about. Quiet corners of cafes, parks, and walks to and from the subway were what made streaming feel like a fun way to liven up a commute or take a break rather than a new variety of Chinese homework.

Warning: If you’re streaming constantly on 4g, you’d best factor the cost of data into your big plans to make your fortune on YingKe.

Point #3: Get a nice/funny/interesting/attractive profile picture

Standard Tinder rules apply: just getting the click is half the battle. Of course, this loops us back to the common theme of “you probably shouldn’t listen to me because as a white American male pretty much everything in my life has been handed to me on a silver platter,” but really any non-East-Asian-looking person is going to stand out like a beautiful sore thumb on YingKe. Of course, this is by nature a superficial selection process — if you (or your profile pic) are on the better-looking side, more people will be interested in clicking on it.

That being said, there’s also clear value in humor, and I think that once again, Tinder rules apply: drawing interest is more important than straight-up attractiveness. I’ve noticed that guys on the app tend to lean more towards the funny/dynamic/otherwise eye-catching pictures more than just trying to smolder directly into the camera — the audience that’s purely there to look at hot people is overwhelming pointed in the other direction, after all. If you have a talent to show off (piano, weight-lifting, juggling, whatever works), I’d strongly suggest a picture that gives people a preview of coming attractions.

[someone please remind me to take my own advice sometime and move on from “dude in suit looks at camera”]

Point #4: Eat

This is getting its own post soon enough. Suffice to say, the Chinese streaming audience has an… overly-developed fascination with watching hosts consume food and beverages. For fear of leading people down a super creepy path, I cannot recommend this until learning more about it. Stay tuned.

Points #5-1,000: Have a good (likable) attitude!

At the end of the day, YingKe is about simple (if weird) human interaction. The initial click may be half the battle, but the other half is being enough of an appealing human to get people to stick around, share, and come back for more. If you’re insanely attractive or super talented in some regard, that might be enough — but for the rest of us mortals, a bit of likability goes a long way.

And trust me, for all my natural advantages (see: hair, skin, eyes, demographic novelty, dumb course selection, lack of better employment prospects, etc), this is one case where if I can do it, anyone can. I am not anyone’s idea of a natural people person; I’m negative, overly critical of both myself and others, and manage to both talk too much when I shouldn’t and not enough when I should. But for a social incompetent like myself, streaming is a dream come true: I don’t have to hear or see anyone and I get literal direct feedback on whether people like me or don’t like me in the form of cold hard numbers (and cash) at any given moment.

So am I working my way towards any actionable advice here?

If I have any to give, it’s this: Be humble and self-deprecating to a fault, be funny, and never, ever, EVER get genuinely indignant (joking is fine, but it’s a fine line).

I don’t care how good you think your Chinese is – even if you’ve passed the lesser-known HSK 7, the Chinese internet can confuse you as quickly as it wants to. And if, as in my case, you’re there primarily because your Chinese isn’t very good, you’re going to be lost constantly. Asking for help isn’t just good in the sense of being a better human; I’m not exaggerating when I say there’s a direct correlation between my admitting confusion or ignorance and positive feedback (and gifts) from the audience. Top that off with self-deprecating humor (“sorry I forgot your name, you know a foreigner’s brain can only store a few Chinese names at a time, right?”) and you’ve got a recipe that large swaths of the Chinese streaming audience will very much enjoy.

Moving Forward

That’s all I’ve really got for now. Personally, I’d like to move into the realm of more interesting activities — workouts, cooking (not eating!), more types of music, and definitely more domestic travel when I can find the time. If you DO start (or have already started) getting into the world of 直播, let me know!

Now go forth and irritate as many people as you can from the comfort of your phone.

Next Week: Engaging with the YK community!

Say, What? Advice Learned the Hard Way for Cross-Cultural Communication

Expatriate language proficiency is one of the things which has changed for the better in Beijing over the past 15 years or so of my residency. When I first arrived, anything beyond “Ni Hao” was greeted with such overzealous compliments of linguistic proficiency they would have made even a young Matteo Ricci blush. Now you get kids off the plane who have been studying Mandarin since third grade and are busting out chengyu in between their craft beer orders. I have no problems with that. Makes Beijing a better place.

But the general upgrade in the language skills of the expatriate population can also result in awkward moments. You know what I’m talking about. You go to order your coffee. The barista says, “Hello.” You say, “Ni hao.” She says, “Ni yao shenme,” and you say, “Double Latte, no foam,” and the conversation descends into the depths of linguistic anarchy.

Now you get kids off the plane who have been studying Mandarin since third grade and are busting out chengyu in between their craft beer orders

My rule has always been: Speak Chinese unless the other person uses English first. Then use English until communication breaks down and everybody switches back into Chinese.

Why? Well, many of the people with whom I interact each day, whether for work, going out, or just life in general, have been studying English for a long time. In many cases, they got the jobs they have because their English was better than the next person off the bus. I know how it feels to speak a foreign language and then have the person I’m speaking to just switch to English. (I’m looking at you: Every person I have ever met in Paris.)

I figure the young barista or the person I’m meeting for business deserves a shot to use their acquired language and, in many cases, their English is much better than my spoken Chinese.

The curse of the historian: We learn Chinese to read documents written by people who don’t give a poop-encrusted scrap of parchment about what our tones sound like

I’ve also seen — too many times — the awkward moment when the fresh-faced eager Laowai language student responds to a simple “Hi! How are you!” from a girl at the bar by breaking out his latest chengyu-laden phraseology masterpiece only to have said girl roll her eyes and tell him that she’s Korean-American, grew up in Los Angeles, and is in the same language program as he is and, in fact, sits right next to him in class.

Head shot. In the front. Out the back. Chris-Kyle-from-2100-yards-away style. Man Down! Man Down! Man Down!

I don’t want to be that guy. Ok. I don’t want to be that guy again. So, I’m pretty careful these days when it comes to responding in whatever language is presented to me. There is one situation though which still annoys the ever-loving shit out of me.

Check this:

Go to a restaurant. Get a menu. Waitress is straight off the bus from Hebei. She’s speaking Chinese and I probably should too. My wife — brilliant woman, excellent podcast host, general badass — can’t order off a menu to save her life. Love her to death but when I’m hungry I want to order my food in a timely fashion, like before the restaurant closes for the night or gets bricked up by the Po-Po.

So I’m the one ordering and I’m doing so in perfectly comprehensible Chinese. I know my spoken skills will never inspire Zombie Confucius to rise from the dead for an afterlife attaboy, but I can order tofu, pork, and some rice. The waitress writes it all down, then takes her order pad across the table and, in a conspiratorial not-quite-stage whisper, repeats my exact order to my wife who has been looking at her phone the whole time. She has no idea on God’s Green Earth what I told the waitress. Good times!

I know my spoken skills will never inspire Zombie Confucius to rise from the dead for an afterlife attaboy, but I can order tofu, pork, and some rice

I know I should be patient. The poor girl probably has not had a lot of contact with foreigners (or she’s banging Stephon Marbury nightly but I like to think the best of people) and probably her experience has not included many oversized long-haired foreigners who looks like a scientific experiment to fuse the DNA of a human and a Tibetan Yak went horribly awry.

Nevertheless, the situation still irks me.

So my updated rules for being a good linguistic citizen in Beijing now look like this:

1. Whatever language is spoken first, go with that

Until the time if/when communication breaks down, and then pick a new language. Preferably one both parties speak with some degree of fluency.

2. When folks in China react to me speaking Chinese like they’ve just heard a grizzly bear enunciate a Shakespearean sonnet…

Have patience. Most Beijingers are used to expats and their 老外话 (Laowai-hua). Not everybody has had that privilege and it takes some getting used to.

3. I need to get back together with the four tones of Mandarin

We’ve had a rocky on-again-off-again relationship for years. Third tone and I haven’t spoken since 2009. I’ve just started exchanging texts with fourth tone. We’re going to get a beer next week, see where it goes.

Word to those studying Chinese: Master the tones early. Make it the first thing you do.

Learning how to write the perfectly stroked character is nice. Knowing a bunch of chengyu is awesome. But if you don’t get the tones right, nobody is going to understand you. Trust. Me. On. This.

Onward on my journey to linguistic semi-competence. Zaijian.

Cover photo: il Cartello

Photo of the day: Rubber Chickens in Yiwu

Happy Monday! This week’s photo theme: Things in Yiwu.

Yiwu (simplified Chinese: 义乌; traditional Chinese: 義烏; pinyin: Yìwū) is a city of about 1.2 million people in central Zhejiang province, China. Its built-up (or metro) area made of Yiwu and Dongyang cities was home to 2,038,413 inhabitants at the 2010 census. The city is famous for its small commodity trade and vibrant market and is a regional tourist destination… “Yiwu, 300 kilometres away from Shanghai, is the largest market of petty commodity wholesales in the world where various foreign buyers go to place orders”, according to ‘Chinese Figures Astonishing the World’, joint report from the United Nations,the World Bank and Morgan Stanley.

Hard to put into words just what “the largest market of petty commodity wholesales in the world” looks like, so this week we’ll be putting it into pictures (and one video).

Above: rubber chickens in Yiwu, as photographed on a recent trip there by Radii’s founder Brian Wong.

Watch: Rap of China Co-Champions PG One & Gai Face Off in Season 1 Finale

Well, that’s a wrap: season one of Rap of China (中国有嘻哈), the breakout reality TV competition aired on streaming video platform iQiyi and hosted by the inimitable Kris Wu, has concluded. The show premiered on June 24 and at first looked indistinguishable from others on the long list of American Idol-style singing competitions that had come before it — The Voice of China, China Star, I Am a Singer, et al. Two months and almost three billion views later (link in Chinese), Rap of China has turned into a bona fide cultural event, almost singlehandedly introducing Chinese hiphop into the mainstream.

We’ll have some kind of thinkpiece on this whole thing in the next week or two — everyone we know here has an opinion on this show. In the mean time, here were the closing performances from rappers PG One and Gai, who ended the season in a draw to claim the title of co-champion and presumably return home to thousands of missed calls from agents hoping to guide their career trajectory over the next few months (years? minutes? hard to know how quickly this type of celebrity fades in Chinese-internet time).

UPDATE (9/22/2017): The videos of the closing performances by co-champions PG One and Gai that we posted here have subsequently been removed from YouTube, presumably for copyright violation. You can stream the full season one finale of Rap of China on iQiyi.

And here’s that thinkpiece we promised:

The Rap of China Exposes Generational Fault Lines Among Chinese Youth
Article Sep 19, 2017

 

Photo of the day: Oriental Pearl Tower Space Module

We’ll conclude this week’s photo series of weird theme parks with a snapshot from the top of the Oriental Pearl Tower. When construction on this bad boy finished in 1994 it was the tallest structure in China, and held that title until 2007, when the nearby Shanghai World Financial Center went up. Now they’re both dwarfed by the new kid on the block, Shanghai Tower, and the Pudong skyline in general is kind of an indistinguishable gestalt of LED-lit skyward stretch.

But the Oriental Pearl Tower kickstarted that whole Pudong development boom, and still serves as an architectural mascot for Shanghai in the 21st century, though it particularly embodies the bold aspirational spirit of China in the ’90s. Today it’s a tourist magnet. At the top tier, ticket-wise, you can enter the upper-most pearl, which is called the “Space Module” and features an exhibition of strung-up astronauts and mock satellites.

The exhibit feels a little anachronistic today, sagging with age as higher buildings go up around it. Not unlike the failed American Dream Park on the edge of the city, the view from the top of the Pearl Tower feels less like a vertical leap into the future and more like a benchmark for how quickly China has surpassed some of the development goals it’s set for itself over the last several decades.

Photo Series: A Day at the Abandoned American Dream

When I got a text last week from a local friend asking if I’d seen the American Dream, I initially thought she was making a jab at the quickly collapsing state of my home country.

Turns out, American Dream Park is a real amusement park — or at least, it was. The park opened in 1996 and closed abruptly in 2001. The whole project seemed doomed from the start: it was too far from families and would-be guests, too expensive, and apparently just poorly managed in general. Also, there are no roller coasters of any kind, so it was just straight up lame as far as amusement parks go. Nonetheless, when I heard that it was slated for a long overdue and imminent demolition, I pulled my sick, aching body together and piled into a cab with two local guides and my fellow American friend Stewart.

When we arrived at the development compound that housed the empty park grounds, we were greeted by some sleepy security guards who were boiling instant ramen. They told us we had to buy park entry tickets, which, given that the park formally closed a decade and half ago, was a not-so-subtle request for a bribe. One of the guards held up his Alipay QR code to scan, and after transferring some money for nonexistent tickets, we wandered forward into the park.

These fuckin’ guys

The park entrance

The park is immediately eerie. The mind boggles at the number of Hollywood murder scenes one could film here. It’s such a strange juxtaposition between the scale of the project (enormous), and the totality with which it was abandoned. Rusty nails stick out of walls, signs collapse overhead, and stuffed animals intended as carnival prizes spill out of storage boxes, ready for anybody who wants them.

Rusty nails stick out of walls, signs collapse overhead, and stuffed animals intended as carnival prizes spill out of storage boxes

Climbing through windows of boarded up shacks we come face to face with the daily lives of the park’s staff. 16-year-old packets of herbal tea are strewn around on the floor next to floppy disks, pagers, and VHS cassettes.

As we walk further and further into the collapsing scene, I start to understand just how big this park was. We’re talking about a $50 million project, in 1990s China. At the time, the country was finally stepping into its swing, opening up to the world around it and developing at an unprecedented rate under president Jiang Zemin. It was eager to try new things, to go places it hadn’t before. And although the attitude yielded hugely significant successes that still resonate today, American Dream Park stands as a reminder of its failures. Now, under president Xi Jinping, the idea of an amusement park built around the theme of American goodness is completely inconceivable.

’90s China was eager to try new things, to go places it hadn’t before

Today, the park caters solely to alt-clientele like ourselves. We came across a handful of other vagrant, explorer youth, as well as photographers and a team of airsoft enthusiasts decked out in camo, hiding in the ruins and casually firing at each other throughout our visit (actually a really badass idea). Graffiti artists had come to make their mark, with most of the pieces we found belonging to the Black Square Art Collective.

At one point we came across a pile of empty hospital-grade painkillers in individual glass jars, evidence of some strange kind of recreational drug use. The most surprising thing overall was the complete sincerity of the abandonment. No cleaning crews had visited. Nobody had come to clear out the arcade machines, or the Skee-Ball ramps, or to remove the waterlogged paddle boats from the Louisiana section. We found a handful of fire extinguishers that were still loaded and in working condition, which we fired off with great delight (really hoping that wasn’t carcinogenic).

Nobody had come to clear out the arcade machines, or the Skee-Ball ramps, or to remove the waterlogged paddle boats from the Louisiana section

The $50 million park that was intended as a game-changer in Shanghai is now just a destination for curious urban explorers. It’s a stark symbol of the relentless, by-any-means-necessary attitude towards development in China; the pursuit of their own ‘American Dream’. As one hasty effort fails, it’s simply given up on and forgotten in order to focus on the next. That kind of mobility, in a lot of ways, actually constitutes a huge strength — a capability for growth unmatched by any other world power. But as China moves from an era of novelty amusement parks to one of QR codes, e-commerce, and international aspirations, sites like American Dream Park become harder to find. Enjoy some photos from our day at the park — American Dream, you will be missed.

Yes, this man is fishing for dinner inside the run-down Louisiana attraction
‘Bout to Skee-Ball
Airsoft players strategize next to some dismembered mascot head