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A popular video app offers rural celebrity hopefuls a taste of fame. For others， it’s a glimpse of real life—or worse
游離在主流视线之外的快手直播充斥着残酷，也载满了梦想
I
t’s valued at over 2 billion USD， has more users than the population of the US and UK combined， and is the fourth most popular app in China. But if you’ve never heard of the live-streaming app Kuaishou （快手， literally “Fast Hand”）， you’re not alone.
On Kuaishou （or Kwai， as the English version is called）， the stars are rural nobodies and their acts are worlds apart from the attractive urbanites paid to document branded lifestyles on mainstream apps like UpLive， YY， and Six Rooms， or celebrity app Huajiao. On Kuaishou， instead， there’s the 46-year-old woman who made a living eating everything from light bulbs to bugs and cacti； the heavily obese nine-year-old whose mother filmed him swigging from a beer bottle， carrying a lit cigarette； the 15-year-old proudly displaying her baby bump.
It is characters like these that have earned Kuaishou an unenviable reputation of being coarse and exploitative， an image that its CEO， Su Hua， takes issue with. “In most cases the videos are simple depictions of joyful moments in everyday situations，” Su told the Chinese site TechNode last June.
Kuaishou’s fanbase is the 674 million-strong， lower-middle and working classes from parts of the country rarely depicted on mainstream TV or cinema screens—rural， undeveloped， mostly impoverished. They are the people who deliver your takeouts， serve your meals， manicure your nails and put together your iPhones. And what they sometimes lack in means or sophistication， they often make up for in enthusiasm， humor， innovation， and authenticity.
To many of them， Kuaishou is a celebration of “real China，” as well as a rare， sometimes lucrative opportunity to grab some limelight. Attention seekers perform outlandish stunts for clicks and cash， such as lighting firecrackers on foreheads （or under groins）， quaffing down bottles of high-strength baijiu or， in the case of one foolhardy foodie in Sichuan， downing a full glass of super-spicy chili oil （he ended up in hospital with severe tonsillitis and a stomach abscess for his troubles）.
For less extroverted types， Kuaishou offers a chance to showcase real talent on a platform they can not only control， but directly profit from （fans show their appreciation by donating virtual gifts such as beer， flowers， and fancy cars； these can be converted to real currency， with the proceeds split equally between the recipient and the platform）. There are decent earners like Qi Zhi’ang from Liaoning province， who posts videos playing guitar while his mother sings； the 17-year-old easily makes around 20，000 RMB a month from his 65 million paying fans. Or more modest moneymakers like Tangshan taxi driver Zhao Xinlong， who moonlights as Zhao Long’er， nighttime raconteur， cracking ribald jokes to around 100，000 viewers who， together with advertisements for health products and Vietnamese “gold，” make him a much-needed extra 6，000 RMB a month， according to The Economist. But that doesn’t stop Zhou from dreaming. After his parents divorced， his father remarried. Although the two still see each other， Zhou feels his father never really cared about him and looks down on what he does. “If I get rich and famous in the future， I want to buy a big new house for my mother， to thank her for supporting what I’m trying to do，” tsays Zhou.
Although Zhou can earn up to 300 RMB for one of his daily broadcasts， he knows that this is not a sustainable future. Under pressure from his girlfriend， Zhou eventually decided to borrow 20，000 RMB to start his own kung fu class at his girlfriend’s school， teaching students aged 6 to 15 who pay 300 RMB a month. With his weekends spent teaching， Zhou has put his Kuaishou ambitions on hold in order to keep faith with his family—he still makes videos， only these ones promote his new business， rather than his true passion for comedy.
THE PAINTER
An art major at Shenyang Ligong University， Zhang Ciman， 22， also helps run a coffee shop in Shenyang where she began her modest broadcasting career about a year ago. By sharing her artwork， performing songs， and taking requests， Zhang has accumulated over 10，000 followers. Hundreds of these fans watch her live shows every day and Zhang uses the virtual gifts from her audience to help pay off tuition fees of around 5，000 RMB per semester， as well as living expenses.
“My mother knows that I’m involved in broadcasting. She even watches my show and helps me deal with some of the problems I have during the performance，” Zhang says. “And by earning money， I feel I am more independent.”
THE ANCHORS
Twenty-three-year-old Zhao Pengbo has just graduated from the Beijing University of Aeronautics and Astronautics， where he studied to be a flight attendant. Unlike his classmates， Zhao has no immediate plans to start a career which， while seeming glamorous—especially to those who haven’t traveled abroad—can be difficult to advance within. Instead， Zhao has decided to see if he can use his natural charm to make a living as a “cyber anchor，” broadcasting himself singing and chatting with fans. He tapes live shows in a special recording room for three hours day， earning around 5，000 RMB a month.
“It’s a trend and fashionable for young people to try [online broadcasting]. Nowadays the market is growing rapidly，” says Zhao. “I like it because this job is more flexible. I can have the time and space for myself after work. My parents think it’s not even work…I don’t care.” Fellow anchor Meiko， also from Shenyang， was working as a sales assistant and gym instructor before she discovered Kuaishou and decided she had what it takes to host her own show. She has joined a production company for live streamers which has hired about 30 young anchors， mainly female and provides them equipment and studio space to work. Other than a basic salary of around 2，000 RMB， a top anchor can earn around 20，000 to 50，0000 RMB a month， mainly from payment from their fans， so their survival is dependent on popularity and consistent work.
THE SINGER-TURNED- PRODUCER
Dai Rui is holding court to his fans at his office in Liaoyang， Liaoning province. Just 24， Dai is already a successful entrepreneur and producer of professional live-streaming shows， but he was once an ordinary online performer， like his employees.
Dai first broke into the business in 2014， and his enthusiastic singing soon earned him a massive following. His fans included several rich businessmen who were willing to give him expensive gifts for his performances—soon his income reached as much as 200，000 RMB a month （wealthy users are often motivated to donate large amounts as a show of face； sometimes they even compete to be a performer’s most generous patron）.
The income allowed Dai to break out of the performer’s life and become his own producer. The Liaoyang Zhiyuan Culture and Communication Company now turns over several million RMB a year， and Dai has more than a thousand streaming singers on contract.
But despite the wealth and acclaim it brought him， Dai doesn’t miss his singing days. “The broadcasting industry made me successful， it also ruined my normal life，” Dai recalls.“I used to broadcast more than 15 hours a day. It hurt my body badly. Now I have more money than I could imagine， but I still don’t have enough time. If I could do it again， I may not choose to broadcast.”
游離在主流视线之外的快手直播充斥着残酷，也载满了梦想
I
t’s valued at over 2 billion USD， has more users than the population of the US and UK combined， and is the fourth most popular app in China. But if you’ve never heard of the live-streaming app Kuaishou （快手， literally “Fast Hand”）， you’re not alone.
On Kuaishou （or Kwai， as the English version is called）， the stars are rural nobodies and their acts are worlds apart from the attractive urbanites paid to document branded lifestyles on mainstream apps like UpLive， YY， and Six Rooms， or celebrity app Huajiao. On Kuaishou， instead， there’s the 46-year-old woman who made a living eating everything from light bulbs to bugs and cacti； the heavily obese nine-year-old whose mother filmed him swigging from a beer bottle， carrying a lit cigarette； the 15-year-old proudly displaying her baby bump.
It is characters like these that have earned Kuaishou an unenviable reputation of being coarse and exploitative， an image that its CEO， Su Hua， takes issue with. “In most cases the videos are simple depictions of joyful moments in everyday situations，” Su told the Chinese site TechNode last June.
Kuaishou’s fanbase is the 674 million-strong， lower-middle and working classes from parts of the country rarely depicted on mainstream TV or cinema screens—rural， undeveloped， mostly impoverished. They are the people who deliver your takeouts， serve your meals， manicure your nails and put together your iPhones. And what they sometimes lack in means or sophistication， they often make up for in enthusiasm， humor， innovation， and authenticity.
To many of them， Kuaishou is a celebration of “real China，” as well as a rare， sometimes lucrative opportunity to grab some limelight. Attention seekers perform outlandish stunts for clicks and cash， such as lighting firecrackers on foreheads （or under groins）， quaffing down bottles of high-strength baijiu or， in the case of one foolhardy foodie in Sichuan， downing a full glass of super-spicy chili oil （he ended up in hospital with severe tonsillitis and a stomach abscess for his troubles）.
For less extroverted types， Kuaishou offers a chance to showcase real talent on a platform they can not only control， but directly profit from （fans show their appreciation by donating virtual gifts such as beer， flowers， and fancy cars； these can be converted to real currency， with the proceeds split equally between the recipient and the platform）. There are decent earners like Qi Zhi’ang from Liaoning province， who posts videos playing guitar while his mother sings； the 17-year-old easily makes around 20，000 RMB a month from his 65 million paying fans. Or more modest moneymakers like Tangshan taxi driver Zhao Xinlong， who moonlights as Zhao Long’er， nighttime raconteur， cracking ribald jokes to around 100，000 viewers who， together with advertisements for health products and Vietnamese “gold，” make him a much-needed extra 6，000 RMB a month， according to The Economist. But that doesn’t stop Zhou from dreaming. After his parents divorced， his father remarried. Although the two still see each other， Zhou feels his father never really cared about him and looks down on what he does. “If I get rich and famous in the future， I want to buy a big new house for my mother， to thank her for supporting what I’m trying to do，” tsays Zhou.
Although Zhou can earn up to 300 RMB for one of his daily broadcasts， he knows that this is not a sustainable future. Under pressure from his girlfriend， Zhou eventually decided to borrow 20，000 RMB to start his own kung fu class at his girlfriend’s school， teaching students aged 6 to 15 who pay 300 RMB a month. With his weekends spent teaching， Zhou has put his Kuaishou ambitions on hold in order to keep faith with his family—he still makes videos， only these ones promote his new business， rather than his true passion for comedy.
THE PAINTER
An art major at Shenyang Ligong University， Zhang Ciman， 22， also helps run a coffee shop in Shenyang where she began her modest broadcasting career about a year ago. By sharing her artwork， performing songs， and taking requests， Zhang has accumulated over 10，000 followers. Hundreds of these fans watch her live shows every day and Zhang uses the virtual gifts from her audience to help pay off tuition fees of around 5，000 RMB per semester， as well as living expenses.
“My mother knows that I’m involved in broadcasting. She even watches my show and helps me deal with some of the problems I have during the performance，” Zhang says. “And by earning money， I feel I am more independent.”
THE ANCHORS
Twenty-three-year-old Zhao Pengbo has just graduated from the Beijing University of Aeronautics and Astronautics， where he studied to be a flight attendant. Unlike his classmates， Zhao has no immediate plans to start a career which， while seeming glamorous—especially to those who haven’t traveled abroad—can be difficult to advance within. Instead， Zhao has decided to see if he can use his natural charm to make a living as a “cyber anchor，” broadcasting himself singing and chatting with fans. He tapes live shows in a special recording room for three hours day， earning around 5，000 RMB a month.
“It’s a trend and fashionable for young people to try [online broadcasting]. Nowadays the market is growing rapidly，” says Zhao. “I like it because this job is more flexible. I can have the time and space for myself after work. My parents think it’s not even work…I don’t care.” Fellow anchor Meiko， also from Shenyang， was working as a sales assistant and gym instructor before she discovered Kuaishou and decided she had what it takes to host her own show. She has joined a production company for live streamers which has hired about 30 young anchors， mainly female and provides them equipment and studio space to work. Other than a basic salary of around 2，000 RMB， a top anchor can earn around 20，000 to 50，0000 RMB a month， mainly from payment from their fans， so their survival is dependent on popularity and consistent work.
THE SINGER-TURNED- PRODUCER
Dai Rui is holding court to his fans at his office in Liaoyang， Liaoning province. Just 24， Dai is already a successful entrepreneur and producer of professional live-streaming shows， but he was once an ordinary online performer， like his employees.
Dai first broke into the business in 2014， and his enthusiastic singing soon earned him a massive following. His fans included several rich businessmen who were willing to give him expensive gifts for his performances—soon his income reached as much as 200，000 RMB a month （wealthy users are often motivated to donate large amounts as a show of face； sometimes they even compete to be a performer’s most generous patron）.
The income allowed Dai to break out of the performer’s life and become his own producer. The Liaoyang Zhiyuan Culture and Communication Company now turns over several million RMB a year， and Dai has more than a thousand streaming singers on contract.
But despite the wealth and acclaim it brought him， Dai doesn’t miss his singing days. “The broadcasting industry made me successful， it also ruined my normal life，” Dai recalls.“I used to broadcast more than 15 hours a day. It hurt my body badly. Now I have more money than I could imagine， but I still don’t have enough time. If I could do it again， I may not choose to broadcast.”