• Only Fans, Mym : du #softporn à la #pédopornographie.

    Crazy Sally a fait un travail d’enquête sur ces nouvelles plateformes qui attirent de plus en plus d’ados appâté-e-s par l’argent facile. Elle ne fait pas l’impasse sur la facilitation et sécurisation que ça représente pour le travail du sexe, mais comme elle l’explique, son sujet est surtout l’inquiétude pour la sécurité des mineurs.
    Le relai promotionnel se fait aussi via #twitter grâce aux tags des plateformes, #OnlyFans & #MyM, mais là aussi le plus gros succès est lorsqu’ils sont additionnés aux tags #ado #teen #petiteteen ou #barelylegal... qui ne laisse aucune équivoque.

    J’ajoute que ces derniers jours, un autre tag a envahi twitter et instagram, provenant d’un « défi sexy » sur #Tik-Tok.
    Elle fait aussi référence à un reportage de la BBC, « Nudes4sale » : https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p087m1nh qui estime à 40% le nombre de fourniseur-euse-s de contenu qui seraient mineurs.
    #nouvelles_économies #pornographie #modération et #educ_pop aussi <3

  • Tiktok a supprimé des vidéos de manifestants russes à la demande du gouvernement de Poutine

    C’est un mouvement d’ampleur. Des appels au rassemblement en soutien à l’opposant russe Alexeï Navalny – arrêté dès son arrivée au pays dimanche 17 janvier – ont été lancés dans 65 villes. De quoi irriter le gouvernement de Vladimir Poutine. La police moscovite a promis de « réprimer sans délai » tout rassemblement non autorisé mais la répression se joue également sur le terrain numérique. Ainsi, l’organisme de surveillance des communications de l’État a émis une demande de retrait de contenu auprès de TikTok (...)

    #TikTok #activisme #censure #surveillance #Roskomnadzor

  • Delayed Moves, Poolside Videos and Postmates Spon: The State of TikTok Collab Houses - The New York Times

    The way most young creators see it, to make it big on the internet you need to be in Los Angeles, even if you’re stuck indoors in the midst of a pandemic. “You’re just surrounded by influence,” Mr. Conte said. “In L.A., if you talk to four people, one is probably going to have over 100,000 followers on Instagram. Even people that don’t prioritize social media have 20,000 followers from just being here in L.A.”

    That feeling has driven the rise of dozens of TikTok influencer collab houses: palatial dorms where the platform’s young stars live, work and hustle to expand their social media empires. Influencer collab houses are nothing new — several generations of YouTubers, Vine stars and streamers have lived and worked together since 2009 — but Gen Z TikTok stars have embraced them to an extent that their predecessors did not.

    Collab houses make it easy for new arrivals to Los Angeles: They have a nice place to live, a built-in friend group and constant access to collaborators. And, if a management company or brand is sponsoring the house, the tenants may only have to produce a few TikToks and a YouTube video every week as a form of in-kind rent.

    Many creators have pushed back their plans in light of the pandemic. The Girls in the Valley, a female-only TikTok house, was on track for a late-March move and even held an opening party on March 12 at the Sugar Factory in Los Angeles featuring the pop star Doja Cat. Now, with their move-in date to be determined, the house’s members have turned to weekly Zoom calls to stay in touch.

    Meanwhile, several new houses, including the Young Finesse Kids, the Alpha House and the Kids Next Door, have announced their formation over the last two months.

    Influences, a talent management firm, has invested in TikTok houses including the Girls in the Valley, the Drip Crib and the Kids Next Door. The company has taken a hit on expenses since the virus began, but Ariadna Jacob, its founder and C.E.O., sees the situation as temporary.

    “We already had the concepts out to brands, and when coronavirus first happened there was a lull. But now more campaigns are launching,” she said. “When the houses are presented as a media company, brands wrap their heads around it. The Drip Crib, for instance, is like GQ and Sports Illustrated. Girls in the Valley is like Seventeen magazine.”

    Lucas Castellani, 22, is currently recruiting TikTokers to live in the $5 million Beverly Hills mansion that his parents own, which he has renamed the Vibe House. He worked with a legal team to set up talent contracts and has found someone to act as a house manager. “We’re going to follow C.D.C. guidelines about gatherings,” Mr. Castellani said. “I’m planning to launch the house at the end of this month if everything goes well.”

    Ms. Jacob said that influencers looking to move into a collab house managed by her company must first quarantine for a number of weeks and get tested for the coronavirus. (No collab house has yet had a confirmed case of coronavirus.)

    #Tik-Tok #Influenceurs #Collab_house

  • The TikTok-Ready Sounds of Beach Bunny | The New Yorker

    On the video-sharing platform TikTok, there are nearly seventy-four million posts hashtagged #promqueen. Hundreds of thousands of these are set to a track of the same name, from 2018, by a young indie-rock band from Chicago called Beach Bunny. TikTok, which encourages users to post short, surrealist interpretations of memes and dance moves, has become an incubator of musical talent, or at least of persona and digital acumen. Earlier this year, it helped send the rapper Roddy Ricch’s song “The Box”—which features a curious squeaking sound, perfect for TikTok—to the top of the Billboard charts. But, unlike the idiosyncratic hip-hop that typically takes hold on the platform, “Prom Queen” is a doleful ballad. The song dramatizes teen-age self-doubt and has the inverse effect of a pep talk. “Shut up, count your calories,” Beach Bunny’s front woman, a twenty-three-year-old recent college graduate named Lili Trifilio, sings in a disaffected tone. “I never looked good in mom jeans.” TikTok users, most of whom are in their teens or early twenties, have used the song as a backdrop for videos both literal and abstract. In one, a young woman presents an array of prom dresses, prompting her followers to help her decide which to buy. In another, someone splices together short clips of the food she’s eaten that day—quite literally counting her calories. One user attempts to follow a Bob Ross painting tutorial; another tries to cover up his face tattoos with makeup, sporting a sly grin.

    Of all the confessional, female-fronted indie-rock bands to flourish in the past decade, Beach Bunny is perhaps the most shrewdly tailored to the whims of the social Internet, where everything, especially the misery and humiliation of youth, is molded into a bite-size piece of comic relief. On “Painkiller,” a song from Beach Bunny’s 2018 EP, also called “Prom Queen,” Trifilio name-checks pharmaceuticals that might make her feel better: “I need paracetamol, tramadol, ketamine. . . . Fill me up with Tylenol, tramadol, ketamine.” It sounds like it could be from the soundtrack of “Euphoria,” HBO’s breakout show about teen-age dereliction. Trifilio is a potent lyricist who tends toward despondency, but her songs are deceptively snackable—each is a two-minute burst of honey-butter melody, often with a title that incorporates hashtag-worthy slang.

    Acts of earlier eras could more easily be traced to their predecessors, often by the artists’ own admission, but Beach Bunny comes from a generation for which stylistic influence is absorbed through lifelong exposure to a mass jumble of online reference points. Trifilio got her start in music by performing acoustic-guitar covers and uploading them to YouTube, as so many of her peers did before TikTok began pulling aspiring talents into its slipstream.

    TikTok is a new platform, but its catchy, looping clips make use of an old music-industry trick. Psychologists and music-theory scholars have long studied the brain’s response to repeated exposure to music. As early as 1903, Max Friedrich Meyer, a professor of psychoacoustics, showed that a piece of music’s “aesthetic effect” for participants in a study was “improved by hearing the music repeatedly.” In 1968, the social psychologist Robert Zajonc coined the term “mere-exposure effect” to describe this phenomenon. According to Zajonc’s findings, appreciation of a song increased the more the subjects heard it, no matter how complex the music was or how it aligned with their personal tastes. This insight is the driving force behind the marketing of popular music in the modern era: FM radio stations and popular streaming playlists are most successful when they program a small pool of songs, inducing the mere-exposure effect as quickly as possible.

    On TikTok, the length of a video is restricted to sixty seconds, but most clock in at less than half a minute. The app allows a seamless scroll through videos, demanding rapid-fire consumption. It also groups together clips that contain the same song, encouraging you to listen over and over again. The app’s success at making hits is partly due to its ability to accelerate the mere-exposure effect, making songs familiar at warp speeds. Without TikTok, it’s unlikely that a song like “Prom Queen” could have reached the velocity it did. The official video for the song now has more than seven million views on YouTube.

    With increased exposure comes increased scrutiny, and the micro-virality of “Prom Queen” caused some listeners—maybe ones who caught only a snippet of the track—to question its message. In one verse, Trifilio sings, “I’ve been starving myself / Carving skin until my bones are showing.” Last summer, Trifilio pinned a lengthy comment underneath the song’s YouTube video. “Since this video is blowing up I feel the need to address something,” she wrote. “The lyrics are a criticism on modern beauty standards and the harmful effects beauty standards can have on people. . . . You are already a Prom Queen, you are already enough.” The message was about two hundred words—a longer piece of writing than any Beach Bunny song.

    #Tik-Tok #Musique #Culture_numérique

  • TikTok time-bomb | The Economist (07/09/2019)

    For his part, Mark Zuckerberg is less worried about data sovereignty and more about competition from TikTok, China’s first runaway web success in America. Facebook is pulling out the big guns it deploys against fast-growing upstarts. In late 2018 it launched Lasso, a TikTok clone. An independent developer recently unearthed a feature hidden in Instagram’s code that apes TikTok’s editing tools. It is cold comfort to Mr Zuckerberg that should his defences fail, Big Tech’s critics will have to concede that digital monopolies are not that invincible after all.

    Critics of artificial intelligence are also watching the Chinese app closely. What users see on Facebook and other Western social media is in part still down to who their friends are and what they share. TikTok’s main feed, called “For You”, is determined by algorithm alone: it watches how users behave in the app and uses the information to decide what to play next. Such systems create the ultimate filter bubble.

    All these worries would be allayed if TikTok turns out to be a passing fad. In a way, the app is only riding on other social networks. It relies on people’s Facebook or Twitter accounts for many sign-ins. TikTok owes part of its success to relentless advertising on rival services. According to some estimates, it spent perhaps $1bn on social-media ads in 2018. At the same time, many who download TikTok quickly tire of its endless digital sugar-rush.

    #tiktok à ne pas confondre avec le #tik-tok de @Fil quoique…