Boston can't put a krump in its style

Naomi Davis recalls the moment she started to get it -- when she gyrated and pumped her back in and out so fast to a percussive hip-hop beat that her headphones popped out of her ears.

''I krumped to see what would happen," says the 40-year-old Newton resident, who tried the dance in the atrium of the Central YMCA in Boston, where she takes yoga classes. ''I was getting looks from people in the weight room."

Krumping is a street dance born in South Central Los Angeles as an offshoot of clowning, a dance created in the early '90s. Its breakneck arm jerks and staccato thrusts were brought to the big screen this summer in ''Rize."

In the documentary, krumping is seen at its best when done competitively, in ''battle zones" where crews of clowners and krumpers, some wearing colorful face paint, go head to head and improvise the moves, which consist of pushing, posturing, and popping.

The Fox network this summer launched an ''American Idol"-style show called ''So You Think You Can Dance," a competitive dance show for ballet, ballroom, salsa, jive, and hip-hop dancers -- and for krumpers. Since it began a few years ago, krumping has spread quickly from LA, burning scenes in rap videos and on dance floors across the country.

But despite a few individuals who krump here and there -- such as Davis, who rushed to try it after seeing the film -- krumping has not taken hold in Boston. Even a krumping equivalent, a dance unique to Boston, does not appear to exist, as it does in many cities with large black populations. In Atlanta, there's the ATL-Stomp. There is St. Louis's Chicken Head (also known as the ''Mono"), Chicago's Juke Slide, New York's Harlem Shake, New Orleans's Josephine Johnny, and many more.

Signature urban dances born out of black culture are nothing new. They're popular because they transform dance floors into coordinated exercise classes where everyone is moving in trance in the same step, but with their own spin on it. The result: a sense of healthy competition and community. But in Boston, a more reserved club culture prefers dressing up to dancing down.

''In attitude, bodies, and dress, Boston is more conservative," says Ray Montgomery, manager of Avalon, a club on Lansdowne Street. A former New York club owner who manages several clubs on Lansdowne, Montgomery, 41, says club culture here is more laid-back and not conducive to movements like krumping.

Boston youth are into ''grinding on the dance floor," not dance virtuosity as seen with krumping and break dancing, says Eric Vila, 15, of Roxbury. On a sweltering weekday recently, Vila breaks away from a game of basketball near the Fields Corner T stop in Dorchester. When asked what type of dances his friends do in clubs, he cuts into the St. Louis Chicken Head, smiling while popping his neck to his own beat, left and right as his back contracts in and out.

''There's not a Boston move I know of," Vila says.

With ''Rize" playing in only a few theaters in Boston, some say krumping hasn't caught on because not many people here have been exposed to it. Urban kids tend to borrow other cities' moves from watching videos, rather than creating and learning dances at a club, where krumping is best tested, local dancers say.

''The club scene for urban kids can be touchy too," says Delinda Sales, 21, of Dorchester, who is a dancer with OrigiNations, a dance company for youths in Roxbury. ''It's a pride issue -- you can lose a friend in a [dance] battle and start a fistfight. If I were in a battle and lost, I'd be mad."

''Five years ago, people would actually dance," says her dance mentor, Shaumba Yandje Dibinga, cofounder of OrigiNations. ''You'd pay to sweat, dance, and then rest. Now, smooth, laid-back reggae dancing has taken over. . . . People used to go to clubs and there would be a circle movement. We did everything; we had so much fun in clubs. That was our high. It's very different now."

As semiprofessional dancers, Sales and her friends are far removed from the laid-back dancing culture they bemoan. But they get inspiration from being different, so they don't krump often. They want to maintain their unique dance styles, they say.

''Most times, I don't even do that movement [krumping]," says Sales's dance partner Robert Clemons, 21. ''It's not a stupid move, but I just think that because everyone else is doing it [in the videos], when I get onstage and do it, then nobody will applaud. They'll be like, 'I've already seen that move.' "

Finding the right outletWorking up a sweat from dancing on a podium with a girlfriend, Tonderai Tabaziba, 19, of Lowell breaks into a mild krump for a few seconds while clubbing one night at Avalon. For her, club dancing is about venting, not showing off movements or dancing in synch with other people. ''I just wile out, with no particular move," she says.

But by wiling out -- an urban slang term used to describe going wild on the dance floor -- Tabaziba sticks out in the packed club. Most of those around her are flirting at the bar, standing, two-stepping, or couple ''grinding."

A truly krump affair would never take place in Avalon, which attracts mostly college students and socialites, says Montgomery, who adds that his bouncers would break up any kind of battle on the dance floor. ''Some parties have special battles," he says. ''But generally we don't do battles. Somebody could get injured."

For kids like Brandon Brown, 17, of Dorchester, finding an outlet to hip-hop dance is difficult because there aren't dance studios in his area or places tolerant of something like krumping, he says.

Sporting a white T-shirt, baggy jean shorts, and sneakers, Brown fits right into the backdrop of boys shooting hoops in a park in Fields Corner. But he'd be an eyesore and turned away at popular clubs that don't admit clubgoers wearing oversize shirts and pants. ''If my mom could find a hip-hop dance class, I'd take it," Brown says. ''But there's no studios in the area I know of."

Brown says he also feels it is safer for kids in neighborhoods like his, with their threats of violence, to stick to their daily schedules and not risk standing out with dance-offs, even when in a club.

''Going places, you have the risk of being shot, so people tend to stick to the basics," he says.

However, Brown says krumping could decrease the occurrence of violent gang conflicts.

''If you don't want to be in a gang, you can be clowning, like dancing or something. You don't have to be worrying about all that," he says. ''Dancing, of course you'll have your beefs, like 'What clown group you in,' regardless. But it's not going to be much like, you're with the Crips, you know, bang, bang."

In ''Rize," director David LaChapelle shows how krumping has transformed parts of LA's ghettos into endorphin-racing dance-offs. Instead of violence, these kids go at it with form, flair, and creativity. In addition, krumping transcends gender and age and can bring fractured communities under one step, whether on the streets, in the club, or in someone's kitchen, the way break dancing did in the '80s.

''There's something about undulating the spine, making waves," says Davis. ''I think that does something to the energy of the body. I noticed afterward that when I was done, I felt this sense of real strength and power."