We didn’t know it was the middle of something. Didn’t know it would fade, or fold into parody, or get repackaged as a Crunchy bar commercial. In May of ’84, it just felt like the world had finally caught up to a style that was already hip, happening, and honed to perfection.
Somewhere between It’s Flashbeagle, Charlie Brown airing in April on CBS and Breakin’ opening in theatres in May, the last few holdouts gave in. That spring, everyone was breaking. Kids who were never picked first in sports were spinning on driveways with names like Grandmaster Jet or Electro Slice. Mine was E-Wreck. Some of us were still wearing our winter gloves, only with the fingers cut off with scissors. The more zippers your jacket had, the cooler you were. The more belts you were wearing, the fresher you were. And if you go your hands on some studded bracelets, you were next level.
You’d hear it before you saw it, it was everywhere. “Axel-F” had the vibe. Freez’s “IOU” and Midnight Star’s “Freak-a-Zoid” leaked from basement windows. Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit” and The Pointer Sisters’ “Automatic” videos were on heavy rotation on TV. “Breakdance” by Irene Cara was announcing its pop domination on the radio. Everything was popped and locked-in. Sometimes the neighbourhood’s best setup was just a few cardboard boxes from Canadian Tire, flattened out, taped at the edges so they didn’t fray. You only got a couple good days out of one before the corners curled and someone’s heel punched through. But for a little while, it was our generation’s stage.
If you were lucky, someone’s older brother loaned out their 12 D-cell boombox – the kind that could crack pavement if you dropped it. Most of the time, it was a Radio Shak mono cassette deck with 25 feet of daisy chained extension cords trailing behind it.
After school, the driveways and parks filled up. Every few houses, someone had a crew going. Mostly kids trying out their Worm, one at a time. We’d cheer. We’d heckle. We’d take turns. There was always that one kid who could hit a clean drop and back spin combo and leave the whole block stunned. Then two others would try to team up and get the claps in sync. That summer, being too skinny or too short didn’t matter – if your centre of gravity was high and you could keep your balance in a windmill, you were a god.
It was around that time where Alfonso Ribeiro showed up in that Pepsi commercial with MJ, and it was like the air changed. We didn’t know his name yet, didn’t need to. If you happened to tape the ad off TV, suddenly you had it on rotation like a real video. We’d watch it, rewind, mimic. His footwork was clean, sharper than anything we’d seen in a school gym. A year later, he’d have his own breakdance tape, but for now he was the moonwalking gold standard. He seemed like the one to beat. But more than anything, it was K-Tel’s Breakdance album and included instructional poster that had everybody rolling up the carpet and moving furniture out of the way for hours on end. It was released with different tracks on side A in different markets, but Alex and the City Crew taught us the art of freestyle.
We weren’t trying to hang on. We weren’t preserving anything. We had no reason to think it would end. We were average suburban kids moving like the world had changed and we were going to dance straight into whatever came next.
Parents didn’t get it. Said we’d break our necks. Said it wasn’t music. Said it wouldn’t last.
They were right.
But for a while, we danced like it meant something.