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Straits Times
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Straits Times
EvanTube turns 19: When a child's life becomes the family business
Evan Lee, better known as EvanTube, in his childhood bedroom in El Dorado Hills, California, on April 19. PHOTO: MAGGIE SHANNON/NYTIMES NEW YORK – Evan Lee was in elementary school when he became the linchpin of his family's business. With his neatly combed hair and dimpled smile, he was a charm bomb, conveying on camera both the cheerful sincerity of a boy scout and the precocious charisma of a whizz-kid . Evan, eventually known to seven million YouTube subscribers as EvanTube, was one of the earliest kid influencers, internet famous for playing with toys. EvanTube blew up by accident in October 2011, when freelance videographer Jared Lee sculpted the entire cast of the Angry Birds video game out of modelling clay for his five-year-old son. Evan and Jared decided to make a home video, like a show and tell. Situated at the family's dining table, Evan earnestly explained each character's special powers , according to the video game . 'Yellow Bird goes super fast,' he said , in a halting voice , glancing occasionally towards his father, who was filming. He picked up a lumpy pale bird. 'This is White Bird. It flies and drops white bombs and looks like a lemon when he dies.' A tiny smile revealed baby teeth. Evan is 19 now and looking back at his life. 'My brain was still developing when I was that young', so he does not remember every detail of how it all happened, he told me when I visited him at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, where he is finishing his first year. He cannot recall why he wanted his own YouTube channel, only that he and his father sat at the computer and chose the name EvanTube. They uploaded their video and, within several months, it had 70,000 views. Ultimately, it reached 11 million. At Christmas that year, Jared bought a haul of Angry Birds merch and recorded as Evan showcased them, one by one, in front of the family's dazzling Christmas tree. Since the show-and-tell video, his patter had become polished. 'Thank you for watching my video,' he said in his outro. 'Happy New Year. Please subscribe.' The video has nearly 13 million views. It was obvious how, before the camera, Evan 'came alive' as his mother Alisa put it when I visited the family in a Northern California suburb. Toys began arriving at the Lee family doorstep, boxes and boxes and boxes of them. Mash'ems, Lego and Nerf products. Barbie Dreamhouses, Skylanders games, anything Star Wars. Jared bought lots of toys too. Evan unboxed, reviewed, explained, built and played with toys and games after school while his father recorded him. Soon, Evan's younger sister Jillian, who was almost four, began to appear as his foil and sidekick. As they grew older, they would do 'challenges', drinking gross smoothies and dumping dog food, ketchup and sauerkraut on each other's heads. Jared would stay up late editing, layering in sound and special effects. Making money on YouTube was a new frontier, and in 2012, Jared enlisted a creator network to help him maximise advertising rates and make brand deals. Views converted to income. Some months, EvanTube was grossing US$100,000 from Google advertisements alone, said Jared. In 2014, it reached one million subscribers. Evan was nine. (From left) Evan Lee, better known as EvanTube; his sister Jillian Lee; his father Jared Lee; and Alisa, his mother, at their home in El Dorado Hills, California, on April 19. PHOTO: MAGGIE SHANNON/NYTIMES 'I don't really know what my parents' thought process was, putting me on the channel,' Evan said. 'I didn't think it was a big deal because I was living it.' By the time he was 10, EvanTube had enabled the Lees to establish a family trust, savings and college funds. The family also bought a US$3 million six-bedroom, seven-bathroom modern villa inside a gated community. When it came to parenting, Jared and Alisa trusted their instincts. They never wanted to chase views by shocking or humiliating their children, as other YouTube parents did. And they did not want to vlog every day. Jared was careful not to show his kids burping, picking their noses or in their underwear. The goal , he said, was always to come across as normal and wholesome. 'Be likable. Get people to enjoy your presence and relate to you. That's the thing.' So, when in middle school, other kids began to tease and bully Evan, saying that his channel was 'cringe' and that he was too old to be playing with toys, Evan was taken aback. Around that time , Evan recalled that haters in the comments called him 'spoiled' and people told him his parents were 'taking advantage' of him or 'using you for money'. 'That definitely made me feel sad. Like, sad-angry.' He started telling his parents he did not want to review toys anymore and withdrew to his room. Children as 'commodities' Evan is coming of age when all parents, it seems, post videos of their children online, an untold number in the hope of making money. The current titan of the kid influencers , inspired by EvanTube, is a 13-year-old named Ryan Kaji, who started unboxing toys when he was three. His Ryan's World brand has had advertising deals with Lunchables and Legoland, a line of merchandise and a Nickelodeon television show. Conservative estimates put Ryan's family earnings at US$25 million (S$32.5 million) annually. And though posters on Reddit rally around Ryan, saying he is being exploited by his parents and deserves a shot at a normal life, his business associates disagree. In an influencer economy, a breakthrough kid or family brand can be life-changing. In the cases of the most successful child influencers, 'their great-grandkids are set for life', said Mr Chris Williams, chief executive of PocketWatch, which partners Ryan's World and EvanTube to make content and licensing deals. A coalition of law professors, attorneys-general and university students concerned about children's rights is at work drafting language for state bills safeguarding the finances of minors who are also influencers. Laws have been passed in Illinois, California, Minnesota and Utah, largely because of the efforts of an advocacy group called Quit Clicking Kids, which aims to 'combat the monetisation of children on social media', according to its website. But the activists' concerns go beyond legal and financial protections. There is no ethical route for parents to trade on a child's image online for profit, many say. Such transactions violate the child's privacy now and into the future because a digital record is permanent. They stunt a child's psychological development, replacing a sturdy identity with an idea of self 'as a commodity for public consumption', said former American child actor Alyson Stoner in a recent webinar. In Stoner's view, the child influencer economy does damage by blurring the lines between work and home: In an influencer setting, a child's director, scriptwriter and publicist is also the parent. In the best-case scenario, what are the effects of a life lived online? When Evan was in middle school and living in the new house, he started asking his parents about money. Where was it? Wasn't it his? Why couldn't he spend it? The way his parents explained it, the money was for the family's future and they were a team, Evan said. 'If I didn't work on YouTube, we probably wouldn't have been able to afford' private college, he said. Eventually, 'I realised there is no way we would have made that much money unless my parents were involved', he said. 'An eight-year-old, 10-year-old, does not have the mind to keep a successful YouTube channel, generate that profit, work with brands.' He added: 'But if I was removed from the equation, there wouldn't be a star.' 'A pretty shy kid' Even before Evan was born, Jared videotaped everything. For work, he shot weddings, corporate events and infomercials. Clean-cut and well-spoken, Jared has long been a collector of mass-market toys and merchandise. In his basement, he keeps his extensive comic book collection, neatly preserved, labelled and mounted on a long wall. Jared Lee, father of Evan Lee, better known as EvanTube, at his home studio in El Dorado Hills, California, on April 19. PHOTO: MAGGIE SHANNON/NYTIMES When Evan, at five, became infatuated with Super Mario video games, his parents got him a Mario costume and photographed him grinning and holding a Mario plushie, an image that still hangs in the family home. In the Lee household, it was not unusual for Jared, a videographer, to film his son playing with Angry Birds toys. Also, 'Evan was a pretty shy kid' , Jared said. So, from his and Alisa's point of view, EvanTube initially served a pragmatic parenting purpose. The channel was like an extracurricular activity, 'a way for him to just talk', he said. 'He didn't have to talk to strangers. He was just talking to me.' In the earliest days of YouTube, creators earned money in two ways: through a portion of the revenues from ads placed next to the videos and through sponsorships and brand deals. At the peak, the Lees were earning between US$1 million and US$2 million a year, Jared said. The magic was Evan. His audience was mostly kids his own age, who considered him, as one agency executive put it, their cool friend who got all the best toys for Christmas. Evan did not mind being super- famous when he was eight. He hardly noticed it. If kids at school were watching EvanTube, they probably just thought, 'Hey, this is my friend that I watch on my phone', he said in a video he made later. It hurt Evan when, in the comments, a viewer called EvanTube 'poopy pants'. And he did not like it when people at school called him 'EvanTube' instead of his name. What he liked least was when his father wanted to record in public, especially when people he knew were there. In those instances, Evan felt 'just shy and embarrassed', he said. Starting when he was very young, Evan told his parents when he needed them to turn the camera off. 'I've told them, like, I just don't want to record right now,' he said. 'I want to play with my friends on the playground. And they got it.' In fifth grade, Evan moved to the new house and enrolled in a new school. For the first time, he experienced the disequilibrium of fame, which he called 'surreal'. 'Everyone knew who I was, and I knew nobody,' he said. In middle school, he stopped letting his father style his hair. And he did not want to review toys anymore. 'I had to really make a case to my parents,' he said. 'It took them time to understand that I was growing up.' This transitional period lasted about three years, Evan said. Jared saw how both kids were changing, and he did not want to push them. His first priority, always, was fun, he said. At the same time, they were powering a huge and successful business. Evan's impression, in retrospect, is they 'didn't want to hit the switch on something that was working'. I asked Jared: Should young children have to consent for their image to be used for financial gain? He paused. Of course children should not be muscled into things they do not want to do, he said. 'But kids probably don't want to do a lot of things they should do, like go to school and work. I think there has to be some trust in the parenting of the child.' 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CairoScene
06-05-2025
- Entertainment
- CairoScene
The Libyan Reggae Band That Ghosted the Internet
Words & Interview by: Engy Hashem Research & Story discovery: Youssef Yasser It's not every day that you get the chance to speak with a band with such a unique history, and deep roots that have stayed under the radar for so long. It feels like your dad's old Corolla gifting you a mixtape from the 80s, somehow untouched, somehow still cooler than anything on Spotify. White Bird, the Libyan reggae pioneers, have been a vital force in their homeland for decades, even though their music has only been shared with a lucky few in Libya. After a long journey of trials, triumphs, and self-discovery, they're now finally ready to introduce their music to the world. The birth of White Bird feels as much about family as it is about music. Founded in 1984, the band's story is rooted in deep friendship and shared vision. 'It was the bond we had as friends that led to the formation of the band,' they told me with a sense of nostalgia. 'We were brothers first, and the music came later.' Their collective passion for creating something bigger than themselves fueled the early days of White Bird. It wasn't until 1990 that they officially began their musical journey, after years of working and growing together. "In 1993, we released our first album, which was our true beginning," they explained. And the name White Bird? It's not just a name; it's a symbol of everything they stand for. 'The white bird represents peace,' they said, 'It's the dove, the olive branch, the message of spreading hope and love.' That sentiment runs through everything they do, and it's clear their music is their way of passing on that message. For White Bird, reggae isn't just a genre; it's a way of life. 'Reggae spoke to us in a way no other music could,' they shared. "It expressed everything we wanted to say about freedom, justice, and peace." The reggae beat resonated with them, not only because of the rhythm but also because of its deep connection to their African roots. 'Reggae came from the struggle for freedom, and that's something we understand,' they said. 'Libya's struggles are reflected in reggae's fight for justice and peace.' As we spoke more, it was clear that White Bird's sound has never been confined to one style. 'We've always experimented with different genres,' they explained, 'but reggae is the foundation.' Even though they've drawn inspiration from many musical traditions — both local and international — reggae remains at the core of what they do. Their openness to creativity and diversity is part of what keeps their music fresh and relevant. the White bird · ياحبي,,,my love,,, They also spoke about their collaborations, both inside Libya and internationally, which have enriched their journey. I was particularly moved by their collaboration with Yasudo from Burkina Faso, which brought together two very different African cultures through music. "It was a magical experience,' they said. 'It wasn't just about making music — it was about building bridges.' But it was their work with the late Ibrahim Al-Rock, one of Libya's most influential musicians, that really stood out. "He had such a big impact on us," they said, a sense of reverence in their voices. 'Ibrahim Al-Rock was one of the people who helped shape our identity as artists. He was one of the first musicians who saw what we were trying to do and believed in us." Working with him was a pivotal moment for White Bird, and it's clear that the collaboration left an indelible mark on their sound and spirit. Creating a song, according to White Bird, is spontaneous — a mix of inspiration, emotion, and timing. 'We don't have a set process,' they said. 'Sometimes, the lyrics come first, sometimes the rhythm. It depends on the moment.' I could hear the creativity in their voices as they described how a song might begin with just a hum or a beat, gradually growing into a full piece of music. It was a reminder that music, at its core, is organic, unpredictable, and full of life. As they talked about the instruments that mean the most to them, their passion for music was evident. 'We can't pick just one,' they laughed. 'Each instrument adds something special.' To them, every instrument plays a crucial role in creating a song that feels whole. Whether it's the rhythm section that keeps things grounded, the strings that bring emotion, or the wind instruments that add layers of depth, everything works together to tell a story. I was so moved as the band reminisced about their early recordings on cassette tapes, which became an integral part of Libyan culture. "We used to hear our music in taxis, in buses," they said. 'It was everywhere. People connected with it in ways we didn't even imagine.' Those tapes were an important part of their legacy, and as they've planned to digitize their old work, they've made sure that their music continues to live on. 'We're excited to share our old recordings with the world,' they told me, "and we're working on getting them onto digital platforms like Spotify and iTunes." It's clear that this is just the beginning for them. the White bird · خديت القليب So why has their music remained underground for so long? According to the band, it was largely due to technical and logistical hurdles. "There were a lot of challenges," they explained, "but we're finally in the process of uploading everything to digital platforms." I could sense their excitement as they looked ahead to this new chapter. 'We want our music to reach as many people as possible. It's time for the world to hear what we have to say.' One of the most pivotal moments in White Bird's history was their appearance on Masrah Al-Jamahir — a moment they described as a 'turning point.' "That was when everything changed for us," they said, "It wasn't just a performance — it was a declaration of who we are." It was on that stage that they truly affirmed their message of peace and love through reggae music. That experience set the tone for the years that followed, and their confidence grew as they realized the power of their music to connect people. When I asked about the current Libyan music scene, the band didn't mince words. 'It's struggling,' they said. 'There's no real support, no venues, no platforms for artists.' Yet, despite the obstacles, they remain committed to supporting young Libyan artists. "We stay in touch with them, offering guidance and sharing experiences," they said. "There's so much talent here, but they need help getting their voices heard." It's clear that White Bird sees their role not just as musicians, but as mentors to the next generation of Libyan artists. Looking toward the future, the band is full of hope and excitement. "We're recording new material," they shared with a smile. "We're also planning live shows. We miss the stage." Live performances are where their energy truly shines, and it's evident they're eager to connect with their fans on a deeper level. Finally, I asked them what they'd like the new generation to know about White Bird. "We want them to understand that White Bird is more than just music," they said. "It's about brotherhood, friendship, and love. Our foundation is built on those values, and that's what has kept us together all these years." Getting to speak with White Bird was an unforgettable experience. As I listened to their story, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. This is a band that has remained true to themselves, their values, and their message for decades. Their music has touched the hearts of many, even if it's only been heard by a select few. But now, as they prepare to share their songs with the world, the rest of us will finally have the chance to hear what we've been missing. White Bird's time has come.
New York Times
27-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
When a Child's Life Becomes the Family Business
Evan Lee was in elementary school when he became the linchpin of his family's business. With his neatly combed hair and dimpled smile, he was a charm bomb, conveying on camera both the cheerful sincerity of a boy scout and the precocious charisma of a whiz kid. Evan, eventually known to seven million YouTube subscribers as EvanTube, was one of the earliest kid influencers, internet famous for playing with toys. EvanTube blew up by accident in October 2011, when a freelance videographer named Jared Lee sculpted the entire cast of the Angry Birds video game out of modeling clay for his 5-year-old son. Delighted by this handiwork, Evan and Jared decided to make a home video, like a show and tell. Situated at the family's dining table with the figurines arrayed before him, Evan earnestly explained each character's special powers, according to the video game. 'Yellow Bird goes super fast,' he said, in a halting voice, glancing occasionally toward his father, who was filming. He picked up a lumpy pale bird. 'This is White Bird. It flies and drops white bombs and looks like a lemon when he dies.' A tiny smile revealed baby teeth. Evan is 19 now and looking back at his life. 'My brain was still developing when I was that young,' so he doesn't remember every detail of how it all happened, he told me when I visited him at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, where he is finishing his first year. He can't recall why he wanted his own YouTube channel, only that he and his father sat at the computer and chose the name 'EvanTube.' Evan and Jared uploaded their video and forgot about it. Within several months, it had 70,000 views. Ultimately, it reached 11 million. At Christmas that year, Jared bought a haul of Angry Birds merch at Toys 'R' Us — action figures and magnets, erasers and gummy candy, hoodies and blankets, backpacks and plush toys — and recorded as Evan showcased them, one by one, in front of the family's dazzling Christmas tree. Since the show-and-tell video, his patter had become polished. 'Thank you for watching my video,' he said in his outro. 'Happy New Year. Please subscribe.' The video has nearly 13 million views. It was obvious how, before the camera, Evan 'came alive,' as his mother, Alisa, put it when I visited the family in a Northern California suburb. Toys began arriving at the Lee family doorstep, boxes and boxes and boxes of them. Mash'ems, Lego and Nerf products. Barbie Dreamhouses, Skylanders games, anything 'Star Wars.' It was 'crazy,' Alisa said, like a 'snowball.' Jared bought lots of toys, too. Evan unboxed, reviewed, explained, built and played with toys and games after school while his father recorded him. When the toys were boring or the instructions complex, Jared would 'feed me the line and I'd say it back,' Evan told me. Soon Evan's younger sister, Jillian, who was almost 4, began to appear as Evan's foil and sidekick. As they grew older, they would do 'challenges,' drinking gross smoothies blended with onions, pickles and Oreos and dumping dog food, ketchup and sauerkraut on each other's heads. Jared would stay up late editing, layering in sound and special effects. Making money on YouTube was a new frontier, and in 2012, Jared enlisted a creator network to help him maximize advertising rates and make brand deals. In 2013, through a collaboration with a novelty-gift outfit called Vat19, Jared uploaded a skit of Evan bringing a two-foot gummy worm to school in his lunchbox. At 146 million views, it is still the most popular EvanTube video of all time. Views converted to income. Some months, EvanTube was grossing $100,000 from Google ads alone, according to Jared. In 2014, it reached a million subscribers. Evan was 9. 'I don't really know what my parents' thought process was, putting me on the channel,' Evan told me. 'I didn't think it was a big deal because I was living it.' By the time he was 10, EvanTube had enabled the Lees to establish a family trust, savings, 529 college funds and Coogan accounts. Both children already had Roth I.R.A.s. Accountants said the Lees needed more write-offs and a bigger mortgage, so they purchased a $3 million six-bedroom, seven-bathroom modern villa inside a gated community. They had a swimming pool and, eventually, three Teslas in the driveway. Doors opened: free cruises, trips to Disney theme parks, vacations in London and Hong Kong. They vlogged their adventures as they went. Evan and Jillian appeared on 'The Tonight Show.' 'Once you're on the wave, you need to know how to ride it,' Jared said. When it came to parenting, he and Alisa trusted their instincts. They never wanted to chase views by shocking or humiliating their children, as other YouTube parents did, berating them or, as in the case of DaddyOFive, smashing their Xbox with a hammer. And they didn't want to vlog every day, like some of the other YouTube families they knew. Jared was careful not to show his kids burping, going to the bathroom, picking their noses or in their underwear. The goal, he said, was always to come across as normal and wholesome: 'Be likable. Get people to enjoy your presence and relate to you. That's the thing.' So when in middle school other kids began to tease and bully Evan, saying that his channel was 'cringe' and that he was too old to be playing with toys, Evan was taken aback. Around that time, 'there was another thing I had to deal with,' Evan told me. We were sitting in a study room in the library at Loyola Marymount. Long, wide windows overlooked a colonnade of palm trees. Evan has the same deep dimples and unwavering eye contact as his younger self, but he wears his hair long and shaggy and his clothes slouchy and oversize, like a character in a skater comic. He recalled that in middle school, haters in the comments called him 'spoiled,' and people told him things he had never considered before. His parents were 'taking advantage' of him, they said, or 'using you for money,' Evan told me. 'That definitely made me feel sad. Like, sad-angry.' He started telling his parents he didn't want to review toys anymore and withdrew to his room. Children as 'Commodities' Evan Lee is coming of age when all parents, it seems, post videos of their children online, an untold number in the hopes of making money. The current titan of the kid influencers, inspired by EvanTube, is a 13-year-old named Ryan Kaji who started unboxing toys when he was 3. His Ryan's World brand has had advertising deals with Lunchables and Legoland, a line of merch — pajamas and backpacks emblazoned with Ryan's image — and a Nickelodeon television show. Conservative estimates put Ryan's family earnings at $25 million annually. And though posters on Reddit rally around Ryan, saying he's being exploited by his parents and deserves a shot at a normal life, his business associates disagree. In an influencer economy — which McKinsey values at more than $21 billion worldwide — a breakthrough kid or family brand can be life-changing. In the cases of the most successful child influencers, 'their great-grandkids are set for life,' said Chris Williams, the chief executive of PocketWatch, which partners with both Ryan's World and EvanTube to make content and licensing deals. Ryan is an outlier, of course. Wannabe child influencers far outnumber successes; even the most charismatic children and enterprising parents have no idea how hard it is to make money online, talent agents say. On my own social media feeds, children I've never met dance and sing and drop wisdom like mini-philosophers. Their parents manage their pages, which also sell hair bows and plug Donkey Kong video games. I am mesmerized by them, but also recoil at the implicit exchange of cuteness for cash, possibly because the basis of the transaction feels muddled: Are these children being authentically themselves? Or are they acting out an uncanny version of authenticity? New documentaries highlight horrific abuses: parents who starved and bound their children, forced children to kiss onscreen, adopted a child and then gave him away. The prevalence of child predators who track kids online is well documented, as is the collusion of parents who sell pornographic images of their children, and even their used leotards, online. Train wrecks draw attention, so parents post videos of their young children throwing tantrums, potty training and being disciplined or punished. A coalition of law professors, attorneys general and university students concerned about children's rights is at work drafting language for state bills safeguarding the finances of minors who are also influencers. Laws have already been passed in Illinois, California, Minnesota and Utah, largely because of the efforts of an advocacy group called Quit Clicking Kids, which aims to 'combat the monetization of children on social media,' according to its website. But the activists' concerns extend far beyond legal and financial protections. There is no ethical route for parents to trade on a child's image online for profit, many say. Such transactions violate the child's privacy — now and into the future, because a digital record is permanent. They stunt a child's psychological development, replacing a sturdy identity with an idea of self 'as a commodity for public consumption,' as the former child actor Alyson Stoner said in a webinar recently. In Stoner's view, the child influencer economy does damage by blurring the lines between work and home: In an influencer setting, a child's director, scriptwriter and publicist is also the parent. At the heart of the debate lies the question of consent. Whose idea was the TikTok, the reel, the dance, the prank, the skit? To put it online for everyone to see? And what, precisely, does the consent of a 3- or 6-year-old mean in the context of a family business? When children are breadwinners, 'it's impossible to really talk about consent,' said Devorah Heitner, author of 'Growing Up in Public: Coming of Age in a Digital World.' She added: 'It's really a very powerful position to be the parent and say, 'Oh, we need this.' Or 'This is going to help the family.' Or 'This is going to pay for you to go to college or for your sibling's medical care.'' In the best-case scenario, what are the effects of a life lived online? When Evan was in middle school and living in the new house, he started asking his parents about money. Where was it? Wasn't it his? Why couldn't he spend it? The way his parents explained it, the money was for the family's future and they were a team, Evan said. 'If I didn't work on YouTube, we probably wouldn't have been able to afford' private college, he told me. Eventually, 'I realized there is no way we would have made that much money unless my parents were involved,' he said. 'An 8-year-old, 10-year-old, does not have the mind to keep a successful YouTube channel, generate that profit, work with brands.' He continued: 'But if I was removed from the equation, there wouldn't be a star.' 'A Pretty Shy Kid' Even before Evan was born, Jared videotaped everything. For work, he shot weddings, corporate events, infomercials. He recorded Evan's birth. 'I edited it, blurred stuff out and whatever,' Jared said. He set the video to music, burned it onto a DVD and designed a case. We were sitting on the sectional couch in the Lees' living room, recognizable as the site of EvanTube Christmas mornings, while Chloe — the goldendoodle the kids got for Christmas in 2015 (another EvanTube episode) — sniffed around the snacks Alisa had placed on the coffee table. Jillian, 16, was sitting there, too. Hearing of her brother's birth video, Jillian laughed in horror. 'Oh my gosh,' she said. 'Did you ever upload it?' Alisa asked Jared. 'To YouTube?' Jillian asked. Jared said he hadn't. He just likes having a video record of his life. 'I'm a nostalgic person. I like to look back at things.' His children feel the same. Jillian said she likes to rewatch the old YouTube videos because they 'are kind of my memories.' Clean-cut and well-spoken, Jared, an amateur bodybuilder, has the physique of an action figure, the narrowness of his waist accentuated by mighty shoulders and arms. He has long been a collector of mass-market toys and merchandise. In his basement he keeps his extensive comic book collection, neatly preserved, labeled and mounted on a long wall. He collects humongous three-dimensional statues of Marvel and other comic book characters with rippling muscles and detachable heads, as well as vinyl Funko Pop collectible figurines, still in their boxes. When Evan, at 5, became infatuated with Super Mario video games, his parents got him a Mario costume — red hat, blue overalls — and photographed him grinning and holding a Mario plushy, an image that still hangs in the family home. In the Lee household, it was not unusual for the father to film his son playing with Angry Birds toys. Also, 'Evan was a pretty shy kid,' an ''I'm-here-but-don't-pass-me-the-ball' kind of kid,' Jared told me. So, from his and Alisa's point of view, EvanTube initially served a pragmatic parenting purpose. The channel was like an extracurricular activity, 'a way for him to just talk,' he said. 'He didn't have to talk to strangers. He was just talking to me.' Alisa and Jared, avid theater nerds, met during rehearsals for a community theater production of 'The King and I.' Jared was the king. Alisa was a servant. 'I wasn't even one of the wives,' she joked, ruefully. After Evan was born, Alisa quit her job as a kindergarten teacher. On EvanTube — where she is known as MommyTube and Jared as DaddyTube — she had a supporting role, helping the kids with sharp knives or opening the hot oven. Offscreen, she cleaned up messes and searched for places that would accept huge donations of toys, she told me. Jared never had to quit his job. He just moved his focus away from weddings and toward the growing family business. In the earliest days of YouTube, creators earned money in two ways: through a portion of the revenues from ads placed next to the videos and through sponsorships and brand deals. Maker Studios, the network that was representing the Lees at the time, helped Jared boost views by brainstorming ideas and sharing analytics, said Williams of PocketWatch, who formerly worked at Maker. In addition, Maker offered EvanTube up as a brand partner, generating multiple revenue streams at once. For example, Universal Studios would hire Evan to make videos promoting 'The Lego Movie,' and then, in the 48 hours before the release of the movie, only 'The Lego Movie' ads would run on EvanTube, Williams explained. At the peak, the Lees were earning between $1 million and $2 million a year, Jared said. The magic was Evan. His audience was mostly kids his own age, who considered him, as one agency executive put it to me, their cool friend who got all the best toys for Christmas. Young viewers felt as if they were at Evan's house, hanging out with him and his fun family, eating candy and experiencing the ecstasy of an avalanche of toys. Evan didn't mind being super-famous when he was 8. He hardly noticed it. If kids at school were watching EvanTube, they probably just thought, 'Hey, this is my friend that I watch on my phone,' he said in a video he made later. It hurt Evan when in the comments a viewer called EvanTube 'poopy pants,' and he didn't like it when people at school called him 'EvanTube' instead of his name. What he liked least was when his father wanted to record in public, dragging equipment to the schoolyard or a big-box store, especially when people he knew were there. In those instances, Evan felt 'just shy and embarrassed,' he said. Starting when he was very young, Evan told his parents when he needed them to turn the camera off. 'I've told them, like, I just don't want to record right now,' he said. 'I want to play with my friends on the playground. And they got it.' As the channel grew, effusive adults would frequently approach the Lees in a restaurant or amusement park with star-struck children in tow. In those instances, Jared did the talking while Evan withdrew. 'I'd say, 'Don't hide behind us,'' Jared recalls. Alisa would remind him to be gracious, smile, say thank you and pose for a photo if asked. 'Use your manners,' she'd say. In fifth grade, Evan moved to the big new house and enrolled in a new school. For the first time, he experienced the disequilibrium of fame, which he called 'surreal.' 'Everyone knew who I was, and I knew nobody,' he said. His peers, who were strangers, knew what his parents looked like, where he went on vacation, the name of his dog, the furniture in his house. 'I was just by the play structure chilling,' he remembered in a vlog, when the yelling began. 'Everyone was like: 'EvanTube! EvanTube! YouTuber! YouTuber!'' he said. 'Keep in mind, when there's a lot of people crowding around me, a lot of people giving me attention all at once, in person, it kind of stresses me out.' The horde followed Evan as he ran to the top of the play structure and tried to escape down the slide. Describing this in the video, recorded from inside his bedroom at 17, Evan maintains magnetic eye contact, but his delivery is energized, the final cut spliced with jokey memes. In middle school, Evan stopped letting his father style his hair. And he didn't want to review toys anymore. At 13, taller, thinner and with faint facial hair, he was still playing with slime. 'DANG,' wrote a commenter at that time, 'puberty hit him HARD.' He started telling his father he was too tired to record. Or he would start recording and then retreat into video games. The evolution away from toys was not instant. 'I had to really make a case to my parents,' he told me. 'It took them time to understand that I was growing up.' This transitional period lasted about three years, Evan said. Jared saw how both kids were changing, and he didn't want to push them. His first priority, always, was fun, he said. At the same time, they were powering a huge and successful business. Evan's impression, in retrospect, is that they 'didn't want to hit the switch on something that was working.' As Jared put it, 'We still had a loyal following, and the people who did stick around wanted to know what we were up to.' None of the Lees like to talk openly about family tensions. In middle school, when Evan had the impulse to post on Twitter that he was 'really sad,' his parents discouraged him. 'You don't need to let the internet know all of your emotions,' he remembered them saying. I asked Jared: Should young children have to consent for their image to be used for financial gain? He paused. Of course children shouldn't be muscled into things they don't want to do, he said. But 'kids probably don't want to do a lot of things they should do, like go to school and work. I think there has to be some trust in the parenting of the child.' Evan was determined to stop reviewing toys. 'I didn't really take into consideration that it would probably result in less views,' Evan said — or, as I pointed out, less family income. 'Yeah,' he agreed. 'I did not care.' A classmate had calf-slapped Evan at school. A teacher had quietly asked Evan for a favor: Could a fan she knew join his gaming channel? Evan was in high school during the pandemic, and he spent most of his time in his room, avoiding his father's lens, playing Minecraft and Fortnite. 'I didn't have a lot of friends,' Evan said. 'It was just a matter of me wanting to be private even in my own house. I was just like, 'Let me not be on camera.'' Creepy Comments I sat in the Lees' living room and played with their dog on a ferociously rainy day. The context for this conversation, I explained, was the wider debate: the concern about the exploitation and commodification of children by their parents. Evan, who signed off EvanTube at the end of high school, told me that 'I don't feel exploited at all.' Jared and Alisa are trying to teach their college student to responsibly live on a budget. Some activists argue that kids' images should never be used on social media for profit, I said. Jared considered this. 'I think there might be a little over-concern with showing your kid's face,' he said. 'If we walk out on the street, people are going to see their face. As long as people don't have a way to access your children directly, that's the big thing.' Evan is using his last name now on his social media, but at EvanTube's peak, Jared always made sure not to reveal the family's last name or location. Evan told me he had sometimes been followed at gamer conventions. Jillian said people occasionally leave creepy comments on her TikToks. Was there ever a time when Jared or Alisa became concerned about stalkers or predators because of their children's broad visibility? They both looked surprised. 'No, nothing like that,' Alisa said. 'Not that I'm aware of.' Jared interjected. There was that one kid, the one with his shirt off, who uploaded his own YouTube videos where he ranted, swore, bullied and threatened Evan, he said. 'It was bad,' Alisa agreed. 'That would be the creepiest thing that ever happened.' Jared spoke to his management, who spoke to YouTube, and they took the videos down. They didn't tell Evan until years later. 'It would have scared the crap out of me,' Evan told me. 'I guess he was, like, threatening to kill me.' Later that afternoon, Jillian came home from school and joined us on the couch. She performs with her parents in community musical theater productions. At the time, they were in rehearsals for '42nd Street.' I asked them about TikToks I'd seen where she instructs her brother not to film her feet. A social media convention among young and famous people is not to show bare feet to avoid attention from foot fetishists. Jared was unfamiliar with this protocol. 'I thought it was because you didn't like your feet!' he said to her. 'No,' Jillian responded. He pressed on. Feet are natural, he said. Why would you want to hide them? That's not how he grew up. 'I think it's social media. Because there's things about foot fe-' 'Well, yeah,' Jared said. 'But my thought on it is people have fetishes about everything. So are you going to hide yourself?' 'I don't know,' Jillian answered. She looked helpless to translate her generational reality. The next day, when I met Evan, I relayed this conversation. He sided firmly with his sister. 'If we were doing a family vlog inside the house, I would not want my feet in the video. At all.' He would wear socks. He is very online. He sees the conversations. 'There are weird people out there,' he said.
The Guardian
03-03-2025
- Climate
- The Guardian
Secure the boat, pile sandbags and hunker down: Queensland's Bribie Island braces for Cyclone Alfred
Liam Mac Court was awoken around 6am on Monday by a phone call that every boat owner dreads. Red Cloud, his 30-foot Fastback catamaran named after the indomitable Lakota warrior chief, had been ripped from its mooring in the Pumicestone Passage and driven into the concrete embankments on the lee side of Bribie Island. So, as many of the rest of the islanders prepared to defend their homes from a tropical cyclone menacing the coastal community just north of Brisbane – along with large swathes of south-east Queensland – Mac Court grabbed the crutches he's been hobbling on since a recent bike accident, called his son Luke, and set out to try to secure his catamaran. He found Red Cloud near the bridge connecting the sand island to the mainland beside White Bird, another unmoored boat – and chuckled at the cadence of names. A former Baptist pastor who still carries Swords, Dublin, in his accent, Mac Court – lover of words and people – quotes William Butler Yeats as he talks of the 'terrible beauty' inside the latter, even as the wind whips the normally becalmed passage into a grey churn of white caps. And what of the looming storm, does it too contain a terrible beauty? 'Oh it's magnificent!' Mac Court says with gusto in his Irish lilt. 'The forces at work! What can one man on crutches do, except enjoy and admire it all? 'And the people! I've had hugs, I've had kisses, I've had people bring me coffees'. People have also brought in 14 heavy tyres that are tied to the side of the boat to try to limit hull damage. As he speaks, Luke leaps on and off Red Cloud in an effort to temporarily secure the catamaran, and a council backhoe parts the onlookers. The plan is to dig in a 1.5 tonne concrete block to which to tether the rogue boats with chains and hope they can ride out what is set to be a wild few days of weather. 'I'm praying it will all go well,' Mac Court says. Cyclone Alfred is tracking towards the south-east Queensland coast and could make landfall on Thursday, and surging tides are already reported to be gushing right over narrower and uninhabited parts of the low-lying island. Mac Court, though, is not at all concerned about his own wellbeing, and philosophical about that of the boat. 'It's only fibreglass,' he says. According to the Bureau of Meteorology's cyclone forecast, published on Monday evening, the storm was due to grow to category two on Tuesday, slow and then make a sharp right turn towards the south-east Queensland coast. It was expected to maintain intensity as a category two and make landfall between Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast late on Thursday or Friday morning. Communities from Sandy Cape south to Grafton, including Brisbane, Gold Coast, Sunshine Coast and Byron Bay, were in the watch zone. While Mac Court remains sanguine, others on Bribie Island are far more worried for their own safety – some are preparing to evacuate. Up the road, towards the surf side of the island, at the local State Emergency Service, people queue to collect sandbags with which to defend homes. Jill Sanders is filling the boot of her hatchback with bags to line against her front door and the ranch sliding doors at the back of her duplex home. She has lived at Banksia Beach for 24 years and this is a first – she says she never expected to have to hunker down against the threat of a cyclone. 'But you know, things change so you've just got to go with the flow,' she says serenely. Sanders has become accustomed to painful change in recent years – her husband died in 2022. Sign up for Guardian Australia's breaking news email 'So this is the first thing that I'll have to cope with by myself,' she says. 'That's why I am lugging these by myself.' After filling her boot Sanders plans to head home and run the bath – as an emergency supply of water. Then bring in outdoor furniture and pull down hanging plants. 'I have torches and candles, all of that stuff,' she says. 'I should be fine. I've got good neighbours.' As she loads, Tanya Rivera and Kiana Kilford wait patiently for council trucks to bring more sand so they can take their fill. 'Sandbags are gonna be a while!,' yells a lean man in a singlet that reveals his tattooed arms. 'Council's dropping them off.' The pair can wait, though, Rivera says. This is one of the last steps they have to take to prepare. 'Yesterday the whole family started blowing up my family chat on Facebook, sending so many articles, news reports,' the 29-year-old says. 'That's when I realised the severity of the cyclone. 'Then, last night, I couldn't sleep much 'cause it was so windy, we could just hear the door slamming, so we figured it was going to be serious and we had to prepare.' Rivera and Kilford, who run a production company, packed down outdoor furniture and fishing gear into the shed and stocked up on cans of tuna, beans, toilet paper and muesli bars – they had to buy small children's bottles of water as that was in such short supply. Other than collecting sandbags, the last remaining step for them to prepare for Alfred's possible arrival was to pack bags in case they are forced to flee, Rivera says. 'Food, toiletries, emergency kits, torches, medication and, of course, some food for the pets,' she says. 'I'm a little bit nervous and if we have to evacuate … that's a scary thing'. Others have different priorities when stocking up on essentials. A pair of retirees from Tasmania who have spent the last five months housesitting a home on a Bribie canal emerge from a supermarket whose shelves are being stripped of still and mineral water, bread, toilet paper, long-life milk and canned spaghetti. They don't want to share their names but are happy to divulge their shopping list. 'Grog, toilet paper, that's the main things I suppose,' she says. 'Oh and veggies. And dog food.' She is worried the garden will 'get a bit stuffed up' as the pair have kept it in good nick and the owners are due home in a few weeks, but feel well prepared to last Alfred out. 'We've got brandy, champagne for when it's over, and a couple of bottles of wine to last us until then'.
