Richard Colón, famously known as “Crazy Legs,” is an innovative b-boy and a trailblazer in the world of breaking. Growing up in the Bronx, Colón was captivated by the vibrant hip-hop scene and went on to develop iconic dance moves such as the back spin. However, he is concerned that as breaking gains global popularity, its Black and brown roots may be disregarded. This is an exclusive interview with Richard “Crazy Legs” Colón, where he shares his personal journey and insights on breaking.
As a pivotal figure in spreading hip-hop worldwide, I played an instrumental role in introducing this cultural movement to different corners of the globe. Coming from a single-parent household with five brothers and one sister, I experienced the ups and downs of a typical Bronx childhood. Music was always a presence in my life due to my Puerto Rican heritage. Whether at family gatherings or on the streets with friends, disco, funk, and soul music provided a backdrop to my formative years. Artists like Michael Jackson, Barry White, Donna Summer, and El Gran Combo filled the soundtrack of my youth.
My fascination with what would later be called hip-hop began when I witnessed park jams in the Bronx during my childhood. Acts like Cold Rush Brothers, Furious Five, and Treacherous Three, who later became pioneers in rap music, caught my attention. I observed these artists before they had established recording careers.
I started breaking when I was just 10 years old, although it wasn’t referred to as hip-hop at the time. Witnessing my brother Robert and DJ Afrika Islam, who were part of a b-boy crew, dancing outside our home on Garfield Street in the Bronx left me confused and ashamed. I couldn’t comprehend their movements without any accompanying music or context.
My understanding of breaking began to take shape a year later when I attended a park jam at a schoolyard on 180th Street. There, I beheld a gathering of people drawn together by the enchanting sounds emanating from the thundering sound system. The atmosphere was electric, with dancing, wall tagging, DJs, and rappers. This park jam became my outlet for self-expression, allowing me to navigate the competitive landscape. Despite being a shy kid from a disadvantaged background, this vibrant community offered an avenue for me to find my voice.
My nickname “Crazy Legs” emerged during my time in middle school. The captain of the cheerleading squad witnessed my dancing talents during an auditorium practice for a production of “Grease” and aptly exclaimed, “Ooh, he got some crazy legs!” The name stuck, and soon the whole school knew me as Crazy Legs.
Competition lies at the core of hip-hop, bringing together individuals with shared appreciation for one another’s talent. Exploring various elements, such as being an emcee, DJ, or graffiti writer, allowed us to discover our strengths and weaknesses. We stuck to what we excelled at and built our reputation through competitions. Although organized competitions were scarce due to limited resources, we would seize any opportunity to showcase our skills. Whether on the street, in the tenement hallways, or at underground parties, we would challenge each other, eager to leave our mark. This hunger and passion fueled our creative fire.
Competition bred unexpected moments of innovation. The more we practiced, the more we stumbled upon new moves. Whether it was a move we accidentally discovered ourselves or one witnessed by others, these unexpected breakthroughs became our trademarks. Moves like spinning on our backs or the notorious windmill were accidental creations that emerged during my practice sessions.
I never had grand ambitions to become a pioneering entertainer. Breaking was merely an inherent part of being a Latino brought up in our cultural melting pot. It took me a decade to realize that my moves had resonated worldwide. In the early ’90s, I was initially frustrated when others began imitating my signature moves, considering them copycats. However, my friends reminded me to appreciate the impact I had made. I embraced the honor of creating moves that others loved.
In 1981, I assumed the role of president of the Rock Steady Crew, aiming to empower others in the community to embrace breaking. Lacking mentorship or a paternal figure, I navigated the landscape of breaking on my own. Providing guidance and support became my mission.
Now at 57 years old, I acknowledge that I can’t execute the intricate new moves created by the younger generation. Evolution is inevitable, and I’ve gracefully accepted my role as a contributor to breaking’s legacy. However, I hold the hope that the Olympic Games, where breaking will make its debut, won’t overshadow the independent promoters who have nurtured this art form. Despite expanding globally, we need to maintain our own events and sustain educational initiatives within our community.
It saddened me to observe one of the early brochures of the breaking program at the Olympics featuring solely white individuals. Considering that breaking originates from Black and brown communities, it is imperative to have representation on these platforms. Failing to acknowledge and uphold the cultural roots of breaking renders it something other than genuine culture. We must ensure that breaking retains its Black and brown essence, reflecting its true origins.
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