Sunday, August 6, 1:30 a.m. Flexibility is a virtue, especially when you're whipping around on your head with nothing between the floor and your skull but a canvas bucket hat and bandana. Like a gymnast sticking a landing, the break-dancer holds his pose, then twists and jerks, doing everything from the crab-walk to the moon-walk. Others form a tight circle around him, the next on deck signaling his intentions by moving in slightly or just by his look of sheer intensity.
Each turn lasts 30 seconds to a minute on Tabú's smooth wood floor, perfect for spinning. The fiercest competitors are Marc "Smerk" Cancino of the Rock Steady Crew and a skinny rockabilly fellow named Alfred, who goes by "Floor Rock." After each go, Floor Rock whips out a tiny black comb and fixes his perfect greaser 'do.
Few spectators orbiting the outer ring have any idea what they're looking at, but from the looks on their faces, it's clear they like what they see. They came to Tabú expecting to dance, which they did for some time, not noticing the b-boys and b-girls slowly trickling in alone or with their crews, practicing quietly on the sidelines.
Overseeing the proceedings is Mr. Freeze, aka Marc Lemberger from the famous Rock Steady Crew of break-dancers who came to Vegas in 1985 with an act in Splash at the Riviera. Prior to that, he was helping create the breaker culture in the South Bronx. "Street dancing is a dance of people showing off," he says. It all started in the New York of the 1970s and was further solidified in 1974 when legendary b-boy Track 2 (Louis Angel Matteo) established the dance's basic steps.
Though he was kicking it old school before I was in preschool, you would never know it by the way Freeze—now 42—moves. In his camouflage shirt, cap and white bandana, he gives a quick demo. With incredible strength, he hovers, legs straight out to the side like a Cirque du Soleil strongman, supported only by one hand. After, he crouches low in the circle, watching the breakers up close with a sparkle in his eyes. I've seen this look before during flair bartending competitions when amateur practitioners watch their heroes like Christian Delpech blow the competition out of the water. It's an expression of pure adoration.
"The thing I love most about this night is that moment when the circle happens, the people who don't know about it—I love watching their reaction," says Freeze. "When a battle gets going, I'll see people in the back in suits, like, ‘This is great, this is great!'"
Freeze also tours, judges tournaments and speaks worldwide. He's been a street entertainer and a mime at Paris Las Vegas, and he even has a performance alcove at MGM's Studio 54—the so-called Freeze-Frame. Humble, Freeze is reluctant to admit he was on MTV's Made in February, turning an awkward high-schooler into a b-boy. Freeze has also appeared in numerous movies, including 1983's Flashdance with other breaker legends like Richie "Crazy Legs" Colón.
At 1:45 a.m., he turns the floor back over to the crowd and to DJ One Zero (D.J.P., who regularly spins Sundays, is out of town) for more songs I haven't heard since my eighth-grade Valentine's Day dance. I swoon over P.M. Dawn's "Set Adrift On Memory Bliss," and a remix of Spandau Ballet's "True," and for the first time ever, I watch people slow-dance in a Vegas nightclub.
Freeze later jets by. "Now aaaaaall the breakers are here!" he says with satisfaction and anticipation. Old school rap and hip-hop warn us another circle is forming at 3 a.m., but a few drunk, giggly bachelorette-party girls linger, thinking the spotlight is for them. Eager break-dancers twitch and shuffle uncomfortably until one girl finally yanks them from the floor, allowing Smerk, his legs windmilling and arcing widely, to show them why this is no place for a girl in a mini-skirt.
"There's no way the guy in the suit is getting on the floor," I say, pointing to the slender guy smoothly moon-walking. Less than 10 seconds later, he is spinning and bouncing on his back, skinny legs, socks, and dress shoes pointing to the ceiling. The crowd is captivated, newly baptized fans. A tall guy in front begs for more from Floor Rock, who mouths to his new fan, "I don't like this song." Neither do the rest, but sensing this is the last song of the night, Smerk and Floor Rock each take their final turns and let it slide.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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