The Brief

When 12-year-old Wilber “Wilpower” Urbina saw two kids breakdancing for the first time in MacArthur Park back in 1982, he knew he had to get involved.

“It was the coolest thing I had ever seen, but I didn't know what it was because I had never seen it before,” Urbina recalls. “The music sounded very strange, but interesting. From then on, I was just trying to copy the moves that the kids were doing.”

About a year later, Urbina heard from other kids about a new place across the street from MacArthur Park where kids could breakdance for hours for less than 75 cents.

It was called the Youth Break Center, Inc. or better known as Radiotron.

The first Radiotron graphic painted for the 1984 movie Breakin'

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Carmelo Alvarez

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Carmelo Alvarez

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A space for LA’s nascent hip-hop scene

Before Radiotron opened itself to neighborhood youth, it was an avant garde, underground space called Radio Club. In Jonathan Abrams’ The Come Up: An Oral History of the Rise of Hip-Hop, rapper and actor Ice-T recalls Radio Club originally being a punk rock space where people would get on stage and practice their new work. Then the owner started bringing in hip-hop artists from the East Coast.

As New York City’s foundational hip-hop presence continued to develop, more people started experimenting with electro-music, funk and R&B as well as dance forms like popping and locking in Los Angeles. Radio Club became integral to that new movement in the city. It became a place for emerging artists to bring what they saw from the East Coast to the West.

LA Bazar Girl and DJ Antron were regulars at Radiotron

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Carmelo Alvarez

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Carmelo Alvarez

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At the same time, these culture innovators were mixing the East Coast style with the West Coast environment, aesthetics and attitudes, says Jonathan Calvillo, a sociology professor at Emory University, and author of the forthcoming book In The Time of Sky Rhyming: How Hip Hop Resonated In Brown Los Angeles.

Calvillo says when the owners brought in Ice-T as an emcee at Radio Club, it solidified the spot as a hip-hop space, and ushered in more people of color.

Before he was the original gangster rapper and before he became Detective Odafin Tutuola on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Ice-T appeared in early 1980s L.A. breakdancing films as an emcee and dancer — the documentary 'Breakin ‘n’ Enterin’ and the now classic movies Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, which were all set in Radio Club.

“Ice-T brought in more local street credibility,” Calvillo says.

Kurtis Blow and Kid Frost also visited Radio. DJ Chris “The Glove” Taylor, who frequently deejayed there, wrote about how Michael Jackson recruited some of his dancers for Thriller from Radio. It was a place where even celebrities like Madonna would go to check out the latest trends.

Then in 1983, Carmelo Alvarez, a young Mexican American dancer who had dreams of opening up a performance arts center in his childhood neighborhood of MacArthur Park, decided to rent out office space from the owner of the building Radio occupied. As Alvarez tells it, the owner then asked him to manage the building. It was his opportunity to create that performance space for kids.

Radiotron begins

Alvarez was raised in the MacArthur Park area where he was influenced by gangs. He recalls an art teacher pushing him to try out dancing at the Barnsdall Art Center and Junior Arts Center. There he met veteran artistic director and choreographer Chester Whitmore, who invited Alvarez to be in his tap troupe. He was also a part of the L.A. Inner City Cultural Center and toured with Lula Washington in a dance company.

He recalls seeing breakdancing in New York City in 1980 as a pivotal time for him. “Hip-hop is the vehicle,” Alvarez explains. “The main important thing was the youth.”

Carmelo Alvarez, founder of historic hip hop youth center Radiotron, holds a photo of Radiotron in its former space near Park View and 7th in MacArthur Park.

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Brian Feinzimer

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LAist

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Alvarez says he originally had a whole other game plan for the youth center, but the kids had seen what was happening in Radio Club. The kids were itching to breakdance.

Radio was reborn into Radiotron in 1983 when the producers of Breakin’ approached Alvarez. They named the club in the movie “Radiotron'' and it stuck.

So did the art. The crew left behind the graffiti that was part of the film's set design. Alvarez thought it brought color and light to the space, so he kept it. “I said ‘no, no, no. Leave it alone’. Before that it was all dark and black,” Alvarez recalls.

Photograph caption dated July 5, 1985 reads, "Graffiti art decorates Radiotron's walls, adding to the atmosphere of this no-age-limit nightclub, where kids 6 on up can do their thing and prove their stuff till 3 in the morning."

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James Ruebsamen

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Herald Examiner Collection/ L.A. Public Library

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Tino Montelongo, then 18, of Fillmore's Radiotron Wizards break-dancing troupe dancing outside the Coliseum during the Olympics in the summer of 1984.

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Chris Gulker

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Herald Examiner Collection / L.A. Public Library

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A photo from June 1985 identifies the man spinning records at Radiotron as DJ Tony.

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James Ruebsamen

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Herald Examiner Collection / L.A. Public Library

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Then came the kids.

“So I get a knock on the door and it was a little kid and he said ‘Hey mister, can we break in there?’” Alvarez recalls. “And I said 'sure.’ And they said, ‘Hey! the man said we can break in there!’ And they called a bunch of kids together and they went in there and they started breakdancing.”

“It went from an after-hours nightclub to an after-school youth center,” Alvarez says.

Calvillo says when Radio Club did not agree to the conditions Carmelo requested, its managers moved the club to another location downtown.

A 'safe haven' 

When Radiotron opened, it quickly became viewed as a safe space for kids; a place where young people could fully express themselves and stay away from drugs and gangs.

“Radiotron presented an opportunity for young people to experiment and learn from folks who have been expressing themselves through the hip-hop elements,” Calvillo says. “For a whole generation, early West Coast innovators were being acculturated into hip-hop culture at Radiotron.”

Lifelong breakdancer Wilber “Wilpower” Urbina was one of them.

“All the kids wanted to go to this place,” Urbina recalls. “They knew that you could see some of the best kids, and when you see kids who are more advanced than you are, that makes you get better, you get inspired.”

Wilber 'Wilpower' Urbina as a kid circa 1984 Los Angeles

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Courtesy of Wilber 'Wilpower' Urbina

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Wilber 'Wilpower' Urbina

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He recalls Alvarez being kind and welcoming to all kids who wanted to do graffiti and breakdance at the center.

“He was kind of like a father figure,” Urbina says. “ In barrios or hoods, most people just grew up with just a mom. To see and hear a kind person say good things, that’s great. He didn’t want anything in return. He wants you to do good, to stay away from trouble. To do art. In this place, you could do graffiti, it was really a safe haven.”

The rise of L.A. hip-hop

Many people know about the day that hip-hop supposedly jumped off. Two teen siblings from the South Bronx — DJ Kool Herc and Cindy Campbell — held a back-to-school party in their neighborhood in 1973 and Herc tried something new on the turntables, dropping what many historians say was the first hip-hop beat. But there were other elements that came to define hip-hop.

It wasn’t just the MCing or DJing or the graffiti — it was also the movement, the breakdancing. While young people in New York were b-boying and doing more street dances on the floor, in L.A. and other California cities, Black and brown kids were creating more funk-style dance moves that were placed in a larger umbrella category called “breakin’."

Even before hip-hop took off, California was the place where both popping and locking were created by young people in the 1970s. For example, a 20-something-year-old Soul Train dancer named Don Campbell created locking, an early street dance that influenced breakdance moves in L.A., back in the funk era.

In MacArthur Park, young people from all different background were getting in on it.

“At the time, MacArthur Park was not a particularly safe place to be. But it was a place that was experiencing a lot of growth, a lot of movement, a lot of migration,” Calvillo says. “A lot of the early practitioners that were learning hip-hop culture, and experimenting and adapting it to their surroundings, many of them were Central American.”

The end comes too quickly 

In Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, the dancers team up together to do a benefit show to save their endangered community center.

Calvillo says the fictional story isn’t far from the truth.

“Much of the plotline of that story was based on what was happening with Radiotron,” Calvillo says. “The youth center was going to be closed, it was being threatened in terms of its location."

Radiotron eventually closed in 1985 due in part to development. The building was torn down for the construction of the Park View Mall. According to news reports, the developers needed a parking lot — right where the Youth Break Center stood. Before that, Radiotron's weekend dances, which brought in revenue, were shut down for code violations. Doctors across the country started pointing out the dangers of breakdancing.

“Kids get hurt in football,” Alvarez says. “Kids get hurt playing on the playground. You don’t take the playground out. No, you go fix it. You tell them to be careful.” Alvarez and the Radiotron kids protested in front of City Hall to get the attention of city council members in order to keep the building but, Alvarez says, there was no luck. The building was lost. Radiotron was only in existence from 1983 to 1985.

Alvarez was heartbroken.

“I purposely had it underage, because the kids didn't have anything,” Alvarez says, reflecting on the importance of the youth center. “They were dancing in the street for money and they were getting tickets. And this is the era of crack and gangs and drive-bys. They needed something.”

Urbina said that after Radiotron closed there was nowhere else to go.

“Sometimes friends would invite us to go there to their lobby... but sometimes the lobby was small and it was carpet,” Urbina says. “So it was like ‘F---! We really miss Radiotron.’”

Alvarez says he’s opened a dozen youth centers since 1978, but it’s been hard to sustain them. The now 66-year-old Alvarez is retired and is working on a project called Community Action for Peace.

Radiotron’s lasting impact 

Alvarez says there’s one major aspect of the Radiotron story that shouldn’t be missed:: just like there were kids that held a back-to-school party that launched hip-hop culture in the South Bronx, young people were also important in the hip-hop movement in L.A.

“Those kids were innovators,” he says. “They were the ones that created it.”

Radiotron launched the careers of a long list of dancers and artists. Alvarez says some of the graffiti artists he shepherded at Radiotron have had work featured in the Museum of Contemporary Art and in LACMA. He points out artists like Prime (who is known to be the founding father of stylized L.A. graffiti lettering), Shandu One and Zender, who all made names for themselves.

Carmelo Alvarez walks near a mural painted by fromer Radiotron memebr RETNA near Park View and 7th in MacArthur Park.

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Brian Feinzimer

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LAist

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Salvadoran American breakdancers like Urbina (aka Wilpower) and Cesar “Lil Cesar'' Rivas were a part of the trendsetting Air Force Crew, which was founded at Radiotron. After the youth center physically closed, Rivas helped Radiotron become a traveling dance competition. In the 1990s the Air Force Crew danced with Kurtis Blow, and became an inspiration for Korea’s b-boying scene.

“We don't often hear their stories in the same way as when folks talk about West Coast rappers because we think of the West Coast as mostly a movement of rappers,” Calvillo said. “But these are dancers that were actually going international.”

At 53, Urbina is still hungry for more. He wants to get the moves he had in his 20s and 30s. It’s hard work, but it’s fun. There’s just one caveat.

He’s not battling people anymore. He’s battling age.

Decades after Radiotron's closing, Wilber 'Wilpower' Urbina, now in his 50s, still finds time to breakdance.

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Wilber 'Wilpower' Urbina

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Wilber 'Wilpower' Urbina

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“You’re battling not getting injuries because breakdancing is very physical,” Urbina says. “Over 50, to be doing 20, 30, 40 headspins…it’s not so easy. I’m also a realist. There’s some moves where I’m like nah…my wrists aren’t the same any more.”

Practicing once a week is enough to keep him fit.

In June, Alvarez hosted a 40-year anniversary party for Radiotron. Urbina performed with the Air Force Crew.

“I want to battle myself to get better and get better in my last years,” Urbina says. “I want to go out hardcore.”

“It makes you feel like a kid again.”

The Justice Department found Thursday that the law school at the University of California, Los Angeles, illegally considered race in admissions.

The announcement follows a similar finding against the university’s medical school and comes as President Donald Trump’s administration ramps up scrutiny of colleges’ processes for selecting students. The administration also has accused the UC Berkeley Law School and the medical school at the University of California, San Diego, of illegally discriminating against white and Asian applicants.

The UCLA School of Law said in a statement that it was committed to making admissions decisions in compliance with all applicable laws.

“Students are admitted through a comprehensive, merit-based review process that considers each applicant’s achievements and experiences,” the statement said. “We are confident in our process.”

Affirmative action in college admissions has been illegal since a 2023 Supreme Court ruling forbade it. The same ruling said colleges could continue to assess how applicants’ backgrounds might speak to broader characteristics, but Trump has accused colleges of using applicants’ personal statements and other proxies to consider race in admissions — which conservatives view as illegal discrimination.

The Justice Department’s investigation found UCLA’s law school discriminated against white and Asian American students by favoring Black and Hispanic applicants in its 2023, 2024 and 2025 incoming classes. Its analysis found the mean LSAT score was lower for admitted Black applicants than for admitted white applicants.

The department also said admissions staff at the law school instructed applicants during recruitment efforts, including one called the “Diversity Admissions Open House,” how to reveal their race in essays.

“Like many of its peer institutions, UCLA Law School runs a two-tiered admissions system whose academic bar for acceptance shifts up or down depending on the color of your skin,” said Harmeet Dhillon, head of the department’s Civil Rights Division, in a news release.

California voters ended affirmative action in college admissions in a 1997 ballot measure. In a brief filed in the Supreme Court case, the UC system said the change led to a precipitous drop in underrepresented minorities, especially at the system’s most selective campuses. The brief said UC went on to implement a range of race-neutral measures to increase diversity.

The Trump administration also has sued over the main UCLA campus’s response to allegations of antisemitic harassment. The administration’s latest finding sets the stage for a voluntary resolution to bring UCLA into compliance with the Justice Department’s legal interpretation or, if none can be reached, potential legal action.

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Artist Hedy Torres asked a 20-something student from Cal State Northridge to sit for a portrait nearly a decade ago. Using charcoal on paper, she drew the dark-haired young man in black and white — but she deliberately kept the portrait unfinished.

The idea was that she would complete the piece if her subject, a DACA recipient named Lino de Jesús Pérez Cuevas, ever attained lawful permanent residency.

And now he has.

DACA, which stands for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, is a program that provides two-year work permits and deportation relief for people who were brought to the U.S. as children. The permits can be renewed, but the program does not grant a pathway to citizenship. 

In late September, Pérez Cuevas — who is now married, a father, a green card holder and an adjunct instructor at his alma mater — sat with Torres once again.

Torres’ project involves interviewing subjects as she sketches them. This year, she invited the public to watch her complete the portrait as she spoke to Pérez Cuevas about what it took for him to get a green card and what that means for his life.

About two dozen people gathered at a community center in West Hollywood’s Plummer Park to see her add details to the piece that speak to the passing of time.

“I just wanted to make people empathetic to what [immigrants] go through during this process,” she said. “You have to be very patient. There is a lot of uncertainty.”

Responding to the potential loss of relief

Pérez Cuevas, who was born in the Mexican state of Oaxaca, was brought to the U.S. by his parents when he was 2.

When Torres drew him in 2017, he was pursuing a master’s degree in kinesiology at Cal State Northridge. That year, then-Attorney General Jeff Sessions announced intentions to rescind DACA, which had enabled him to set goals without the fear of being deported. A 2020 Supreme Court decision allowed the program to continue.

Torres was once undocumented herself, so she understood the 2017 announcement was earth-shattering for the approximately 800,000 people who were then in the program, she said.

The original, unfinished portrait of Lino de Jesús Pérez Cuevas.

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Courtesy

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Hedy Torres

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That year, Torres was also a student at CSUN, working toward a master’s in fine art.

She recalled recently that she wanted people to see DACA recipients as people, not numbers. And so, for her master's project, she proposed creating portraits of DACA beneficiaries.

The portraits would be rooted in interviews conducted as she drew her subjects. Leaving them unfinished, she said, would symbolize the precarity of the moment.

The pieces would have enough detail for viewers to see the subjects’ faces clearly, particularly their eyes and expressions. Other elements, including their bodies and clothing, would be more of an initial sketch.

The university greenlit her project and gave her a grant to pursue it. There was just one problem: Torres had to convince reticent DACA recipients to share their stories.

Building trust 

When Torres first messaged Pérez Cuevas about the project, he ignored her for two weeks, he said. But because they had a mutual friend, he eventually agreed to meet with her.

“I was trying to see whether this person was just an academic trying to complete a project for her own benefit, or whether she really cared about the community,” he told LAist.

They met at a coffee shop. Pérez Cuevas learned about the artist’s journey from the Mexican state of Colima and everything she’d lived through since.

Before 2015, for example, an undocumented person in California could not get a driver’s license. When she was undocumented, Torres was stopped by police and had her car impounded. She said she had to cobble together thousands of dollars to get her car back from a tow yard.

Pérez Cuevas could relate. He had experienced the same thing.

He decided to trust her.

After she drew him, Pérez Cuevas helped Torres connect with more DACA recipients at the university. She drew four other portraits, which were also left unfinished.

These works were acquired by the university, with the agreement that Torres would be able to borrow and complete them when — and if — her subjects attained lawful permanent residency.

Community members watch Artist Hedy Torres update the portrait at Plummer Park in West Hollywood.

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Julia Barajas

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LAist

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‘A sense of freedom’  

As she worked on the portrait, Torres added soft lines rendered in charcoal to the image of Pérez Cuevas’ face, along with a robust mustache. And she continued the interview.

“What did you imagine your life would be like when you were young?” Torres asked.

Thinking back to high school, Pérez Cuevas said he realized then that not having a social security number barred him from decent-paying work.

“I didn't really understand what I was doing with my life,” he said, adding that he used to not think higher education was for him even while he was at CSUN. “My state of mind was really dark back then.”

He credited a college counselor with helping him navigate school. He earned his degree in 2017.

Pérez Cuevas said he has intimate knowledge of what it’s like to live with constant uncertainty: not knowing how he would pay for college because he did not qualify for federal financial aid; not being able to travel outside the country; and waiting anxiously for federal officials to make decisions on immigration laws that could transform his life.

“I can't stress enough how difficult it is psychologically to wait because it's something that can revolutionize your life,” he said. “You're betting your whole life on this approval and just that suspense of waiting, waiting, waiting, living with that anxiety.”

Torres completed her portrait of Pérez Cuevas in September 2026. Four other portraits remain unfinished.

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Julia Barajas

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LAist

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U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services continues to process renewal requests for existing DACA recipients, but the agency is no longer approving first-time applications.

Under the second Trump administration, DACA recipients are also experiencing significant delays with renewals. Some have lost their jobs. Recipients have been deported. According to the agency, the median processing time for DACA renewals was one month in 2023. Currently, it’s taking seven months to process most cases.

Pérez Cuevas said he was able to adjust his immigration status after marrying a U.S. citizen and consulting with an attorney. His lawyer helped him secure a document that allowed noncitizens to travel abroad and seek legal re-entry.

“Did getting permanent residency give you a sense of freedom, a freedom you probably didn't have when you were under DACA?” Torres asked him.

“Absolutely,” Pérez Cuevas said. “The biggest freedom was psychological freedom. You have this weight that you've been carrying all these years that finally just gets thrown off your shoulders.”

One of the things he feared most was long-term separation from his parents, he said.

When his mother and father migrated to the U.S., they did not see their own parents — his grandparents — for 40 years, Pérez Cuevas added. After his parents moved back to Mexico during the pandemic, he feared they would also go decades without seeing each other.

But having a green card enables him to travel and see his family.

Pérez Cuevas told Torres that, paradoxically, the threat of losing DACA made him “weirdly ambitious."

He said he doubled down on his studies and took on every internship he could. He figured that if the U.S. decided to deport him, he’d still have his education and work experience.

“Even on the days where I didn't necessarily have the greatest energy or the greatest state of mind, I showed up for myself,” Pérez Cuevas said.

Southern California is expected to see the longest heat wave of the season.

The National Weather Service has issued an extreme heat warning for the greater Los Angeles area from Friday through at least next Thursday, and forecasters say it’ll likely extend beyond that.

Temperatures are expected to be in the mid-90s to mid-100s, even in coastal areas.

“Unfortunately, we don't really see an end to it as far as we can tell, and that's probably the biggest thing we wanna highlight, is that while we have had hotter events this season already, this one might be the longest-lasting,” said Ryan Kittell, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service.

Kittell said they expect to see a few daily records to be broken.

Southern California saw a record-breaking 10-day heat wave in the summer of 2022.

What does the hot weather mean for fire risk? 

Forecasters say conditions likely won’t meet the threshold for issuing red flag warnings (extremely dry air and windy conditions), but the risk of fire is still going to be high during the heat wave.

“It’s still concerning, and if a fire were to get started in the wrong area, it could grow pretty fast,” Kittell said. “ We do have a history of large fires in similar environments with similar heat, similar time of the year.”

As of Thursday afternoon, Southern California Edison said nearly 10,000 customers in parts of Riverside County were under consideration for power shutoffs, which are used to reduce the risk of electrical equipment starting a fire.

How do we manage through the heat? 

Kittell said people should make plans to stay cool during the long heat wave, and check in on neighbors who are elderly, or on families with young children.

Officials say residents should limit outdoor activities to the early morning hours, stay in air-conditioned places in the afternoon and evening hours, and stay hydrated.

When Naoko Takei Moore, the author of Simply Donabe, was growing up in Tokyo, some of her earliest memories were of the family donabe.

Donabe, which means “clay pot” in Japanese, is an earthenware cooking vessel that has been part of Japanese home cooking for centuries.

On weekends, her mother would set the donabe on a tabletop burner at the center of the table, with the broth already made and the ingredients prepped. She would let Moore, then about 4, add them to the pot.

"It made me feel like I was cooking it," Moore said. "I was a hero."

Her late mother had one piece of advice about the pot: “Just let the donabe do the work for you."

That’s what Moore wants to do at our latest Cookbook Live at the Crawford in Pasadena on Thursday Oct. 8, in partnership with the James Beard Foundation.

What a donabe can do 

"Just let the donabe do the work for you," Moore's late mother used to say.

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Matt Russell

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Courtesy Naoko Takei Moore

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Because the clay is porous, a donabe heats slowly and retains heat long after the flame is off, allowing savory, umami-rich flavors to build without heavy seasoning. It handles almost anything: hot pots, rice, braises, soups, stews and steamed dishes.

"If you have good ingredients, you really don't need to cover up the flavors with so many different things," Moore said.

In Japan, it's often served as a communal pot meal, set at the center of the table so everyone can cook and eat together.

Donabe in L.A.

When Moore moved to L.A. in 2001, she found that her friends loved sushi and ramen, but thought Japanese home cooking was too complicated. The donabe dinners she hosted changed their minds.

On a trip home to Tokyo, she tasted rice cooked in a donabe made by Nagatani-en, an eighth-generation kiln in Iga founded in 1832.

"Oh my gosh, what is this about this particular donabe?" she remembered thinking. She contacted the kiln and began importing its pots.

Moore's West Hollywood shop, TOIRO, carries an array of artisan donabe that she selects herself.

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Courtesy Naoko Takei Moore

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Moore launched TOIRO in 2008 as an online import business, shipping orders from her basement and teaching donabe classes in her home kitchen. She opened the West Hollywood shop in 2017.

"First I had to start by telling people how to pronounce it," she said. (It's doh-nah-bay.)

Now, she said, major publications print "donabe" without translating it, and in 2015 she co-wrote her first book on the subject. Simply Donabe is her second.

What's cooking Oct. 8

Naoko Takei Moore's new cookbook, Simply Donabe: Japanese One-Pot Recipes.

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Courtesy Naoko Takei Moore

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For Moore, the upcoming cooler weather means hot pot season.

"The season is changing, and it's getting cooler, which I love," she said. "I love making all different kinds of hot pot dishes."

Onstage, she'll make a chicken-and-lemon hot pot from the new book, with sweet saikyo miso, kabocha squash, enoki mushrooms, spinach and thinly sliced lemon.

"I hope you'll be surprised how simple it is," she said. "And I hope you get to smell it."