It’s Saturday morning in Budapest and, though a lengthy summer thunderstorm has finally moved on, the city remains hot and sticky. At the Ludovika University campus something different is brewing. Nineties hip-hop is blaring out across the university gymnasium, where 80 breakdancers from all over the globe are about to battle for a prize that few could have imagined: a place at the Olympic Games.
On a stage that looks like a giant turntable, Belgium’s B-Girl Madmax (née Maxime Blieck) is doing a last-minute run-through of some steps with her coach. Courtnaé Paul, a b-girl from South Africa, paces back and forth absorbing the music. Others make TikTok videos or take pictures standing on the Olympic rings printed on the stage floor. For most, it’s as close as they will come to the biggest sporting show on earth. Only a quarter of those competing this weekend will make it to Paris.
Breaking — to use its correct name — began on the streets of the Bronx in New York more than 50 years ago. The energy-laced dance style combining athletic moves such as back spins with stylised footwork was tied to the rise of hip-hop in the 1980s and made waves across music, fashion and youth culture. Competitive breaking first emerged back in 1990, but it wasn’t until 2018 that it debuted at the Youth Olympic Games, as part of a push to reach the next generation of athletes and fans.
Paris took up the baton, bringing it into the full Olympic programme for this year’s Summer Games, where 16 b-boys and 16 b-girls will compete for gold on the city’s famous Place de la Concorde. A handful have already qualified, but this competition in the Hungarian capital is the last chance for aspiring Olympians to be picked. To add to the sense of jeopardy, it could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. Those running the Los Angeles Games in 2028 have already dropped breaking from the programme, and it may never return.
The hosts for the next two days will be three MCs: Max from Portugal, Maleek of France and local boy Ren. All wear the black and gold baseball-style uniforms chosen by the World DanceSport Federation (WDSF), which was brought in to serve as the governing body of breaking during its Olympic journey. Before that, its sole focus was overseeing competitive ballroom dancing.
The role of a host is a broad one. They have to hype up the crowd, energise the breakers and lift the veil on a culture that many watching know little about. Navigators as well as narrators, they chip in with explanations of moves or gestures — then dissect the scores flashing on the screen overhead. Sporting his trademark backwards cap laden with pin badges, Max vows that those watching will not leave “without hip-hop as part of their lives”.
Next the judges bounce on to the stage. Like the dancers, they go by their own monikers: Virus. Intact. Valentine. The music revs up for the “Hip-Hop Celebration”, a core feature marking the start of big breaking showdowns. Head judge MGbility opens with a blast of freestyle rapping, and the other judges swirl around him as, one by one, they show off their own breaking moves in a stamp of authority. The volume of the music — constant throughout the two days — signals that, with the introductions over, the contest is ready to begin.
The first “pre-selection” will see 40 b-girls whittled down to 32. They come out in groups of four, each introduced like a game show contestant, before taking their turn performing for up to a minute in the middle of the stage. Breaking moves can be divided into a few subsections. Toprock: performed while standing. Downrock: performed on the floor. Power moves and, finally, freezes, both as their names suggest. Beneath this lies a thick glossary of specific manoeuvres: corkscrews, monkey swings, Peter Pans, the octopus.
Some of the breakers opt for shock and awe tactics, beginning with a huge power move in the form of a somersault, flip or series of gyrating windmills. Others are more restrained. Body shape, stamina and personality all play a part. At the first break, I ask the hosts if what I’m seeing is the real breaking experience. Max tells me that some changes have been made for the Olympics. The music, for example, must be free of swear words, while the dancers must consider their onstage behaviour. “They’ve got to know the first fundamentals of the Olympics, which is you must be an example to society. There’s going to be a place to bring that other, raw vibe,” he says.
I tell him I’m here to find out what happens when a slice of street culture gets absorbed into the world’s biggest sporting machine. How does breaking stay true to its roots? “All subcultures come from somewhere,” says Max matter of factly. “It doesn’t matter where . . . it matters how the world embraces it.”
Outside on a bench, I sit down with one of the two DJs providing the all-important soundtrack to the competition. DJ Fleg, a big name on the scene, has flown in from his home in Brooklyn. He says his role is to give the dancers “the fuel” to do their thing. “Sometimes it’s about how can I bring the level of this entire battle up a notch? How can I really energise them?”
For both the qualifiers and the Olympics proper, one huge hurdle has been overcome just in time. Copyright issues plague big breaking events, forcing some to use rights-free music or curb live streaming. But here and in Paris, the DJs have been unchained, meaning the sounds of Naughty by Nature or A Tribe Called Quest can ring out. Some of the old soul and funk greats whose music helped bring about the birth of hip-hop, such as James Brown and Jimmy Castor, are hugely popular too.
Olympic rules bar DJ Fleg from playing tracks he knows that a specific breaker likes, for fear of giving them an unfair advantage. Competitors don’t know what’s coming so performance-enhancing beats are not an option. I ask several of the experts I meet how to spot a good performance. The answer is always the same — look for those at one with the music. “Freestyling — it’s so ingrained for us,” says 21-year-old American B-Girl Logistx. “That’s the heart of what we do.”
Until this point the atmosphere has been friendly and relaxed. But now we start to see battles designed to cut the field in two and the mood shifts. Dances are confrontational. Theatrics dialled up. There is taunting, goading. A wagging finger, a shake of the head. The match-ups bring out contrasting styles. China’s Ziyan, just 17 and clad in a white national team tracksuit, opens with a flurry of nimble steps, before launching a series of huge power moves. Up against her is Portugal’s Vanessa, who is 15 years her senior. Confident and playful, Vanessa’s experience wins out.
Gradually the pool of athletes shrinks, but many reappear at the apron of the stage to cheer on teammates and friends. Among them is Phil Wizard. The 27-year-old Canadian is one of the world’s top b-boys and has already qualified for Paris, where he’s among the favourites to win a medal. Shirtless and holding up a homemade sign, he is here today to cheer on friends, but struggling to resist the pull of the stage.
Phil’s been in love with breaking since high school, where he would practise new moves in the hallways when he was supposed to be in lessons. But despite his elevated status, for him the formalities of competitive breaking can be jarring. “I love to break, I love to train, but I’m not into competing. But once in a while, when the energy’s this electric . . . It’s kind of what we live for,” he tells me during a brief interlude from cheerleading. “I think that’s the benefit of something like this, it elevates the level of breaking to a place that it’s never been before.”
The final battle of the day sees Belgium’s Cis nab his place in the final 16. As he comes offstage, still breathless and dripping in sweat, I ask him a question everyone here has been peppered with since Paris first chose breaking: is this a real sport? More than anything, says the 20-year-old student, it’s a “super beautiful lifestyle”.
In the hotel the next morning, B-Boy Daniel is enjoying a coffee in the restaurant. The Norwegian was eliminated the previous day, so has time to spare. He tells me about how a school talent show first opened his eyes to breaking, back when he was a hyperactive 11-year-old. Breaking, he says, offered something that all the other sports he was playing then lacked: the chance to create his own style. But living in the coastal city of Bergen in the days before YouTube, it was hard to find inspiration.
“I had a couple of teachers, but it wasn’t more than those people.” After three years, he joined a crew and he’s been with them ever since. Still, the community in Norway is “super small” says Daniel. He estimates there are probably about 25 active breakers in the whole country.
Today he’s wearing a white T-shirt with his name on one side and a small embroidered Norwegian flag on the other. The Olympics have changed the way people back home see breaking — Daniel’s attempt to qualify became a news story, even though his chances were slim. People called him the “Norwegian hope”, in part because they didn’t really understand how breaking works. “Before, you could go to a big, big event, but in your country no one would know or even care about it,” he says. “But now it’s like an official thing. That puts a lot of pressure on you.”
Breakers I met in Budapest talked about the Olympics in mixed terms. Some enjoyed the media attention, the interest from sponsors it has garnered and the motivation to push themselves to the limit. For those whose parents questioned whether breaking was a serious career path, they can now point to the Olympics as validation.
Others lamented the whole process, saying it has boxed breaking into a judging system that can suffocate the kind of free expression that attracted them to it in the first place. There is a yearning to return to the rough and tumble of sleeping on hotel room floors and piling into overcrowded cars, battling in underground nightclubs and scoring victories not won through a formula honed in Olympic HQ.
Throughout the weekend, there are moments of clear disappointment when crestfallen b-boys and b-girls realise their part in the Paris experiment is over. But there’s also a palpable sense of relief. While some in the community have embraced the limelight, few asked for it.
I’m due to meet Sergey Nifontov, general-secretary of the WDSF, at 8am, which feels early for hip-hop culture. Nifontov, a former ballroom dancer, was handed responsibility for breaking in 2016. Since then, he and sport director Nenad Jeftic have been tasked with making it fit for the Olympics and more accessible for casual viewers. The results of that work are on display here in Budapest, where each judge sits facing a screen with crossfaders representing the five competition criteria: musicality, originality, execution, technique and vocabulary. On the bottom is the “Misdemeanour” button in case someone steps out of line.
During each battle, the judges slide the five bars from one side to the other, depending on which dancer they feel has the edge in each category, and to what degree. The final positions of the sliders are then calculated into a binary decision: who was best — red or blue? Through software, vibes are converted into data.
The WDSF has also been an important defender of breaking culture during discussions with the International Olympic Committee, successfully safeguarding two key practices: allowing breakers to compete under their chosen nicknames and wearing whatever they like instead of conventional kit. “We want them to feel respected. We want them to feel at home,” says Nifontov.
We wrap up in order to catch the opening of the b-girls round robin. Dancers have been divided into groups of four, where they all face each other once. Intriguing subplots are coming to the fore. In the pre-Budapest part of the qualification process, Japanese trio Ayumi, Ami and Riko swept the podium. All three also top their groups in today’s round robin. Yet due to rules that limit each nation to two entrants in Paris, one of them is destined for heartache.
A similar tale is playing out for the men from the US. I ask Gravity, an intense, brooding presence on stage, about his battle with fellow American Jeffro as he steps away from a fierce battle against Japan’s Hiro10. “People that are in my way, they have to move,” he says, still sucking in air. I reveal this is my first taste of breaking. Reaching for a handshake, he says: “I would like to be the first to say welcome to our culture. It’s a one-world thing, you know. So, welcome.”
Lussy Sky, a Ukrainian with vertical hair and wild eyes, begins his set with a mix of body popping and air guitar, but ends by pretending to shoot his opponent’s severed head with a finger pistol. It’s the most aggressive taunt of the day and he follows it up by thumping his forearms together — the signal for “biting”, or accusing his rival of stealing moves.
The points accumulated before Budapest mean that a handful of performers can secure an Olympic spot just by reaching the top eight. B-Girl Logistx finishes her group with victory over Italy’s Anti. She turns to her coach and through the darkness I can see her mouthing, “I’m going to Paris?” A nod comes back and she bursts into tears, before being led backstage. For the first time this weekend, the reality of what is at stake has hit home.
The final eight sees another format tweak to best-of-three knockout ties. The tension is ratcheting up. “What you’re seeing is real — there are no special effects,” Max tells the rapidly swelling crowd as the moves become more acrobatic and gravity-defying. Hand gestures and burns become more prevalent. A palm slap on the floor. You just crashed. A hand across the throat. You got slayed. A finger and thumb to the lips. You got smoked.
The physical distances between the breakers narrow, leading to some close shaves in what is a strictly no-contact sport. The volunteers who come on stage to mop up the sweat are appearing more frequently. The breakers’ personalities are increasingly on display. Jeffro wheels around the stage calling for the audience to cheer. It works.
He goes on to win the race of the Americans by a razor-thin margin. I see him later backstage, clutching an actual golden ticket.
All three Japanese b-girls are still in it. Initially Ayumi, who turned 41 on day one of the contest, appears to my beginner’s eye an unspectacular competitor. Her moves are precise and smooth but not packed with high drama. As the contest wears on, her prowess becomes more telling.
She is effortless, graceful and never stops smiling. The judges adore her and she breezes into the final to secure the first Japanese berth for Paris.
Ami, 25, is left to fight young Riko for the other spot. All or nothing. It’s a close contest but Ami prevails. Riko goes on to win the match for third, and immediately collapses into a ball on the stage. Her coach props her up, but she struggles to hold back the tears as the host lifts her arm aloft. It’s a bitter victory. Later on, Riko, who’s just 17, goes to face the Japanese press. As she delivers her answers into a bank of voice recorders, the speakers in the hall next door boom out the names of those going to Paris, including some ranked well below her. It feels unnecessarily cruel.
The finals are engrossing, but for many the real prizes have been clinched already. The heavy hand of the Olympics — largely invisible up until now — makes up for lost time. Three middle-aged men step out on stage, two in grey suits. Generic “victory” music replaces the old-school hip-hop over the speakers, a podium is quickly erected and trophies that look like welded-together car parts are placed on three plinths. As the officials present awards and souvenir baseball caps to the winners, the crowd is already thinning. Bureaucracy is not much of a spectator sport.
I grab the defeated finalist from the men’s competition, Kazakhstan’s Amir. He seems ready for life beyond the glare of the Olympics. These young men and women have been in the gruelling qualification mill for two years now, often without any of the support that athletes in other sports would get as a minimum. Finally it’s over and there is an eagerness to get back to simpler times.
“It’s not easy because when you make art, you’re trying to go deep. But when you go deep, it’s not easy to understand,” says a weary Amir, before heading off to find some food. There’s also been talk of a big after-party, where there is likely to be dancing.
Josh Noble is the FT’s sports editor
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