Step Up!

A generation awakens to hip pop

by ROMA ARYAL

FROM ISSUE # 162 (June 2009) | IN THIS ISSUE
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CHONG ZI LIANG

The streets of 1970's Bronx, USA reeked havoc–ethnic turmoil, frustration with the state and unemployment. Young people had nothing to do except nurse a burgeoning aggression that needed creative release.

This untapped energy was what the first hip-hop 'crews' that began in the Bronx fed on. They moved their bodies with an unusual freedom; they battled, waved, popped, krumped and saved an entire generation from wasting away to drugs and violence. Here in Nepal, another generation is being lured to hip-hop not just for identity and release, but as a creative sport and art form.

"Hip-hop is a show of aggression under rules and rhythm," says Krisada Kawjanwat, originally a boxing instructor from Thailand who has been promoting 'b-boying', a form of hip-hop dance that is a mix of physically challenging maneuvers, gymnastics, martial arts and break dance, in Nepal.

Already, there are a number of crews that Krisada is working with. From younger b-boy groups like Swayambu Monkey Boys, Fantastic Breakers and Basantapur Breakers to DoomSquad, known for their masked performances and synchronicity steps. Every evening, at the United World Trade Centre (UWTC) corridors at Tripureswor, Krisada helps a mix of young people, some of who are preparing for the Asian Title qualification rounds.

"Hip-hop is a relatively free form," says Sandip Gurung, who choreographs most of DoomSquad's performances, "and most young people don't want more regulations to those they already have. You can mix anything from kathak to salsa with hip hop, but it can't go the other way around."

"In hip-hop, everything can be a dance move," says Krisada, "even the most mundane–for example passing the sugar or wearing your clothes." There is also a lot of tribal inspiration in hip-hop, influenced by the number of cultures and identities of those who do hip-hop come from.
"In spite of this, the image we've imported from the US is that
hip-hop has more to do with violence," says Krisada.

Krisada wants to defy that stereotype. He thinks that hip-hop can be a mean to earn a living. As young people become more hesitant to get into traditional jobs, he says that there is scope for dance. "You can become a dance instructor, dance for commercials and music videos and apply to dance schools abroad with scholarships," he says, "a dance instructor is paid around Rs 20-40,000 in Nepal and if we're exporting so much hard manpower, why not skilled artists?"

"Besides, there's little you can do after a session of 'breaking' because it demands so much out of you," he explains, "One session, and you're good as asleep." Most b-boys can't take up alcohol or smoking because it wastes their muscles, compromises on their stamina and strength. Moreover, there are rules to battle–you can't touch your opponent, you can't use vulgar gestures or profanity. Clowning, teasing the other crew while you battle, is also in the spirit of the game.

Most mainstream hip hop songs, however, readily export an image of violence and excessive extravagance even though there are so many scores that also talk about culture and how normal people make it through–managing a nine-to-five job, paying the bills and racism. Most mainstream videos also make it seem like girls are only around as objects for men's entertainment but girls have their own moves, that aren't limited to showing off their bodies. Currently, only around three women are working with Krisada.

Without institutions that teach hip-hop well in Nepal, almost everyone around is self-taught. Even Nepali hip-hop singers hardly use any well-trained dancers in their videos. "You're on your own here," says Sandip. "Most of us learned our moves from the movies. Once you learn how to do the first ten moves, you're ready to create the 11th."

Despite all the hurdles, young b-boys are optimistic about the future. When Krisada started the qualifying rounds for the event, people started coming in just from word of mouth. Some washed dishes at hotels and some were from expensive international schools. Most of them only danced during the weekends with their crews, alone at home or at local clubs. 
 
"Of course I'm going to take it professionally," says 19-year-old Nischal Lama, whose been practicing the dance for seven years on his own. "It feels great to be dancing with all eyes on me."

Suraj Magar, 14, says "By the end of the day, we're so tired that we fall down." But Krisada tells them: "If you want you can just fall and sleep forever, but you have to get up and move again."