Posted on May 11, 2024
On a clear morning in the hills above Los Angeles, a group of dancers gathers at Lookout Mountain Avenue, a winding street in Laurel Canyon that few Krump historians mention—but one that helped shape the style's second wave. While South Central birthed Krump in the mid-1990s through founders Tight Eyez (Ceasare Willis) and Big Mijo, this canyon enclave became an unlikely incubator for dancers who would carry the form into new territory. We spent a day with three of them to understand where Krump goes next.
Who These Pioneers Are
The Lookout Mountain scene developed in the early 2000s, when a handful of dancers—many of them transplants from Inglewood, Watts, and the Valley—began hosting sessions in a cramped rehearsal space near the intersection of Lookout Mountain and Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Among them:
- Jamar "Stixx" Okonkwo, 37, who began krumping in 2003 and now coaches competitive dance teams across California
- Daniela "Raze" Vargas, 31, a battle champion who has merged Krump with contemporary floorwork since 2012
- Tone "80Proof" Williams, 41, a documentary filmmaker and former session leader who still organizes underground battles in the San Fernando Valley
Together, they represent a bridge between Krump's founding era and its digital present.
From the Canyon to the Screen
Krump's migration online has been explosive. What once required a pilgrimage to Los Angeles now lives on TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube. For the Lookout Mountain veterans, this shift carries both opportunity and risk.
"Before Instagram, you had to travel to L.A. to understand what Krump really was," says Okonkwo, leaning against the same railing where he used to stretch before sessions. "Now a kid in Jakarta can study my footwork the same night I post it. That changes everything—and it changes nothing, because you still have to put your body through it."
Williams, who started filming local battles in 2007, puts it more bluntly: "The algorithm doesn't care about your story. It cares about the loop. So we've got all this visibility, but a lot of young dancers are skipping the foundations. They're doing the face, the chest pop, but they don't know what a session actually means."
Vargas sees the platform economy differently. For her, digital access has democratized mentorship in ways the original scene never could. She hosts weekly breakdowns on her YouTube channel, analyzing everything from basic stomps to the emotional architecture of a get-off. "I had to learn by watching VHS tapes and standing in the back of the cipher," she says. "If I can shorten that distance for someone else, I'm going to."
When Krump Meets Everything Else
Style fusion has become one of the most visible—and contested—fronts in Krump's evolution. Contemporary dance companies program Krump sequences. Commercial choreographers fold it into K-pop routines. The Lookout Mountain pioneers each approach this trend with measured openness.
Vargas has built her reputation on hybrid work. Her 2019 piece Soft Armor, performed at the Roy and Edna Disney/CalArts Theater (REDCAT), layered Krump's aggressive upper-body isolations over contact improvisation and Release Technique. "Krump was already a response to something," she notes, referencing its origins as a harder, more spiritual offshoot of clown dancing. "It makes sense that it keeps responding, keeps absorbing. The energy is the constant. The container can shift."
Okonkwo is more cautious. "Fusion is fine if the root is respected," he says. "I've seen routines where Krump is just the angry section before the lyrical part. That's extraction, not collaboration." He points to his own work with Oakland-based hip-hop theater company BEAT ON THE STREET as a model: "We spent six months just on history. Every dancer in that piece could tell you who Tight Eyez is, could explain what buck means beyond the dictionary."
Williams takes a longer view. "This argument happens with every Black American dance form," he says. "Jazz, tap, hip-hop—same cycle. The question isn't whether Krump will blend. It will. The question is who controls the narrative when it does."
Teaching the Next Generation
All three pioneers are now involved in formal education, a development they would not have predicted a decade ago. Okonkwo teaches at a performing arts high school in North Hollywood, where he developed a semester-long Krump curriculum in 2021. Vargas runs summer intensives that combine technique classes with oral history sessions. Williams is producing a documentary series on Krump pedagogy, scheduled for release in late 2024
