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Aug 21, 2023

How A Hip

When 12-year-old Wilber “Wilpower” Urbina saw two kids breakdancing for the first time in MacArthur Park back in 1982, he knew he had to get involved. “It was the coolest thing I had ever seen, but I

When 12-year-old Wilber “Wilpower” Urbina saw two kids breakdancing for the first time in MacArthur Park back in 1982, he knew he had to get involved.

“It was the coolest thing I had ever seen, but I didn't know what it was because I had never seen it before,” Urbina recalls. “The music sounded very strange, but interesting. From then on, I was just trying to copy the moves that the kids were doing.”

About a year later, Urbina heard from other kids about a new place across the street from MacArthur Park where kids could breakdance for hours for less than 75 cents.

It was called the Youth Break Center, Inc. or better known as Radiotron.

Before Radiotron opened itself to neighborhood youth, it was an avant garde, underground space called Radio Club. In Jonathan Abrams’ The Come Up: An Oral History of the Rise of Hip-Hop, rapper and actor Ice-T recalls Radio Club originally being a punk rock space where people would get on stage and practice their new work. Then the owner started bringing in hip-hop artists from the East Coast.

As New York City’s foundational hip-hop presence continued to develop, more people started experimenting with electro-music, funk and R&B as well as dance forms like popping and locking in Los Angeles. Radio Club became integral to that new movement in the city. It became a place for emerging artists to bring what they saw from the East Coast to the West.

At the same time, these culture innovators were mixing the East Coast style with the West Coast environment, aesthetics and attitudes, says Jonathan Calvillo, a sociology professor at Emory University, and author of the forthcoming book In The Time of Sky Rhyming: How Hip Hop Resonated In Brown Los Angeles.

Calvillo says when the owners brought in Ice-T as an emcee at Radio Club, it solidified the spot as a hip-hop space, and ushered in more people of color.

Before he was the original gangster rapper and before he became Detective Odafin Tutuola on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Ice-T appeared in early 1980s L.A. breakdancing films as an emcee and dancer — the documentary 'Breakin ‘n’ Enterin’ and the now classic movies Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, which were all set in Radio Club.

“Ice-T brought in more local street credibility,” Calvillo says.

Kurtis Blow and Kid Frost also visited Radio. DJ Chris “The Glove” Taylor, who frequently deejayed there, wrote about how Michael Jackson recruited some of his dancers for Thriller from Radio. It was a place where even celebrities like Madonna would go to check out the latest trends.

Then in 1983, Carmelo Alvarez, a young Mexican American dancer who had dreams of opening up a performance arts center in his childhood neighborhood of MacArthur Park, decided to rent out office space from the owner of the building Radio occupied. As Alvarez tells it, the owner then asked him to manage the building. It was his opportunity to create that performance space for kids.

Alvarez was raised in the MacArthur Park area where he was influenced by gangs. He recalls an art teacher pushing him to try out dancing at the Barnsdall Art Center and Junior Arts Center. There he met veteran artistic director and choreographer Chester Whitmore, who invited Alvarez to be in his tap troupe. He was also a part of the L.A. Inner City Cultural Center and toured with Lula Washington in a dance company.

He recalls seeing breakdancing in New York City in 1980 as a pivotal time for him. “Hip-hop is the vehicle,” Alvarez explains. “The main important thing was the youth.”

Alvarez says he originally had a whole other game plan for the youth center, but the kids had seen what was happening in Radio Club. The kids were itching to breakdance.

Radio was reborn into Radiotron in 1983 when the producers of Breakin’ approached Alvarez. They named the club in the movie “Radiotron'' and it stuck.

So did the art. The crew left behind the graffiti that was part of the film's set design. Alvarez thought it brought color and light to the space, so he kept it. “I said ‘no, no, no. Leave it alone’. Before that it was all dark and black,” Alvarez recalls.

Then came the kids.

“So I get a knock on the door and it was a little kid and he said ‘Hey mister, can we break in there?’” Alvarez recalls. “And I said 'sure.’ And they said, ‘Hey! the man said we can break in there!’ And they called a bunch of kids together and they went in there and they started breakdancing.”

“It went from an after-hours nightclub to an after-school youth center,” Alvarez says.

Calvillo says when Radio Club did not agree to the conditions Carmelo requested, its managers moved the club to another location downtown.

When Radiotron opened, it quickly became viewed as a safe space for kids; a place where young people could fully express themselves and stay away from drugs and gangs.

“Radiotron presented an opportunity for young people to experiment and learn from folks who have been expressing themselves through the hip-hop elements,” Calvillo says. “For a whole generation, early West Coast innovators were being acculturated into hip-hop culture at Radiotron.”

Lifelong breakdancer Wilber “Wilpower” Urbina was one of them.

“All the kids wanted to go to this place,” Urbina recalls. “They knew that you could see some of the best kids, and when you see kids who are more advanced than you are, that makes you get better, you get inspired.”

He recalls Alvarez being kind and welcoming to all kids who wanted to do graffiti and breakdance at the center.

“He was kind of like a father figure,” Urbina says. “ In barrios or hoods, most people just grew up with just a mom. To see and hear a kind person say good things, that’s great. He didn’t want anything in return. He wants you to do good, to stay away from trouble. To do art. In this place, you could do graffiti, it was really a safe haven.”

Many people know about the day that hip-hop supposedly jumped off. Two teen siblings from the South Bronx — DJ Kool Herc and Cindy Campbell — held a back-to-school party in their neighborhood in 1973 and Herc tried something new on the turntables, dropping what many historians say was the first hip-hop beat. But there were other elements that came to define hip-hop.

It wasn’t just the MCing or DJing or the graffiti — it was also the movement, the breakdancing. While young people in New York were b-boying and doing more street dances on the floor, in L.A. and other California cities, Black and brown kids were creating more funk-style dance moves that were placed in a larger umbrella category called “breakin’."

Even before hip-hop took off, California was the place where both popping and locking were created by young people in the 1970s. For example, a 20-something-year-old Soul Train dancer named Don Campbell created locking, an early street dance that influenced breakdance moves in L.A., back in the funk era.

In MacArthur Park, young people from all different background were getting in on it.

“At the time, MacArthur Park was not a particularly safe place to be. But it was a place that was experiencing a lot of growth, a lot of movement, a lot of migration,” Calvillo says. “A lot of the early practitioners that were learning hip-hop culture, and experimenting and adapting it to their surroundings, many of them were Central American.”

In Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, the dancers team up together to do a benefit show to save their endangered community center.

Calvillo says the fictional story isn’t far from the truth.

“Much of the plotline of that story was based on what was happening with Radiotron,” Calvillo says. “The youth center was going to be closed, it was being threatened in terms of its location."

Radiotron eventually closed in 1985 due in part to development. The building was torn down for the construction of the Park View Mall. According to news reports, the developers needed a parking lot — right where the Youth Break Center stood. Before that, Radiotron's weekend dances, which brought in revenue, were shut down for code violations. Doctors across the country started pointing out the dangers of breakdancing.

“Kids get hurt in football,” Alvarez says. “Kids get hurt playing on the playground. You don’t take the playground out. No, you go fix it. You tell them to be careful.” Alvarez and the Radiotron kids protested in front of City Hall to get the attention of city council members in order to keep the building but, Alvarez says, there was no luck. The building was lost. Radiotron was only in existence from 1983 to 1985.

Alvarez was heartbroken.

“I purposely had it underage, because the kids didn't have anything,” Alvarez says, reflecting on the importance of the youth center. “They were dancing in the street for money and they were getting tickets. And this is the era of crack and gangs and drive-bys. They needed something.”

Urbina said that after Radiotron closed there was nowhere else to go.

“Sometimes friends would invite us to go there to their lobby... but sometimes the lobby was small and it was carpet,” Urbina says. “So it was like ‘F---! We really miss Radiotron.’”

Alvarez says he’s opened a dozen youth centers since 1978, but it’s been hard to sustain them. The now 66-year-old Alvarez is retired and is working on a project called Community Action for Peace.

Alvarez says there’s one major aspect of the Radiotron story that shouldn’t be missed:: just like there were kids that held a back-to-school party that launched hip-hop culture in the South Bronx, young people were also important in the hip-hop movement in L.A.

“Those kids were innovators,” he says. “They were the ones that created it.”

Radiotron launched the careers of a long list of dancers and artists. Alvarez says some of the graffiti artists he shepherded at Radiotron have had work featured in the Museum of Contemporary Art and in LACMA. He points out artists like Prime (who is known to be the founding father of stylized L.A. graffiti lettering), Shandu One and Zender, who all made names for themselves.

Salvadoran American breakdancers like Urbina (aka Wilpower) and Cesar “Lil Cesar'' Rivas were a part of the trendsetting Air Force Crew, which was founded at Radiotron. After the youth center physically closed, Rivas helped Radiotron become a traveling dance competition. In the 1990s the Air Force Crew danced with Kurtis Blow, and became an inspiration for Korea’s b-boying scene.

“We don't often hear their stories in the same way as when folks talk about West Coast rappers because we think of the West Coast as mostly a movement of rappers,” Calvillo said. “But these are dancers that were actually going international.”

At 53, Urbina is still hungry for more. He wants to get the moves he had in his 20s and 30s. It’s hard work, but it’s fun. There’s just one caveat.

He’s not battling people anymore. He’s battling age.

“You’re battling not getting injuries because breakdancing is very physical,” Urbina says. “Over 50, to be doing 20, 30, 40 headspins…it’s not so easy. I’m also a realist. There’s some moves where I’m like nah…my wrists aren’t the same any more.”

Practicing once a week is enough to keep him fit.

In June, Alvarez hosted a 40-year anniversary party for Radiotron. Urbina performed with the Air Force Crew.

“I want to battle myself to get better and get better in my last years,” Urbina says. “I want to go out hardcore.”

“It makes you feel like a kid again.”