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 next round of tickets to the L.A. Olympics in 2028 will go on sale in August, and registration has re-opened to get a chance at a ticket slot.

Olympics organizers sold more than 4 million tickets in Drop One, which had Los Angeles buzzing with emotion, as excitement about the coming Games warped into disappointment for some over high ticket prices and a hefty 24% service fee per ticket.

Fans who missed out on the first drop or didn't end up buying tickets will get another opportunity in Drop Two. Those who are already registered will be automatically re-entered into the lottery for a slot to buy up to 12 tickets to events, plus 12 more for Olympic soccer. Fans who bought some tickets but not the maximum will also be re-entered in the lottery.

Anyone who hasn't registered yet has until July 22 to sign up.

One big question is exactly how many affordable tickets are left. The first ticket drop started with a locals-only phase for fans in Southern California and Oklahoma City, where a few Olympic events will be held.

According to LA28, a half million $28 tickets and almost all of the available tickets under $100 were sold in that drop for locals, before tickets were made available to the general public.

The majority of tickets sold overall — 73% — went to locals, too.

LA28 says the second drop will have more tickets with "refreshed inventory" and more $28 tickets. In the first drop, the cheapest tickets tended to go quickly.

According to Olympics organizers, Artistic Gymnastics sold the quickest in Drop One.

Shareholders of Warner Bros. Discovery voted Thursday to approve a $110 billion merger with Paramount Skydance. If federal and international regulators approve, media mogul David Ellison — son of Oracle co-founder Larry Ellison — will control the legendary Warner Bros. studio as well as cable channels including CNN and HBO and Warner's streaming assets.

Over the past few months, the pending consolidation sparked many fears, which David Ellison tried to quell. He made a pitch to Madison Avenue executives on Tuesday, asking for advertising support.

And last week at CinemaCon, an annual convention for movie theater owners, Ellison repeated his promise — that the combined Warner and Paramount studios would put out 30 movies a year.

That was welcome news to Adam Aron, the CEO of the theater chain AMC, who endorsed the takeover deal.

"I greatly appreciate David Ellison's track record of success and his passion to make movies that will dazzle audiences the world over," Aron said in a post on X.

Powerhouse movie producer Jerry Bruckheimer, who was behind such blockbuster franchises as Top Gun and Pirates of the Caribbean, says that final approval of the Warner-Paramount deal is inevitable.

"The train has left the station. It's going to get done," Bruckheimer told NPR. "David, I know, loves movies, and he made a commitment that he'd like to make 30 movies between the two studios. That's a lot of movies. I could be wrong, but I have faith that what they say is what's in their heart, too."

David Ellison, CEO of Paramount Skydance, speaks onstage during the Paramount Pictures presentation at CinemaCon this month, in Las Vegas.

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Valerie Macon

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AFP - Getty Images

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The shareholders did not pass a compensation package for Warner's executives in a non-binding advisory vote. According to proxy advisory firm Institutional Shareholders Services, the current Warner CEO David Zaslav could receive a "golden parachute" from the transaction — nearly $887 million.

More than 4,000 Hollywood directors, actors, writers and others in the industry signed an open letter opposing the merger. The signatories include A-listers Kristen Stewart, Pedro Pascal and Javier Bardem.

In an Instagram video posted by the Committee for the First Amendment, Jane Fonda, Mark Ruffalo and other actors made a plea to stop the merger. They were skeptical of David Ellison's promises.

Ruffalo said he thought the megadeal would mean "fewer jobs, higher costs, and less choices for our beloved audiences."

Some said they fear the deal will lead to less creative content; others said it would further consolidate an already concentrated media landscape.

Critics in Hollywood also say the merger would give too much power to the Ellison family — which is friendly with President Donald Trump.

California Attorney General Rob Bonta has been investigating the deal for antitrust violations. The consolidation is also opposed by U.S. Sens. Elizabeth Warren, Chuck Schumer and Cory Booker. They sent a letter to the Federal Communications Commission — whose chair supports the merger – urging federal scrutiny of the deal and its foreign financing, partially sourced from Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates.

The deal still has to pass muster with federal and international regulators. If approved, Paramount aims to close no later than Sept. 30.

Meanwhile, David Ellison plans to host an invitation-only dinner party tonight in Washington, D.C., to honor Trump.
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After a marathon vote-a-rama that dragged from Wednesday night into the early hours Thursday, the Senate adopted a GOP budget blueprint to provide roughly $70 billion to fund immigration enforcement agencies through President Donald Trump's term.

This comes as the Department of Homeland Security has faced a record-breaking partial shutdown, after Senate Democrats refused to fund the department unless major policy changes to immigration enforcement were made, following the deaths of two U.S. citizens at the hands of federal agents earlier this year.

Because compromise between the two parties is off the table, Senate Republicans are turning to a budget tool called reconciliation, which would enable them to fund immigration enforcement agencies without the need for Democratic support. It's a lengthy and arduous process. It's been used by both parties to implement major priorities along party lines, including President Biden's Inflation Reduction Act and President Trump's One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

Ultimately, Senate Republicans ultimately adopted the plan with a 50-48 vote. GOP Sens. Lisa Murkowski of Alaska and Rand Paul of Kentucky joined Democrats in voting against the measure. Two senators were absent for personal reasons

The resolution would authorize the Judiciary and Homeland Security Committees to draft legislation that would increase the deficit by up to $70 billion each. A spokesperson for Senate Majority Leader John Thune, R-S.D., said the final price tag is expected to be $70 billion total. That figure is expected to fund the agencies for 3.5 years.

The budget measure now heads to the House of Representatives, which must also adopt the resolution before committees can draft the actual legislation. There's already been a push from some House Republicans to expand the scope of the effort, something that could complicate leadership's plans. Any changes the House makes would then have to go back to the Senate, where the chamber would have to undertake another vote-a-rama.

President Trump has given a deadline of June 1 for the bill's passage.

Reconciliation can be a complicated and lengthy process. Here's a look at what's involved.

What exactly is reconciliation?

Let's start at the beginning. Bills need to pass both chambers of Congress to become laws.

In the House, a bill passes when at least 218 members (half of the 435 representatives plus one) support it. In the Senate, most bills need the support of at least 60 senators. Republicans currently have 53 seats.

"It's nice to have the Senate majority, and you get pretty titles and gavels, and you can nominally control the floor, but as Schoolhouse Rock! would tell us, unless you have 60 votes for most things, you can't move forward," Liam Donovan, a political strategist, previously told NPR.

One way to get around that 60-vote threshold and avoid the threat of a filibuster is budget reconciliation, a tool made possible because of the Congressional Budget Act of 1974.

Reconciliation allows the party in control to pass legislation with a 51-vote simple majority in the Senate. The aim is to make it easier for Congress to make adjustments to laws that either bring in revenue or change spending levels.

It was first used in 1980 for the 1981 fiscal year and is not used every year.

"It's become the preferred tool over the past 25 years in this modern, partisan political era," said Donovan.

Republicans used reconciliation to pass tax cuts in 2017, and Democrats used it to pass elements of then-President Joe Biden's agenda, like the COVID-19 relief package and the Inflation Reduction Act. More recently, congressional Republicans used reconciliation to pass President Trump's signature legislative vehicle, the One Big Beautiful Bill.

How does it work? 

Reconciliation is a two-stage process.

It starts with a budget resolution that gives instructions to congressional committees to write legislation that achieves certain budgetary outcomes. For example, a resolution might include instructions to the Committee on Armed Services to report changes in laws within its jurisdiction that result in increasing or reducing the deficit by a certain amount.

Once the budget resolution passes out of committee, the committees that received instructions get to work.

The Budget Committee then incorporates all those bills into one big bill that's considered by the House and the Senate.

If there are disputes between the chambers, they have to resolve them.

Why do I keep hearing about vote-a-ramas?

Vote-a-ramas can be dramatic and drawn-out affairs where senators take up a marathon of amendments ahead of a final budget vote.

They begin in the Senate when debate on the bill ends. Senators essentially keep offering amendments on the bill until they run out of amendments — or steam — and decide to stop.

It is a rare chance for the party in the minority to bring legislation to the floor and is an opportunity for senators to try to undo parts of the budget resolution through objections known as budget points of order.

There are two vote-a-ramas in the course of the reconciliation process: one on the budget resolution, which is less consequential, and the second on the final proposed legislation itself.

"The amendments that happen in the final legislative package are really important — you're playing with live ammunition when you're on that final stage of reconciliation," said Donovan.

Why wouldn't reconciliation be used all the time? 

There are limits to budget reconciliation. It's used to make changes to the debt limit, changes to mandatory spending or adjustments in revenues. It cannot be used for discretionary spending.

There's also what's known as the Byrd rule, named after former Sen. Robert Byrd of West Virginia.

The rule allows anything determined not to have a direct budgetary consequence to be removed from the bill. The goal behind this is to prevent reconciliation from being used for measures unrelated to the finances of the federal government.

In other words, reconciliation is about money going out from the federal government and the money it takes in.

If a senator thinks a provision in the bill doesn't pass muster with the Byrd rule, the senator can raise a "point of order." The Senate parliamentarian advises the presiding officer on whether the provision violates the rule.

This could include anything that doesn't result in changes to spending or revenues, doesn't cause changes to Social Security or doesn't raise the deficit beyond the point of the budget window, which is usually 10 years.

This story is adapted from an earlier story, which can be found here.
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