By [Staff Writer] | May 11, 2024
On Thursday nights, the parking lot behind a converted auto-body shop in Bellevue's Wilburton neighborhood fills by 6:45 p.m. Dancers in hoodies and basketball shorts stretch against a cinderblock wall tagged with throwies from local graffiti crews. Inside, a 2,400-square-foot studio with a custom-sprung oak floor shudders under the impact of combat boots. This is The Temple of Rhythm, the unlikely epicenter of the Pacific Northwest's most respected Krump scene—in a city better known for Microsoft headquarters, million-dollar teardowns, and Matcha lattes.
Krump was born in South Central Los Angeles in the early 2000s, emerging from Clowning as an aggressive, highly physical outlet for rage, grief, and marginalized experience. It has since spread globally, but its presence in Bellevue, Washington, raises an obvious question: What is a street dance rooted in Black working-class Los Angeles doing twenty minutes east of Seattle's tech corridor?
The answer, according to the dancers here, is that Bellevue offered what surrounding cities couldn't: space, stability, and a landlord willing to accept noise complaints.
The Studio That Absorbed a Scene
The Temple of Rhythm opened in 2017, founded by Darren "Master D" Cole, a 42-year-old former aerospace machinist who discovered Krump on a YouTube rabbit hole in 2008. Cole, who grew up in Kent and commuted to Bellevue for work, began training in his garage with a handful of dancers who had previously practiced in borrowed Seattle church basements and outdoor lots.
"When it rains eight months a year, you need a floor that won't warp and walls that won't collapse," Cole said, sitting on a torn vinyl couch in the studio's cramped lobby. "Bellevue wasn't my first choice. It was my only choice that made financial sense."
Cole leased the Wilburton property—a former transmission repair shop with 18-foot ceilings—for $4,200 a month, financed initially by his own savings and, for the first two years, by his day job at Boeing. Today, the studio runs six days a week on class fees ($15 drop-in, $110 monthly unlimited) and occasional workshop revenue. Cole estimates 80 to 120 dancers pass through weekly, with core sessions on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
The physical space is intentionally unpolished. The floor, built from salvaged basketball court flooring over rubberized subflooring, cost $12,000 and took three months to install. The graffiti on the exterior wall comes from local artists, not Cole himself—"I told them, paint whatever, just no corporate logos," he said. There is no front desk software, no branded merchandise, and until 2022, no Instagram account.
"This Is Where I Unclench": A Conversation with Master D
Cole's Krump name, "Master D," was given to him by L.A. Krump founder Tight Eyez during a 2012 workshop in Long Beach—a rare acknowledgment from Krump's originators that Cole's style was legitimately rooted in the form's traditions rather than diluted imitation.
We spoke between sessions on a Thursday evening, as dancers filtered in and bass leaked from the main studio.
On Krump's emotional function:
"Krump is more than dance; it's a release, a way to channel emotions through movement. I've got dentists here, I've got Amazon programmers, I've got kids on free lunch from Highland Middle School. They don't talk to each other in the lobby. But in the session, they're battling, they're crying, they're holding each other up. This is where I unclench. This is where they unclench."
On accusations of gentrification or inauthenticity:
"I've heard it. 'Bellevue Krump, what is that, Krump for tech bros?' Come to a session. Half these kids are taking three buses to get here from Rainier Beach. The other half just quit their six-figure jobs because they realized they were numb. Authenticity isn't a zip code. It's what happens when the music starts."
On surviving financially:
"We were three months from closing in 2020. The landlord gave us a break, but I still owed $8,000. I sold my car. I do not own a car right now. I take the bus here from Renton. But the studio stayed open, and that matters more than my commute."
The Commuter Scene: Where Dancers Actually Live
Despite Bellevue's address, most Temple regulars do not live there. The studio functions as a regional hub, drawing dancers from Seattle, Kent, Tacoma, Renton, and as far south as Olympia.
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