The 818 session: a krump community rizes in North Hollywood

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Content THE
818
SESSION:

A
KRUMP
COMMUNITY
RIZES
IN
NORTH
HOLLYWOOD

by

Jessica
Koslow

___________________________________________________________________________________

A
Thesis
Presented
to
the

FACULTY
OF
THE
USC
GRADUATE
SCHOOL

UNIVERSITY
OF
SOUTHERN
CALIFORNIA

In
Partial
Fulfillment
of
the

Requirements
for
the
Degree

MASTER
OF
ARTS

(SPECIALIZED
JOURNALISM:
THE
ARTS)

May
2012

Copyright
2012

Jessica
Koslow

ii

Table
of
Contents

Abstract

iii

The
818
Session:
A
Krump
Community
Rizes
in
North
Hollywood

1

Endnotes

26

Bibliography

28

iii

Abstract

The
818
Session
is
a
krump
circle
that
happens
every
Wednesday
at
midnight
in
a

parking
lot
in
North
Hollywood.
Though
all
dance
styles
are
welcome
at
the
818

Session,
the
spotlight
is
on
krump,
a
dance
form
created
circa
2002
in
South
Los

Angeles.

Dave
LaChapelle’s
2005
acclaimed
feature
documentary,
Rize,
introduced

mainstream
audiences
to
krump,
which
has
gained
momentum
worldwide.

Characterized
by
foot
stomps,
chest
pops
and
improvisation,
krump
is
a
street
hybrid
of

African,
Latin,
b-‐boy
and
other
vernacular
forms.

I
first
attended
the
818
Session,
named
for
its
area
code,
in
the
summer
of
2011.
As
I

stood
in
the
circle,
I
was
speechless,
absorbed
by
the
music
emanating
from
an
open

door
of
a
parked
car
and
the
dancing
performed
by
extraordinary
individuals,
including

the
founders
of
krump.
In
September,
I
began
filming
a
mini-‐documentary
about
the

818
and
this
krump
ritual,
which
happens
more
or
less
the
same
way
every
week.
This

thesis
is
about
an
urban
dance
ritual,
why
and
how
it
happens,
and
the
community
of

dancers
it
holds
together.

1

The
818
Session:
A
Krump
Community
Rizes
in
North
Hollywood

The
818
ritual
begins
for
krumpers
with
phone
calls,
texts,
word
of
mouth
and

Facebook
updates.
Every
Wednesday
around
midnight,
rain
or
shine,
the
dancers
pull

into
a
relatively
empty
but
vast
Ralphs
parking
lot
on
the
corner
of
Magnolia
Boulevard

and
Vineland
Avenue
in
North
Hollywood.
Most
of
the
strip
mall’s
shops
surrounding
it

are
closed.
Late-‐night
stragglers
wander
into
the
24-‐hour
fast-‐food
restaurants.
A
dozen

human
silhouettes
hover
in
front
of
Carl’s
Jr.,
despite
the
No
Loitering
signs
posted
on

the
street
lamps.
Other
people
collect
across
the
lot
in
front
of
Red
Barn
Pet
Express.

Some
are
dressed
down
in
sweats
and
tees,
a
high-‐profile
few
sport
name
brands,
edgy

hairdos
and
big-‐framed
eyeglasses.
What
happens
over
the
next
several
hours
is
the

reason
I
come
back
to
this
place
each
week.

I
first
attended
the
818
Session
in
the
summer
of
2011.
The
invitation
came
from
Miss

Prissy
after
I
took
a
krump
class
with
her
at
Debbie
Reynolds
Dance
Studios
in
North

Hollywood.
I
penciled
in
the
address,
day
and
time
for
a
future
date.
One
month
later,
I

was
standing
in
the
circle
of
the
818
Session,
named
for
its
area
code,
speechless,

gravitating
toward
the
music
emanating
from
an
open
door
of
a
parked
car.
As
I

watched
people
chat
and
nod
their
heads
to
the
beat,
nothing
seemed
to
happen
for

about
half
an
hour.
Then,
suddenly,
the
dancing
ignited
like
a
spark.
One
krumper,
chest

popping
and
foot
stomping
on
the
asphalt,
snaking
in
and
out
of
the
open
car
window

with
his
upper
body,
held
everyone’s
attention.
His
arms
whipped
at
the
air
and
his

ankles
twisted
side
to
side,
rolling
him
up
to
his
tiptoes.
His
torso
undulated,
then
his

chest
popped
out
and
contracted
back
repeatedly,
powered
by
the
push
of
his
hand

2

resting
lightly
on
his
heart.
One
moment
he
looked
at
the
crowd
with
a
boastful
smirk,

and
the
next
his
face
morphed
into
an
expression
of
anguish.

Only
he
who
first
moved
seemed
to
know
what
prompted
his
impulse
to
krump.
It
could

have
been
a
beat,
a
challenge
or
a
sudden
rush
of
adrenaline.
The
crowd
moved
in
tight

around
him
as
if
to
keep
warm,
surrounding
his
unofficial,
unsanctioned
performance
in

a
space
otherwise
designated
for
cars
and
shoppers.
As
I
watched
dancer
after
dancer,

soloist
after
soloist,
each
completely
different,
some
telling
stories
with
their
hands
and

others
taking
on
the
abstract
essence
of
an
emotion,
nothing
else
mattered.
Time

disappeared.
In
September,
I
began
filming
a
mini-‐documentary
about
the
818
and
this

krump
ritual,
which
happens
more
or
less
the
same
way
every
week.
This
thesis
is

about
an
urban
dance
ritual,
why
and
how
it
happens,
and
the
community
of
dancers
it

holds
together.

Though
all
dance
styles
are
welcome
at
the
818
Session,
the
spotlight
is
on
krump,
a

dance
form
created
circa
2002
in
South
Los
Angeles.
1

Dave
LaChapelle’s
2005
acclaimed

feature
documentary,
Rize,
introduced
mainstream
audiences
to
krump
and
its

predecessor
clown
dancing,
which,
done
in
colorful
face
paint
and
clown
costumes,
has

since
subsided
in
popularity.
Krump,
however,
has
gained
momentum
worldwide.

Characterized
by
foot
stomps,
chest
pops
and
improvisation,
krump
is
a
street
hybrid
of

African,
Latin,
b-‐boy
and
other
vernacular
forms.
The
dancers,
mostly
black,
some

Latino,
a
few
Asian
and
white,
take
turns
inside
the
circle.
Each
one
has
a
signature

3

style,
which
eventually
determines
his
or
her
“krump”
nickname,
like
Flash,
Unknown

and
Foolish.

From
South
Los
Angeles
to
the
San
Fernando
Valley,
krump
gets
around,
and
so
does

the
circle
ritual.
The
818
Session
has
existed
every
week
since
2003.
Not
always
in
the

same
spot,
the
circle
has
moved
locations
within
North
Hollywood
before
settling
in
the

strip
mall
lot
adjacent
to
the
Ralphs
lot.
This
section,
with
its
bright,
stadium-‐style

lights,
makes
it
ideal
for
late-‐night,
outdoor
dancing.
Yet,
the
street
dance
never
loses
its

intensity
nor
its
central
role
of
importance
within
the
community.
While
the
local

residents
sleep,
krumpers
gather
around
the
open
door
of
a
parked
car,
vibing
off
the

hip-‐hop
beats
selected
from
an
iPod
playlist.
The
818
Session
provides
a
forum
for
the

dancers
to
express
themselves
and
to
relay
the
history
and
reflect
the
environment
-‐-‐

physical,
political,
social,
economic
-‐-‐
affecting
a
segment
of
society
with
a
voice
that
is

rarely
heard.

Professor
and
scholar
Richard
Schechner’s
work
studying
various
rituals,
including
the

Yaqui
Tribe’s
Waehma,
Lenten
cycle
drama,
in
New
Pascua,
Ariz.,
offers
me
several

parallels
to
the
818.
“I
spent
many
hours
of
good
silence
letting
events
speak
in
their

own
ways,”
2

he
says
of
Waehma,
adding
that
one
morning
at
4
a.m.,
“I
stood
there
in
the

cold
desert
predawn
and
wept.”
3

He
also
shares
that
waiting
for
the
ritual
to
begin
can

be
meditative
because
the
future
is
literally
felt
approaching.
4

Schechner’s
observations

prompted
me
to
set
out
to
find
other
parallels
between
historic
rituals
and
this

4

contemporary,
living
one
that
I
had
happened
upon.
What
purposes
does
dance
ritual

serve?

A
majority
of
time
spent
at
the
818
is
in
a
holding
pattern.
If
you
know
people,
you

mingle.
If
you’re
new,
you
wait.
A
few
kids
might
ask
if
you’ve
been
here
before.
Most
of

the
time
you’ll
be
politely
ignored.
After
a
few
appearances,
somebody
might
crack
a

smile
in
your
direction.
It
takes
a
few
visits
before
you
progress
from
spectator
to

participant;
sometimes
longer.

One
Wednesday,
a
few
hours
before
the
818
Session
begins,
Lil’
C,
a
guest
judge
on

FOX’s
“So
You
Think
You
Can
Dance,”
star
of
Rize
and
one
of
the
founders
of
krump,

explains
the
origins
of
the
art
form
and
some
of
its
defining
characteristics.
Krump
is
a

hybrid
of
clown
dancing
and
stripper
dancing,
the
latter
focuses
on
a
pulsating
pelvis
as

its
central
movement.
“[Krump]
is
just
an
evolved
form
of
the
two,”
he
says.
“[It
is]

extremely
raw,
way
more
emotional,
way
more
eternal,
so
much
more
visceral,
so
much

more
ballistic,
so
much
more
organic
and
authentic.
It’s
so
many
things.
It’s
gumbo.”

Lil’
C
cites
the
negative
circumstances
of
the
community
in
which
he
grew
up,
South
Los

Angeles
in
the
’80s
and
’90s,
or
“slums
of
the
ghetto”
as
he
calls
it,
which
contributed
to

the
creation
of
krump.
Drugs,
alcohol,
gangs,
violence
and
lack
of
opportunity
existed
as

obstacles
to
success
for
local
youth.
He
blames
statistics
and
stereotypes
for
weighing

kids
down
instead
of
boosting
or
encouraging
limitless
possibilities.
Matching
Lil’
C’s

assertions,
South
Los
Angeles
in
2002,
which
is
the
year
krump
was
born,
was
void
of

5

opportunities.
According
to
David
B.
Howard’s
“A
Report
on
Homelessness
in
South
Los

Angeles”
for
Special
Service
For
Groups
(2008),
in
2000,
South
Los
Angeles
had
the

highest
unemployment
rate
(14%)
in
L.A.
County;
the
highest
rate
of
child
poverty

(40%)
in
L.A.
County;
the
highest
percentage
of
housing
units
that
were
overcrowded

(more
than
1
person
to
a
room)
(39%)
and
the
highest
average
household
size
(3.7);

and
between
18%
and
24%
of
emancipated
foster
youth
in
L.A.
County
were
estimated

to
settle
in
South
L.A.
5

Interrelated
with
these
factors
was
an
epidemic
of
gang
violence,

which
existed
in
the
area
since
the
1920’s
but
escalated
in
the
’70s
with
the
rise
of
the

Bloods
and
Crips,
resulting
in
15,000
murders
in
40
years.
6

The
economic
and
social

conditions
of
Lil’
C’s
neighborhood
at
the
turn
of
the
21
st

century
contributed
to
the

brewing
repressed
emotions
and
explosive
atmosphere
that
birthed
the
characteristics

of
krump:
a
defiant
attitude,
extreme
movement
and
intense
release.

The
South
L.A.-‐born
founders
of
krump
believe
the
dance
form
chose
them.
“There’s

really
nowhere
for
you
to
focus
all
of
that
energy,
that
pent-‐up
aggression,
that

frustration,
that
oppression,
unless
it’s
basketball,
unless
it’s
the
streets,
unless
it’s

gangs,”
Lil’
C
says.
“So
when
clown
dancing
came
about
it
was
such
a
fad,
it
was
huge,
so

I
got
in
on
that.”
Around
2002,
the
clown
act
got
old,
or
maybe
it
was
the
dancers.
Lil’
C

and
a
handful
of
his
friends
transitioned
to
krump.
Nowadays,
it’s
hard
to
find
a
clown

dancer,
even
though
most
krumpers
started
with
clowning.

Anthropologists
claim
that
dance
itself
dates
back
to
the
Stones
Ages.
In
her
history
of

collective
joy,
Dancing
in
the
Streets,
Barbara
Ehrenreich
details
how
an
“evolutionary

6

function
of
dance
was
to
enable
–
or
encourage
–
humans
to
live
in
groups,
larger
than

small
bonds
of
closely
related
individuals.”
7

She
explains
that
while
the
“capacity
for

abandonment,
for
self-‐loss
in
the
rhythms
and
emotions
of
the
group,
was
a
defining

feature
of
‘savagery’
or
otherness
generally,
signaling
some
fatal
weakness
of
mind”
8

in

the
eighteenth
and
nineteenth
centuries,
by
the
1930s,
these
sorts
of
rituals
were
seen

as
rational
and
functional,
highlighting
acts
of
social
bonding
and
generating
feelings
of

unity.
9

Schechner
adds
a
chemical
explanation
for
the
popularity
of
a
ritual
like
the
818:

“Individual
and
collective
anxieties
are
relieved
by
rituals
whose
qualities
of
repetition,

rhythmicity,
exaggeration,
condensation,
and
simplification
stimulate
the
brain
into

releasing
endorphins
directly
into
the
bloodstream
yielding
ritual’s
second
benefit,
a

relief
from
pain,
a
surfeit
of
pleasure.”
10

The
818
Session
exhibits
these
same
qualities,

which
leads
to
feelings
of
positivity
and
a
temporary
escape
from
everyday
struggle.

Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild
in
her
book
The
Black
Dancing
Body
adds
to
the
conversation,

illuminating
the
spiritual
nature
of
the
818
when
she
writes,
“From
the
African
tradition

of
embodying
cosmic
forces
and
dancing
one’s
religion,
Africans
in
the
Americas
already

had
the
template
for
manifesting
soul
and
spirit
in
their
dance
genres.”
11

The
818
is
a

modern-‐day
incarnation
of
dance
circle
communities
that
have
existed
throughout

history,
including
the
Ring
Shout
(a
20
th

century
African
slave
ritual
in
which

participants
move
in
a
circle,
shuffling
and
stomping
feet
and
clapping
hands).

7

As
the
20
th

century
progressed,
Ehrenreich
posits
and
laments
that
capitalism
and

political
and
religious
leaders
(i.e.,
Protestantism,
Puritanism)
squashed
people’s

capacity
for
collective
ecstasy.
She
notes,

Not
only
has
the
possibility
of
collective
joy
been
largely
marginalized
to
the

storefront
churches
of
the
poor
and
the
darkened
clubs
frequented
by
the
young,

but
the
very
source
of
this
joy
–
other
people,
including
strangers
–
no
longer

holds
much
appeal.
12

Ehrenreich
mourns
the
decline
of
biosocial
life,
and
warns
that,
“We
pay
a
high
price
for

this
emotional
emptiness.”
13

Krump
serves
as
a
language,
a
vocabulary
and
a
form
of
communication
between
the

dancers
and
between
dancer
and
spectator.
The
dance
form
reconnects
a

disenfranchised
community,
allowing
the
participants
to
feed
off
of
each
other’s

thoughts,
expressions
and
declarations.
Krucial
is
a
sweet-‐faced,
tough-‐bodied
2010

college
graduate
who
has
recently
returned
to
the
circle.
She
often
plays
the
role
of
the

session’s
amiable
and
welcoming
host.

Krump
allows
me
to
express
myself
in
ways
in
which
words
cannot
define.

Sometimes
you
can’t
explain
the
goodness
of
a
day.
Sometimes
you
can’t
explain

the
negativity
in
a
day.
All
of
the
feelings
and
frustrations
that
you
can
never

explain,
you
explain
in
getting
off.

The
dancer’s
emotional
give-‐and-‐take
continues
after
she
leaves
the
center
of
the
circle.

Spectators
vibe
with
the
soloist
and
one
another.
The
observers
tap,
or
push,
the

krumper
when
she
comes
close,
and
speak,
or
yell,
in
her
face.
“That’s
buck!”
people

scream
in
response
to
mind-‐blowing
steps.
One
cold
night
in
December,
one
krumper

standing
in
the
close-‐knit
circle
yelled
to
the
one
in
the
center,
“It’s
your
world.”
He
then

8

turned
his
head
in
the
direction
of
his
neighbor
and
insisted,
“He’s
feeling
it.”
At
another

especially
charged
circle,
a
female
at
the
edge,
impressed
with
a
particular
person’s

move,
barked
out,
“How
did
he
know
to
do
that?”
She
was
in
awe
of
the
source
of
his

inspiration.

An
overwhelming
number
of
observers
only
see
rage
being
hurled
around
the
circle.

“People
think
it’s
an
angry
dance,”
states
Miss
Prissy.
She
is
one
of
the
inventors
of

krump
and
the
female
star
of
Rize
who
has
toured
with
Snoop
Dogg
and
Madonna.
“I

don't
think
it’s
angry.
It’s
just
so
heartfelt.
That's
why
people
cry
when
they
see
us

dance.
A
lot
of
people
don't
know
how
to
channel
that.”

The
face
is
an
instrument
of
krump.
Whether
it’s
a
flirty
smile
creeping
at
the
corners
of

a
mouth,
a
painful
wince
or
a
raging
scowl,
every
expression
amplifies
a
mood,

complements
the
movement
and
demonstrates
with
certainty
that
the
dancers
are

experiencing
a
powerful
sense
of
emotional
release.
During
certain
krumpers’
sets,
the

car
can
become
a
prop.
Jumping
through
the
window,
swinging
on
the
door,
a
dancer

can
feed
off
the
vehicle’s
energy
and
work
within
and
around
its
existence,
just
as
the

shape
of
a
building
or
brightness
of
a
neon
sign
might
inspire
her.

Although
always
in
conversation
with
the
crowd,
krumpers
dance
for
themselves.
Their

moves
still
ring
of
defiance,
rage,
triumph,
and
joy,
whether
five
or
a
rowdy
fifty
people

show
up
to
the
session.
Krump
can
foster
dialogue,
but
it
also
exists
as
a
monologue.
It

is
in
this
sense
that
it
serves
as
a
channel
for
emotional
release.
Krumpers
express
with

9

arms,
legs,
shoulders,
torsos,
necks
and
heads
what
they
have
difficulty
getting
out
in

words.
Uni
is
one
of
the
founders
of
the
818
Session.
Burly
and
handsome,
he
mumbles

jokes
constantly
like
a
young
version
of
the
black
comedian
Robin
Harris.
While
the

dedicated
krumper
speaks
freely
and
constantly
to
his
friends,
his
words
get
stuck
on

his
tongue,
finally
skipping
out
to
answer
my
questions.
His
dancing
tells
a
different

story.
Under
the
influence
of
a
beat,
he
is
empowered,
irreverent,
confident
and

graceful.

It’s
so
good
to
be
out
there
and
just
hear
the
crowd
understanding
you.
It
was

times
where
I
didn't
know
how
to
express
myself
verbally.
Through
dance,
it

came
out
so
clear.
That’s
why
I
continue,
and
I
like
to
keep
it
alive.
I
can
never

just
stop
dancing.

At
the
818
Session,
each
krumper
performs
her
own
reality.
Considering
that
most
of

the
dancers
are
marginalized
youth
who
have
experienced
race,
class
and
possibly

gender
discrimination
since
childhood,
this
need
to
express
brewing,
pent-‐up
emotion

through
movement
seems
especially
important.
Issues
are
worked
out
inside
the
circle.

Gripes
are
vented.
Frustration
erupts.
Catharsis
transpires.
Walter
Mosley
writes,

“Music
and
style
in
black
America
are
so
vibrant
because
they
are
barely
veiled
codes

that
express
the
pain
we’ve
experienced
for
so
many
years
–
pain
that
is
common
to
all

women
and
men,
black
and
white.”
14

Krump
is
an
emotive
dance
similar
to
Flamenco,

tap
and
capoeira
(a
Brazilian
martial
arts);
they
were
all
embraced
–
and
often
created
–

by
the
collective
spirit
of
people
who
lacked
resources.
If,
as
Gottschild
writes,

“Africanist
dance
is
symbolic
movement,”
15

krumpers
offer
a
narrative
through

movement
of
structural
racism,
racial
profiling,
lack
of
state
and
federal
support
and
job

10

opportunities,
and
daily
frustrations.
Some
of
the
dancers’
movements
consist
of

shooting,
stabbing,
hanging,
kicking,
punching
and
other
violent
acts
perpetrated
and

suffered
by
members
of
their
communities.

The
818
Session
falls
in
line
with
Schechner’s
assertion
that
public
rituals
serve
as
a

“safety
valve
to
release
the
ethnic
and
social
tensions
in
a
city
where
the
relations

between
the
different
classes
and
the
different
ethnic
groups
were
marked
by

repressive
violence.”
16

He
points
out
that
rituals
can
redirect
violent
and
erotic

energies
17

and
sublimate
or
purify
violence.
18

One
aspect
of
the
krump
circle
–
that’s
not

always
present
–
is
battling.
Much
like
break
dancing,
krump
battles
occur
at
the
818,

and
can
also
be
the
focus
of
separate
events.
As
Joseph
G.
Schloss
details
in
Foundation,

his
book
about
b-‐boy
culture
in
New
York,
the
battles
represent
allegorical
fighting.
19

They
are
forums
to
let
off
steam,
settle
petty
skirmishes
and
ultimately,
as
Schloss

remarks,
earn
“that
most
elusive
prize,
a
sense
of
self.”
20

Krump
movement
allows

dancers
to
acknowledge
and
affirm
their
own
and
each
other’s
existence.
This

empowerment
parallels
Gottschild’s
definition
of
soul
power
when
she
writes,
“that’s

what
soul
power
is:
having
something
intangible
that
is
an
invaluable
asset,
when
one

has
almost
nothing
of
value
that
is
tangible.”
21

Underscoring
the
victorious
nature
of
group
rituals,
Schechner
writes,
“The
stories

these
groups
tell,
their
ritual
enactments,
concern
temporary
and
uneasy
triumphs
over

death.”
22

The
818
participants
tell
stories
about
their
daily
lives
and
shared
histories

plagued
by
race,
class
and
gender
inequality,
and
in
doing
so,
experience
a
sense
of
joy.

11

Ehrenreich
writes,
“to
achieve
ecstasy
is
a
kind
of
triumph”
and
to
“extract
pleasure

from
lives
of
grinding
hardship
or
oppression
is
a
considerable
accomplishment.”
23

That

the
dancers
are
able
to
pass
on
their
philosophies,
skills
and
traditions
to
the
next

generation
is
one
part
of
the
triumph.

Krump
exists
in
the
moment,
affected
by
a
dancer’s
surroundings,
feelings
and
sounds.

A
krumper’s
movements
can
be
fluid,
sudden,
or
sometimes
both
in
the
same
set.
Moves

erupt
but
also
build
slowly,
welling
up
inside
before
spilling
or
banging
out
toward
the

circle’s
edge.
The
krumper
who
steps
in
the
circle
interprets
the
beat
(and
sometimes

lyrics)
with
his
body.
Lil’
C
says,

We
started
dancing
to
real
rugged
style
music
because
we
always
had
an
ear
for

that.
By
dancing
to
that
style
of
music,
that
is
what
motivated
us
to
move
in
the

extreme
ways
that
we
decided
to
start
moving,
because
everything
that
we
were

doing,
it
was
physical
interpretation
of
that
in
which
we
were
hearing.

In
Foundation,
Schloss
writes,
“space
defined
by
sound
emanating
from
a
central
point

is
found
in
many
ritual
traditions.”

24

Music
and
dance
together
can
effect
a
temporary

spiritual
transformation
of
both
the
environment
and
person.

Moving
locations
from
its
origins
in
South
Los
Angeles,
the
818
now
calls
North

Hollywood
(NoHo)
home.
Without
losing
authenticity,
the
818
has
moved
to
safer,
more

neutral
ground.
E.
Patrick
Johnson,
in
his
book
Appropriating
Blackness,
writes,
“One
of

those
‘false’
notions
is
that
ghetto
life
is
the
site
of
uncompromising
authentic

blackness.”
25

Not
only
has
the
818
existed
in
NoHo
since
2003,
many
of
krump’s

creators
who
were
born
in
South
Los
Angeles
are
now
residents
of
NoHo.
The
statistics

indicate
that
NoHo
is
a
safer
neighborhood
with
less
gang
activity.
Over
the
last
three

12

months,
there
were
an
average
of
9.7
violent
crimes
in
South
L.A.
as
opposed
to
6.6
in

NoHo.
26

Although
there
are
more
street
gangs
in
the
San
Fernando
Valley
compared

with
others
sections
of
Los
Angeles,
the
police
divisions
that
patrol
this
area
report
the

lowest
number
of
gang
crimes
and
the
lowest
overall
crime
rates
in
the
entire
city.
27

As
B-‐boy,
a
former
breaker
and
another
founder
of
the
818,
explains,
a
dance

community
already
existed
in
and
around
NoHo,
which
supports
the
circle.
Debbie

Reynolds
Dance
Studios,
Millennium
Dance
Complex,
and
Evolution
Dance
Studios
are

all
located
in
the
area.
The
existence
of
these
studios
as
well
as
the
relative
niceness
of

the
neighborhood
makes
NoHo
a
present-‐day
mecca
of
krump.

Krucial
says,

There
are
no
gang
bangers
out
here.
There’s
no
real
violence.
It’s
the
818,
Valley,

Hollywood,
North
Hollywood
type
of
style.
Everybody
can
meet
here.
At
the
818,

it’s
not
just
one
group
of
people
that
meets
here.
It’s
this
group
from
Compton,

this
group
from
Inglewood,
that
group
from
Watts,
this
group
from
Hollywood.

It's
the
meeting
ground
so
people
can
feel
like
they’re
not
on
one
particular
side.

Chopper
has
been
part
of
the
krumping
scene
for
nine
years,
but
just
recently
stepped

into
the
circle.
The
muscular,
handsome
dancer
whose
foundation
is
in
popping

expresses
similar
thoughts:

Whenever
you
got
a
bunch
of
positive
people
together,
it
just
feels
totally

different
than
when
you
got
a
negative
space
where
people
outside
who
ain’t

really
here
to
krump
are
doing
other
stuff.
Everybody
is
positive.
They
don’t
like

when
people
start
trouble.
It's
almost
like
an
unspoken
code.

13

The
818
has
seen
relatively
little
violence.
Frankie
J.,
a
middle-‐aged
white
videographer

who
since
2007
has
been
filming
the
818,
hints
at
a
rough
night
involving
gangs
at
the

North
Hollywood
Park
a
few
years
ago,
which
prompted
the
move
to
Ralphs,
but

concedes
that
in
general
civility
rules.

“It’s
a
lot
of
different
dancers
[who
attend
the
session];
some
pop
locking
artists,
a

couple
of
break
dancers,”
says
a
teenaged
Patrick
Green
from
Bellflower.
“You
actually

have
a
couple
of
celebrities
that
come
out
here
and
support
the
movement.”
On

separate
occasions,
movie
star
Adam
G.
Sevani
(Step
Up
2),
Pakelika
from
Kottonmouth

Kings,
and
“So
You
Think
You
Can
Dance”
contestant
Comfort
have
shown
up.
In

addition
to
Lil’
C,
Miss
Prissy
and
Russell
Ferguson,
the
season
6
winner
of
“So
You

Think
You
Can
Dance,”
attend
regularly.

Despite
NoHo’s
seemingly
ideal
setting
for
the
818
Session,
the
North
Hollywood
Police

Department
does
not
always
accommodate
the
dancers.
While
the
dancing
performed

in
the
session
entertains
some
of
the
officers,
the
session
and
its
participants
pose
a

disruption
to
the
status
quo.
Squad
cars
routinely
patrol
the
lot
to
keep
tabs
on
the

circle.
The
cars
creep
by
and
stop
to
either
stare
or
get
out
and
engage
the
crowd.
One

night
a
lone
white
older
cop
approached
the
session,
speaking
to
no
one
in
particular.

Aware
he
was
being
ignored,
he
politely
warned
the
crowd
to
keep
the
volume
down;
or

he
would
shut
the
circle
down.
He
emphasized
that
trouble
should
be
avoided.
He

walked
away
not
fully
satisfied
he
had
successfully
made
his
point.

14

On
another
night
when
cops
dispersed
the
dancers
around
2
a.m.
citing
noise

complaints,
I
stood
motionless,
contemplating
my
next
move
with
my
video
camera
in

hand.
As
the
sergeant
rode
by,
he
stopped
and
yelled
out
his
apologies
to
me.
The
two

officers
in
the
car
trailing
his
also
pulled
up
alongside
me
to
ask
what
I
was
doing.
I

shared
that
I
was
filming
a
documentary.
Smiling,
apparently
amused,
they
too

apologized
and
explained
they
were
only
shutting
down
the
circle
to
appease
their

sergeant.
Otherwise,
they
said,
they
look
the
other
way.

Frankie
J.
joked
to
me
that
the
cops
usually
“check
us
out
because
they
are
fans
of
ours

now.”

Professor
and
scholar
Richard
Schechner
writes,
“Unofficial
culture
worms
or
bullies
its

way”
into
outdoor
public
areas,
and
points
to,

a
long
history
of
unofficial
performances
‘taking
place’
in
(seizing
as
well
as

using)
locales
not
architecturally
imagined
as
theatres.
A
big
part
of
the

celebration
is
experiencing
the
transformation
of
work
space,
or
traffic
space,
or

some
kind
of
official
space
into
a
playfield.
28

He
is
referring
to
festivals
and
carnivals
like
Mardi
Gras
and
New
York’s
Halloween

Parade.
Similarly,
the
818
Session
seizes
a
place
for
parked
cars
and
bustling

consumption
and
instead
uses
it
for
artistic
connection,
community
play
and
emotional

liberation.

These
818
krumpers
reimagine
the
use
of
public
area.
Long
before
Occupy
Wall
Street

took
over
Zuccotti
Park
in
Lower
Manhattan,
the
krump
dancers
at
the
818
Session

were
transforming
the
Ralphs
parking
lot,
which
was
created
to
facilitate
capital
and

15

commerce,
into
a
place
for
creative
expression,
emotional
release
and
community

building.
The
lengthy
patch
of
asphalt
converts
temporarily
into
a
stage
for
movement,

rather
than
a
repository
for
automobiles.

The
local
police
department
is
responsible
for
preventing
and
eliminating
noise

disturbances
in
the
area.
The
officers
assigned
to
patrol
the
neighborhood
might
be

concerned
the
participants
of
the
session
will
instigate
trouble,
resulting
in
damage
to

property
or
harm
to
people.
Without
understanding
krump
as
an
art
form,
the
police

might
misinterpret
the
group’s
purpose
or
be
troubled
by
their
nonconformist,

unconventional
actions.
Instances
of
African
slave
rituals
turning
to
violent
rebellions

can
be
found
throughout
history.
These
gatherings
often
included
dance
in
the
South

and
capoeira
in
Brazil.
One
such
ritualistic
ceremony
led
to
the
Haitian
Revolution
of

1791.

Laila
V.,
a
sexy
tomboyish
recording
artist
who
started
krumping
several
years
ago
at

the
urging
of
a
krumper
concerned
that
she
was
a
ticking
emotional
time
bomb,

explains
krump’s
threatening
aesthetic.

When
we
dance,
the
dance
is
in
warrior
movement,
so
we
look
like
we’re

fighting.
When
[the
cops]
see
a
bunch
of
African
Americans
or
just
a
bunch
of

kids
getting
together
and
moving
the
way
that
they
won’t
understand,
they’re

going
to
automatically
think
something
is
not
right.
They
don’t
understand
it.

The
resident
judges
of
“So
You
Think
You
Can
Dance”
don’t
appear
to
respect
krump

either,
despite
Lil’
C’s
participation
on
the
show.
When
19-‐year-‐old
Ferguson

16

auditioned
for
season
6
in
2009,
his
skills
were
met
with
skepticism.
Graceful
and

precise
like
Bruce
Lee,
Ferguson
bounces
off
people
likes
walls
at
the
818.
They
grab
at

him
as
he
pulls
away
and
breaks
free.
Gutta,
as
he
is
affectionately
nicknamed,
elicits
the

most
crowd
reaction
and
interaction,
morphing
the
circle
into
a
testosterone-‐fueled

boys’
club.

Consider
this
exchange
between
Ferguson
and
two
of
the
judges
after
his
audition.

Nigel
Lythgoe:
“With
individuals
I
find
krump
too
one-‐dimensional
for
me.
I
would
like

to
see
what
else
you
can
do.”

Mary
Murphy:
“What
other
styles
are
you
trained
in?”

Ferguson:
“Ballet,
modern,
tap,
jazz,
African…”

Lythgoe:
“Have
you
ever
krumped
and
tapped?”

Ferguson:
“Actually,
I
have.”

Lythgoe:
“It’s
called
crap”
[laughing].

Most
people
have
a
difficult
time
getting
krump.
The
movement
appears
sudden,

provocative
and
confrontational.
Dancers
bump
each
other
in
a
mosh-‐like
manner
and

excitedly
blurt
out
words,
often
in
each
other’s
faces.
At
the
818,
the
dancers
take
over

space
normally
used
by
the
public
where
the
police
are
responsible
for
maintaining

order.
The
cops
are
beholden
to
the
city
and
residents
of
North
Hollywood
to
keep

peace.
The
818
dangles
the
possibility
of
a
potential
breakdown
of
order,
mostly
in
the

form
of
noise
pollution
in
the
hours
after
midnight.

17

“When
the
cops
come,
we
never
really
trip
because
we’re
from
the
land
of
sirens,”
Lil’
C

says.
“Blue
and
red
lights
flashing
is
nothing
new
to
us.”
Yet
Lil’
C
challenges
what
he

assumes
is
police
logic:

If
you
see
that
we’re
not
doing
anything
at
all
that
merits
you
taking
us
down
to

the
station,
then
why
are
you
pestering
us?
I
know
there’s
some
sort
of
robbery

going
on.
There’s
some
sort
of
211
going
on;
some
187
that
just
took
place.
You

need
to
be
handling
that.
Not
this
over
here,
because
we’re
not
doing
anything.

But
when
they
come,
we’re
used
to
it.
We
got
backup
session
spots.
We
shift
it

around.

Because
of
police
supervision,
the
818
moves
locations.
The
circle
changes
spots
within

the
lot,
and
on
nights
when
the
cops
force
them
to
call
it
quits
but
it’s
too
early
and
the

dancers
aren’t
done,
the
session
relocates
to
North
Hollywood
Park
on
Chandler

Boulevard
and
Tujunga
Avenue,
a
few
blocks
from
Ralphs.
The
circle
used
to
meet
in
the

park’s
small
lot
a
year
and
a
half
ago.
The
area
marked
for
dancing
is
tight.
The
absence

of
gleaming
street
lamps
and
a
dark
building,
which
impedes
an
unobstructed
view
in

every
direction,
create
a
spooky
atmosphere.
Yet,
as
Laila
V.
offers,
“If
this
is
something

you
love
to
do,
you’ll
do
it
no
matter
where,
what
time,
no
matter
what
day.”

Not
only
will
the
session
travel,
but
the
idea
that
krump
signifies
mobility
applies
to
the

dance
vocabulary.
Chopper
says,

I've
been
dancing
for
a
long
time.
To
get
into
this
style
touches
a
different
place

inside
me.
It
just
feels,
when
it’s
something
new,
and
somewhere
new
that
you

haven’t
been.
Krump
is,
not
a
lot
of
people
get
to
go
there,
so
this
allows
you
to

go
there.

18

Mentally,
physically
and
symbolically,
krump
challenges
notions
of
stuckness,
whether

from
being
held
back
or
lacking
opportunity.
The
dance
form
allows
people
to
go

wherever
they
don’t
otherwise
feel
free
to
go
in
their
minds
and
with
their
bodies.

Miss
Prissy
labels
herself
the
Queen
of
Krump.
If
she
is
the
queen,
then
Lil’
C
is
the
king.

They
dated
for
eight
years
before
calling
it
quits
and
remain
best
friends.
As
the

mainstream
faces
of
krump,
the
reigning
(ex-‐)couple
lend
the
ultimate
legitimacy
to
818

by
showing
up
each
week.
She
often
pulls
people
aside
for
one-‐on-‐one
conversations

about
opportunities
or
issues
of
concern
in
the
community,
and
calms
the
flaring

tempers
of
agitated
krumpers.
Lil’
C
opens
the
door
of
his
white
Toyota
Venza
under
a

bright
light
so
his
stereo
speakers
can
serve
as
the
sound
system.
He
also
monitors
the

amount
of
space
within
the
circle
where
the
dancers
hold
court,
asking
people
to
“open

it
up”
when
the
session
shrinks.
The
validation
works
both
ways;
each
of
their

credibility
relies
on
their
participation
in
the
circle.

At
30,
Miss
Prissy,
aka
Marquisa
Gardner,
considers
herself
the
oldest
krumper
in
the

circle.
I’ve
seen
older,
like
the
white
male
actor
in
his
mid-‐60s
they
call
Oldz
Kool,
but

I’m
assuming
she
means
of
the
core
group.
Miss
Prissy
started
dancing
when
she
was

two.
A
big
fan
of
Michael
Jackson’s
groundbreaking
moves,
Prissy
chose
instead
to
study

ballet.
From
the
age
of
2
to
19,
the
lithe
daughter
of
a
Belizean
immigrant
was
a

ballerina,
until
1999
when
she
connected
to
krump.

19

In
The
Black
Dancing
Body,
Gottschild
advances,
“James
Brown
personified
soul.

[Savion]
Glover
is
a
manifestation
of
spirit.
29

Miss
Prissy
exposes
the
beating
heart.

Members
of
the
818
attest
to
her
magnanimity.
Krumper
Manny
Fernandez
says,

Ever
since
I’ve
known
Prissy,
she’s
been
the
type
of
person
to
be
more
of
a

leader,
not
a
follower.
She
creates
opportunities
for
other
dancers.
A
lot
of

people
don’t
see
what
she
does
for
the
krump
community.
She’s
the
queen
of

krump,
and
more
than
dancing
comes
with
that
title.

Although
not
the
founder
of
the
818
Session,
Miss
Prissy
has
assumed
the
role
of

spokeswoman
and
peacekeeper.
The
eclectic
fashionista
shows
up
each
week
with
her

talkative
sidekick,
three-‐year-‐old
daughter
Saadiyah
from
her
Canadian
ex-‐husband,
in

tow.
She
takes
great
pride
in
the
South
L.A.
street
dance
she
helped
create,
which
has

catapulted
in
popularity
and
influenced
dancers
around
the
world.
She
feels
responsible

for
maintaining
its
authenticity
and
ensuring
its
survival.

Everyone
is
always
looking
at
me
like,
how
does
it
feel
to
be
a
mom,
and
I’m
like,

I’ve
always
been
a
mother
because
I’m
the
mother
of
krump.
The
first
woman
to

ever
embody
it.
It’s
my
firstborn
child.
I
nourish
krump.
I
watch
it
grow.
It’s
the

seed
I
planted,
and
I’m
trying
to
make
sure
no
weeds
get
around
it.

The
first
time
I
interviewed
Miss
Prissy
she
invited
me
to
her
mother’s
house
on
South

Wilton
Place
in
South
Los
Angeles.

I
feel
like
krump
changed
my
life.
Because
with
ballet,
jazz
and
tap
it
was
so

disciplined
and
so
black
unitard,
flesh-‐toned
tights,
have
to
be
there
12:30
to
8.
It

became
routine,
and
I
became
so
tired
of
routine.
That
was
my
moment
of

rebellion.
Most
kids
in
South
Central,
they
rebel
and
become
a
gangster.
I

rebelled
and
became
a
krump
dancer.

Miss
Prissy’s
life,
like
her
choice
of
dance
style,
isn’t
conventional.
She
doesn’t
work
a

traditional
job
or
hours;
she
teaches,
performs,
directs,
and
cuts
and
styles
hair
in

20

homes,
including
her
own,
scraping
a
living
together
like
most
artists
do.
She
is
a
single

parent
who
is
rarely
spotted
without
her
daughter,
even
at
the
midnight
sessions,

despite
the
disapproving
looks
from
others.
Shofu
the
Beatdown,
another
krumper,

refers
to
Miss
Prissy
as
one
of
the
community’s
biggest
advocates
and
unifiers.
He
also

tells
me
that,
contrary
to
what
people
may
assume,
“females
have
the
advantage
[in

krump]
because
they
are
already
more
emotional.
Their
krump
is
more
powerful,”
he

says.

You
can
feel
it
more.
But
a
lot
of
people
don’t
know
that.
A
lot
of
male
krumpers

are
said
to
be
sensitive
because
they
know
how
to
let
their
emotions
go
when

they
dance.
They
come
off
as
weak
sometimes.

To
Fernandez,
Miss
Prissy
is
the
epitome
of
a
girl
in
krump.
“She
has
the
style,

character,
and
pizazz
to
keep
up
with
guys,
and
still
look
like
a
lady,”
he
says.
“Her
name

explains
everything.
She’s
honestly
who
she
says
she
is.”
Though
she
doesn’t
dance
at

every
session,
“she
can
beat
anybody
at
any
session,”
assures
Fernandez.
“She
will
go
at

it
with
guys,
no
problem.”

Men
dominate
the
818.
Prissy
is
not
the
only
woman
who
krumps
at
the
session,
but

she
is
the
most
talented.
Her
skill
level
alone
ranks
her
as
one
of
the
best
of
the
818

bunch.
Pushing
her
performance
up
another
notch
is
the
mesmerizing
and
heart

wrenching
emotional
release
she
wears
on
her
face.
One
night
she
appears
as
if
she
has

fallen
into
a
trance.
Her
expressions
alternate
between
pain
and
anger.
She
lunges
her

body
back
and
forth,
knees
bent,
nails
scratching
at
the
asphalt.
She
whirls
around

swinging
her
neck
and
stumbles
away
from
the
circle
exhausted,
as
if
in
meditation.

21

Prissy
comments
that
some
women
krump
because
their
boyfriends
do,
or
because
of

the
cute
guys
in
the
circle.
“I
watch
girls
come
in,”
Miss
Prissy
states.

I’m
observing
you.
I’m
watching
all
the
wrong
moves
you’re
making,
how
you’re

coming
into
the
krump
world.
These
girls
that
are
coming
in
are
coming
in

under,
like
sneaking
in,
having
these
guys
train
them.
No
guys
ever
trained
me,

ever.

I’ve
seen
eight
women
in
total
enter
the
circle
(one
was
very
pregnant
and
one
was

white),
and
many
more
females
on
the
sidelines.
Most
of
the
lady
krumpers
mirror
the

hard-‐edged
aggression
of
the
men.
Laila
V.
is
the
sexiest,
her
hips
rapidly
pulsating
and

rotating,
heating
the
energy
around
her.

I
got
another
glimpse
of
the
possibility
of
the
818
channeling
erotic
energies
one
night

when,
after
being
turned
on
by
an
especially
“buck”
dancer,
Miss
Prissy
yelled
a
string

of
sexually-‐charged
comments
within
earshot
of
the
rest
of
us:
“I
should
have
jacked
off

before
I
came
here,”
she
laughed,
followed
by,
“The
back
of
my
thighs
are
burning”
–

and
most
comically,
“I’m
having
a
krump
orgasm.”

“We’ve
always
had
a
different
fight
than
men,”
Prissy
points
out.

Our
fight
is
harder
because
not
only
are
we
fighting
for
respect,
but
you’re
also

fighting
to
be
noticed
because
you’re
the
woman.
Damn,
what
do
I
do?
I
can’t
be

too
aggressive
because
then
I’m
coming
off
butch.
But
I
definitely
have
to

represent
for
women
and
still
be
a
strong
presence.
It’s
a
heavy
hat
to
wear.

“You
can’t
be
girly
and
be
considered
buck,”
says
Ke'Aira
“Lil
Daisy”
Roberson,
a
female

who
has
been
krumping
since
the
age
of
13.

You
still
gotta
be
as
live
as
the
guys
to
be
considered
a
top
female
in
krump.

You’re
expected
to
be
as
good
as
the
guys
but
not
dance
like
them.
With
the
girls,

22

it’s
a
certain
pressure.
We
get
compared
[to
each
other]
more
than
the
guys.
If

there’s
another
girl
that
comes
out,
then
the
guys
say,
battle
her
and
beat
her.

You
have
to
continuously
stay
relevant.

The
prospect
of
staying
current
enters
Miss
Prissy’s
thoughts
too.
However,
she’s
more

concerned
about
fostering
a
female
krump
collective
to
carry
on
after
she
is
gone.
She

says,

At
the
end
of
the
day,
because
I
am
the
oldest,
there
are
a
lot
of
days
that
I
wish
I

could
retire,
and
just
sit
down.
But
I
can’t
because
my
duty
is
not
fulfilled.
I
can’t

bow
out
of
krump
when
there
are
so
many
girls
that
have
no
presence.
My
whole

point
being
in
krump
was
to
give
women
a
presence.
But
I’m
the
only
woman

with
a
presence,
so
the
job
is
not
done.

The
818
community
is
strong.
Black,
white,
Latino,
Asian,
male,
and
female,
everyone

bands
together
when
one
of
their
own
is
in
need.
This
attribute
becomes
perfectly
clear

when
the
krumper
J.Bad
is
arrested
(His
friends
do
not
wish
to
disclose
why
but
say
he

was
pulled
over
for
something
small.).
Because
he
is
not
a
U.S.
citizen,
he
is
detained

and
risks
deportation.
J.Bad
is
part
of
the
Bad
Newz
family.
At
the
next
818
Session,
the

crew’s
leader,
also
called
Bad
Newz,
asks
for
donations
for
the
trial’s
legal
defense.

Holding
back
tears,
he
pleads
with
the
crowd,
his
voice
cracking,
“What
if
they
took
this

session
away
from
you?
Something
you
loved
to
do.
He’s
like
family.”
Bad
Newz
returns

the
next
week
to
announce
a
fundraiser
event.

Instead
of
heading
to
the
Ralphs
parking
lot
on
the
first
Wednesday
of
2012,
I
head
to

J.Bad’s
fundraiser
at
the
Boogiezone
Utopia
on
Carson
Street
in
Torrance.
Scanning
the

room,
I
see
the
all
of
the
major
818
players.
“Bad
Newz
fam
is
like
a
brotherhood,”
says

Manny
Fernandez,
aka
Lil
Newz.
“Everybody
looks
out
for
each
other.
Besides
the

23

dancing
thing,
personally,
we’re
all
in
each
other’s
lives.”
The
first-‐known
Hispanic
crew

has
been
around
for
10
years;
Fernandez
has
been
a
member
for
six.
This
family
taught

him
how
to
krump.
The
elders
teach
their
little
homies,
and
the
street
dance
is
passed

on.

I
pay
the
$10
donation
fee
and
walk
upstairs.
J.Bad’s
(aka
Junior
Newz)
fiancé
is
walking

around
collecting
signatures
to
present
to
the
judge
to
petition
for
his
release.
Tonight’s

fundraiser
doubles
as
a
battle,
or
what
amounts
to
an
all-‐star
showcase.
Miss
Prissy
is

hosting.
Lil’
C
is
a
guest
judge.
Transporting
the
expansive
intensity
of
the
outdoor

parking
lot
session
into
a
moderate-‐sized
dance
studio
doesn’t
constrain
the
movement

or
tame
the
attitudes.
Moves
are
magnified,
and
egos
quickly
inflate.
At
one
point,

capitalizing
on
his
flair
for
the
dramatic,
Bad
Newz
challenges
Lil’
C
to
an
unscheduled,

spontaneous
one-‐on-‐one.
Trash
talking
fills
the
room
along
with
attempts
to
wound

egos.
The
energy
and
noise
levels
reach
record
highs
on
the
Krump-‐O-‐Meter.
The

atmosphere
exudes
chaos,
and
the
crowd
reaches
thrill
capacity.
Bad
Newz
and
Lil’
C

trade
outlandish,
testosterone-‐fueled
turns
of
braggadocio;
Lil’
C
knee
drops
his
way

across
the
floor,
jumps
and
flings
his
crotch
into
a
kneeling
Bad
Newz’s
face.
Everybody

goes
ballistic.
At
the
end,
instead
of
stomping
feet
escalating
into
flying
fists,
Bad
Newz

grabs
the
mic
and
restores
order,
assuring
the
audience
that
the
battle
was
just
part
of

the
show.
“No
bad
feelings,”
he
says.
“We’re
all
here
to
support
J.Bad.”

On
March
14,
2012,
after
being
absent
for
months,
J.Bad
is
back
at
the
session,
wanting

—
needing
—
to
dance.
He
is
home.
The
818
Session
has
grown
into
an
empowering,

24

supportive
community,
offering
a
disenfranchised
population
a
safe
space
to
share,

unwind,
release,
matter,
be
heard
and
flourish.
This
is
especially
important
today,
when

the
constant
use
of
technology
breeds
isolating
habits,
public
space
is
policed
and

privatized
and
a
dearth
of
opportunities
exists
for
artistic
creation
and
humanistic

innovation.
As
a
result,
people
everywhere
are
experiencing
increased
disengagement

with
their
bodies,
each
other
and
their
environment.
Yet,
every
Wednesday
at
midnight

the
dancers
at
the
818
Session
connect
with
themselves
and
those
around
them
and

reclaim
public
space
for
their
own
uplifting
aims.

Around
2:15
a.m.
a
police
car
rolls
up
to
the
circle
flashing
its
siren.
Stopping
ten
feet

away,
the
officers
beam
a
spotlight
in
the
group’s
direction.
A
young
man
catches
sight

of
the
cops
and
pushes
the
circle
open
into
a
half
moon,
giving
them
an
unobstructed

view.

“Let
them
see
we’re
just
dancing,”
he
says.
As
the
people
part,
a
lone
male
krumper

jumps
into
view.
Ignoring
the
cops,
the
dancer
throws
his
arms
to
the
sky,
hops
on
one

knee
and
bounces
to
his
feet.

“Show
them
how
you
roll,
Lil’
C,”
someone
from
the
circle
yells.

If
the
cops
recognize
the
soloist,
they
don’t
make
it
obvious.
The
officers
appear

determined
to
shut
down
the
818
Session.
One
of
them
shouts
to
the
crowd
through
his

megaphone
that
he
has
received
noise
complaints.

25

Lil’
C
still
doesn’t
stop.

He
hits
his
elbow
with
his
knee,
swings
both
arms
alternately
through
his
legs,
tilts

forward
and
steps
back.
He
plants
his
last
foot
stomp
and
walks
off,
blending
into
the

dispersing
crowd.
Disappointed
that
the
music
and
dance
have
been
forced
off,

everyone
slowly
retreats
to
the
cars.

“Everyone
goes
through
struggle,”
says
Lil’
C.
“Everyone
needs
a
way
to
put
their

problems
in
front
of
them,
and
they
need
some
sort
of
therapeutic
activity
to
deal
with

the
trials
and
tribulations
and
the
anguish
and
the
turmoil
of
everyday
life
in
the

matrix.”

An
impulse
toward
escapism
defines
modern
consumer
society.
Krumpers
adopt
a

different
attitude.
They
turn
inward.
Instead
of
seeking
outside
distraction,
these

dancers
drive
at
authentic
experience.
The
818
Session
is
a
supportive
space
for

marginalized
youth
to
share
their
joy
and
pain,
pleasure
and
grief.
By
giving
and

receiving
emotion,
people
imbue
the
circle
with
a
collective
sense
of
empathy
that
is

rarely
experienced
elsewhere.

The
established
order
leaves
krumpers
out
of
mainstream
conversation.
At
the
818

ritual,
individual
identity
collides
with
community
spirit,
allowing
dancers
to
join
this

conversation,
and
create
their
own
critical
discourse.

26

Endnotes

1

The
Los
Angeles
City
Council
began
to
officially
refer
to
South
Central
as
South
Los

Angeles
in
2003
to
“lessen
the
stigma
associated
with
the
area.”
David
B.
Howard,
“A

Report
on
Homelessness
in
South
Los
Angeles”
for
Special
Service
For
Groups,
2008,
p.

7.

2

Richard
Schechner,
The
Future
of
Ritual:
Writings
on
Culture
and
Performance
(London

and
New
York,
Routledge,
1993),
p.
99.

3

Ibid,
p.
102.

4

Ibid,
p.
126.

5

Howard,
“A
Report
on
Homelessness,”
p.
6.

6

White,
Thomas,
“Meet
the
Filmmakers:
Stacy
Peralta—‘Made
in
America,’”

Documentary.org,
August
2008.
http://www.documentary.org/content/meet-‐
filmmakers-‐stacy-‐peralta-‐made-‐america

7

Barbara
Ehrenreich,
Dancing
in
the
Streets:
A
History
of
Collective
Joy
(New
York,

Metropolitan
Books,
2006),
p.
23.

8

Ibid,
p.
9.

9

Ibid,
p.
10.

10

Schechner,
Ritual,
p.
233.

11

Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Coon
to
Cool

(New
York,
Palgrave
MacMillan,
2003),
p.
241.

12

Ehrenreich,
Dancing
in
the
Streets,
p.
248.

13

Ibid,
p.
254.

14

Gottschild,
Black
Dancing
Body,
p.
229.

15

Ibid,
p.
261.

16

Schechner,
Ritual,
p.
78.

17

Ibid,
p.
234.

27

18

Ibid,
p.
234.

19

Joseph
G.
Schloss,
Foundation:
B-‐boys,
B-‐girls,
and
Hip-‐Hop
Culture
in
New
York
(New

York,
Oxford
University
Press,
2009),
p.
118.

20

Ibid,
p.
124.

21

Gottschild,
Black
Dancing
Body,
p.
231.

22

Schechner,
Ritual,
p.
259.

23

Ehrenreich,
Dancing
in
the
Streets,
p.
179.

24

Schloss,
Foundation,
p.
104.

25

E.
Patrick
Johnson,
Appropriating
Blackness:
Performance
and
the
Politics
of

Authenticity
(Durham
and
London:
Duke
University
Press,
2003),
p.
29.

26

Mapping
L.A.
–
Los
Angeles
Times,
http://projects.latimes.com/mapping-‐
la/neighborhoods/

27

“Hispanic
gangs
in
the
City
of
Los
Angeles,
California
–
San
Fernando
Valley
(The

Valley).”
Street
Gangs
Resource
Center,

http://www.streetgangs.com/hispanic/cityofla/sfvalley

28

Schechner,
Ritual,
p.
48-‐49.

29

Gottschild,
Black
Dancing
Body,
p.
12.

28

Bibliography

Interviews

All
quotations
are
from
personal
interviews
conducted
between
by
the
author,
except

where
noted.

Chopper.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Manny
Fernandez.
Phone
Interview.
March
2012.

Frankie
J.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Patrick
Green.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Ke'Aira
“Lil
Daisy”
Roberson.
Phone
Interview.
March
2012.

Krucial.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Laila
V.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Lil’
C.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Miss
Prissy.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Shofu
the
Beatdown.
Phone
Interview.
March
2012.

Uni.
September
2011
–
December
2011.

Publications

Ehrenreich,
Barbara.
Dancing
in
the
Streets:
A
History
of
Collective
Joy
(New
York,

Metropolitan
Books,
2006).

Gottschild,
Brenda
Dixon.
The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Coon
to
Cool
(New

York,
Palgrave
MacMillan,
2003).

“Hispanic
gangs
in
the
City
of
Los
Angeles,
California
–
San
Fernando
Valley
(The

Valley).”
Street
Gangs
Resource
Center,

http://www.streetgangs.com/hispanic/cityofla/sfvalley

29

Howard,
David
B.
“A
Report
on
Homelessness
in
South
Los
Angeles”
for
Special
Service

For
Groups,
2008.

Johnson,
E.
Patrick.
Appropriating
Blackness:
Performance
and
the
Politics
of
Authenticity

(Durham
and
London:
Duke
University
Press,
2003)

Mapping
L.A.
–
Los
Angeles
Times.
http://projects.latimes.com/mapping-‐
la/neighborhoods/

Schechner,
Richard.
The
Future
of
Ritual:
Writings
on
Culture
and
Performance
(London

and
New
York,
Routledge,
1993).

Schloss,
Joseph
G.
Foundation:
B-‐boys,
B-‐girls,
and
Hip-‐Hop
Culture
in
New
York
(New

York,
Oxford
University
Press,
2009).

White,
Thomas.
“Meet
the
Filmmakers:
Stacy
Peralta—‘Made
in
America,’”

Documentary.org,
August
2008.
http://www.documentary.org/content/meet-‐
filmmakers-‐stacy-‐peralta-‐made-‐america

Abstract (if available)

Abstract The 818 Session is a krump circle that happens every Wednesday at midnight in a parking lot in North Hollywood. Though all dance styles are welcome at the 818 Session, the spotlight is on krump, a dance form created circa 2002 in South Los Angeles. Dave LaChapelle’s 2005 acclaimed feature documentary, Rize, introduced mainstream audiences to krump, which has gained momentum worldwide. Characterized by foot stomps, chest pops and improvisation, krump is a street hybrid of African, Latin, b-boy and other vernacular forms. I first attended the 818 Session, named for its area code, in the summer of 2011. As I stood in the circle, I was speechless, absorbed by the music emanating from an open door of a parked car and the dancing performed by extraordinary individuals, including the founders of krump. In September, I began filming a mini-documentary about the 818 and this krump ritual, which happens more or less the same way every week. This thesis is about an urban dance ritual, why and how it happens, and the community of dancers it holds together.

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