Urban Spin

Late May. The Showbox. The dark dance floor throbs with fans giving it up for local hip-hop band Source of Labor. Deep in the throng, the members of Circle of Fire spread out in a ring.

It's what b-boys - break dancers' preferred term - call a cipher, a mini-arena for a dancer or two to start inventing, and it's here that the pottery wheel starts spinning, where the floor spreads out like a virgin canvas. Time to show off. They tell themselves: This music is gonna make me do something crazy.

Says the group's Alfredo Vergara: "You make it up in the moment."

Circle of Fire's members, in their early 20s, are the new b-boy elders, doing what you might have thought inconceivable - inspiring yet another generation of b-boys and keeping break dancing alive.

In Seattle, the scene is spinning back to life, echoing a worldwide resurrection. Especially popular with the under-21 crowd, it has spawned monthly competitions and prompted the all-ages club DV8 to replace its "'80s Wednesdays" with "Backspin Wednesdays" in recognition of Circle of Fire's regular appearances there.

But Circle of Fire isn't just riding the wave. Its members are among the architects of the form's evolution, one emphasizing innovation and self-expression as much as impressive power moves.

As such, they've earned international acclaim; their video of last year, "A Journey through the Circle," and their Web site have been widely praised. In October, they'll be the lone crew representing the United States at "Battle of the Year," the Olympics of b-boying held in Frankfurt, Germany.

This weekend, they'll be part of Experience Music Project's opening festivities, with a dance workshop tomorrow and a performance on Sunday.

Backstreet b-boys

Back at the Showbox, Circle of Fire presents like an aurora borealis on fast-play: The rubbery Dufon Smith stands on his head, legs folded forward, then launches into a horizontal roll; Bob Foxhaven trips in with his signature leaps and stutter-steps.

Coty Valdez attacks the floor, all legs, partial to headstands and kicks; Lateef Saleem's spastic zombie style morphs into the locking, popping robotics of West Coast b-boys, anticipating and echoing the ricochets of a drum solo. Each exits the tiny arena wet as citrus, glistening in the darkness.

Some people don't know what to make of it. They walk through the circle, clutching their beers, oblivious to the pirouetting silhouettes. Not noticing. Then noticing. You can see them think: What the hell?

The group throws in some theatrics that underscore its status as a crew - Smith and Vergara do a capoeira-like duet, sliding between and around each other like gears in a machine. Later, on some vague signal, Smith, Vergara, Foxhaven, Saleem and Seth Martinez slide upright into the circle for a short but synchronized routine. Backstreet b-boys.

Then, from the crowd - a guy who looks exactly like MTV's Tom Green jumps in and spins some mean b-boy moves as Circle of Fire members cheer him on. The same thing happens later that night when the crew moves to the less populated dance floor of Belltown's Sit & Spin, where a couple of break dancers challenge with a stunning blur of tucks and spins.

Smith throws down an equally tight set of power moves. He knows it's not enough; he takes it up a step, showing an amazing sense of space, a Miro of freestyle movement.

It's 1 a.m. - time to go home, grab some sleep and get to their jobs as video encoders, Nordstrom stockroom workers and so on by 7. "All I need is one cup of coffee and I'm good," Smith says.

Global threads

Originally influenced by James Brown's kinetic footwork, Michael Jackson's early robotics and the whirling kicks of Brazil's capoeira and kung fu, break dancing over time has stitched more global threads into its fabric. Circle of Fire's repertoire includes tap, house, gymnastics, capoeira and Afro-Cuban dance forms, and its kaleidoscope of freestyle has gotten orthodox b-boys, adherents of traditional moves, more bent out of shape than usual.

"I still use a lot of b-boy moves," Smith says. "We just like to mix it up."

B-boy tradition goes back a long way. The force known as hip-hop - a four-pronged coalition of dancers, MCs (rappers), DJs (turntablists) and graffiti artists - is 27 years strong, an explosion of fresh individualism bred by urban youths in New York City and Philadelphia.

Using instrumental breaks on records, DJs in the mid-1970s mixed and scratched discs on turntables, spinning sonic loops that were validated by appreciative "break dancers." African Americans developed the moves. Puerto Ricans made it a gladiatorial sport.

As hip-hop's most visual elements, break dancing and graffiti art first captured most of the attention. B-boys flourished in music videos, got featured in documentaries and feature films like "Beat Street," "Breakin' " and "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo."

But before long, b-boys were replaced by foxy hotties in videos as music executives discovered that hits could be packaged using little more than charismatic, mold-fitting, semi-talented rappers. Think Vanilla Ice.

Toppled from their peaks of popularity, b-boys nearly disappeared. But they were the form's elders, still in their 20s. Fresh off the hip-hop mountaintop, they passed on their wisdom to middle-school-aged youngsters, kids like Dufon Smith.

Now 23, Smith, with dreadlocks and an easy smile, is on the other side of the equation, and not just as an elder who kept busting windmills (spinning on your back and chest with your legs in the air) and flairs (similar to the horse in gymnastics) after most others had quit.

"You have those kids that stop," he says. "They say, `Oh, I'm too old - I can't be doing this.' Then you have us - people who keep it flowing, who are making something new."

After their fall, DJs, graffiti artists and breakers simmered on underground circuits, with occasional revivals spelling hip-hop's increasing stronghold in pop culture. Turntablism in particular has been popular, but Seattle's b-boys are on the rise - again.

"People started getting good, really quick," says a 21-year-old Seattle DJ known as Scene. "Everybody wants to compete. I go down to Miami, San Francisco, and people say, `Oh, you're from Seattle? I heard about your b-boys.' "

While style and individualism are the soul of b-boying, power moves are fueling Seattle's boom. Freezes - holding a pose, like a difficult one-armed handstand - are hot, the trickier the better.

Circle of Fire has no beef with power moves - there's no way the crew could pull off its mind-blowing maneuvers without them. But they consider them a means to an end, part of the palette they draw from in pursuit of creativity.

"People are starting to feel the music," says Jerome Aparis of Seattle's Massive Monkees b-boy crew: "They're realizing it's a dance, not just a bunch of crazy moves."

Dustin Wood, a dancer known as Nagaz, whose British Columbia-based Web site reviews b-boy footage from around the world, moved away from straight break dancing when he tired of people's fascination with showy moves. "Then I got Circle of Fire's video," he says. "These are some of the most original dancers I have ever seen."

Feeling the same groove

Four of Circle of Fire's nine members - Smith, Foxhaven, Valdez and Vergara - share a house on Beacon Hill. Another two, Saleem and Martinez, are often around. The vibe is loose, a multicultural jumble of lithe, toned 22- and 23-year-old bodies on the couch, the floor, on beanbag chairs.

The living room once had no furniture, its scuffed hardwood base serving as testing ground for new moves and practice space for old ones. Now they tetherball their torsos on the carpeted basement floor. Coffee tables? They only get in the way. "This is a dancin' house," Foxhaven says, clutching the battery-powered muscle massager, community property.

They come from Los Angeles and Las Vegas and San Francisco and Anchorage; four years ago, they met in a club near Seattle's waterfront, and realized they felt the same groove. Soon afterward, they moved in together: "Automatic family," says Vergara, a veteran Seattle b-boy.

Circle of Fire has made dance its lifestyle. Fads, they say, feed the lowest common denominator. Innovation takes dance to new levels. Something happens in that circle: Fire is born. Says Saleem: "It's visual poetry."

The hard part is letting go, sacrificing crowd-pleasing power moves for deeper self-expression, something between freestyle gymnastics and modern dance that might as easily puzzle people as blow them away. You're vulnerable.

That's why Valdez, who started dancing at age 20, would wait until boyfriend Foxhaven was gone to practice: "I'd seen them in a video," she says. "I said, `I can do that.' He'd go to work and I'd go out and jump and play in the grass, and as soon as he came home I'd stop."

Now Valdez is the fly-girl in the ointment. She mostly battles, or dances against, guys so that people don't just think of her as a girl dancer - and to prove she's no token.

Along with Circle of Fire, the hottest buzz surrounds Massive Monkees. Members won the two-on-two battle in Los Angeles' renowned B-Boy Summit 2000, while 17-year-old Monkee Jerome Aparis, a k a Jeromeskee, took second in New York's esteemed Rocksteady Anniversary competition.

Each group gives props to the other, but the Monkees, several years behind Circle of Fire, are fast improving. "They got a little more experience than us," says Monkee Jonathan "Squirl" Higuchi, 18. "But it's all fun. We're the only crew that can hang with them, 'cause we understand that."

Passing on the moves

Twice a week at Beacon Hill's Jefferson Community Center, members of Massive Monkees and Circle of Fire help dance coordinator Art Bustillos pass on hip-hop knowledge and history to the next generation, new jacks just learning the moves. One night, budding b-boys and fly girls practice steps and spins, eyeing themselves in full-length mirrors to the banging bass beats of a boombox.

"The little kids - the prodigies," says Monkee Marcus Rader. "That's how we started out. Actually, they're taking it a step further. I used to just sit on the bench and watch."

The center is a regular hangout for both crews, whom the young hopefuls greet with a blend of excitement and reverence.

"Sometimes I come in here to get a reminder," says Circle of Fire's Smith. "A lot of times you lose touch with where you came from. I get vibes off those kids."

Now Smith works on handstands with 10-year-old Nikolas Serpanos. The meek-faced Blaine Elementary student kicks feebly off the ground, finally helped into the move by his father, Sonny Baba. The next attempt is better.

"Put your chin to your chest," Smith encourages. "The more you do it, the stronger your shoulders will get."

Later, inspired by the acrobatics of the room's dancers, the boy attacks the floor with the determined but clumsy energy of a growing puppy. "I like that," Smith says. "He's not scared to go out and try anything."

He smiles that easy smile, because the real move going on here isn't flashy. It's barely even noticeable. It's the little cats, grabbing the torch from today's new elders, keeping the circle of b-boy fire alive and preparing for tomorrow's battles.

Attention-getting moves

B-boy battles are like sporting events, with competitors lined up on either side of the floor, facing off in alternating solo bursts. The whole idea is to outdo your foe. Vergara describes it as "a non-physical fight. And you're just trying to make the other guy look stupid."

Circle of Fire prefers to shine in a club, which can present a whole different vibe - spontaneous, unscripted, all-inclusive. Anybody can play. People prowl the cipher like circling tigers, concentrating, waiting to fall into the right groove. The music tells you when to go. Sometimes the vibe is so hype you can't wait to jump in.

Pretty soon you're bouncing around like socks in a dryer, following the music until you're doubled over and out of breath. Total strangers mob you in awe. They shout in your ear: How do you do that?

It's the power moves, of course, that attract the attention, but the members of Circle of Fire think of themselves as more than b-boys. Or maybe it's simpler than that: Dancers. Pure dancers.

Each has his own flavor; together, they're a dance-floor jambalaya. To maintain individual styles, dancers practice alone, uniting only before performances.

"You can't get far if you're doing something everybody else is doing," Foxhaven says, surrounded by his dance family. "Even if you're doing it really good."

Smith, from a corner chair: "It's not just about getting props. It's knowing you're doing something with your body you never did before. It's, like, a feeling of enlightenment."

Valdez, from the couch: "Yeah - and we're all feeling it, because we know you just created something."

Martinez, on the floor: "And we're just feeding it back to you."

Foxhaven: "It's a circle of energy. A circle of fire."

Marc Ramirez's phone message number is 206-464-8102. His e-mail address is mramirez@seattletimes.com

For more on Circle of Fire, see www.circleoffire.com.