Getting Down With "The Get Down": A B-Boy/Disco Queen Time Machine

The Get Down (2016; Netflix)

Finished watching the first six episodes of the Netflix series The Get Down last week, directed by Australian Baz Luhrmann (Moulin Rouge, The Great Gatsby) -- (and a shout out to series supervising producer Nelson George). I have to say that I loved it, unabashedly. I want to kiss it on both cheeks, hug it tight, thank it for coming, and ask it not to be a stranger. I know that it is unapologetically eccentric, long-winded, and prone to exaggeration, like an old auntie who spins fantastic yarns about how great things used to be; yet as in the wake of a visit by a relative with a great way with a narrative, I can't help reliving the best moments of the stories.

The Get Down's plot centers on the dreams of a handful of South Bronx teens, but careens from painting New York City history with broad strokes -- the blackout of '77, the burning of tenements, street gang warfare, the mayoral campaign of eventual victor Ed Koch -- to telling the true story of the rise of hip-hop and its disciplines (DJing, MCing, B-Boying, graffiti and eventually beatboxing) against the already peaking disco movement. But it also drifts into the realities of 1970s New York: poverty, racism, racketeering, the drug trade, prostitution and more. As such it is detailed, sprawling, inspired, beautiful, ugly, messy, historic, sentimental, nostalgic, rough, funny, tender, tense, and in some ways frustrating, revisionist, and fantastical, but I loved it just the same. But I can't help myself, I was predisposed to love it.

I'm an Afro/Carib/Latina who grew up in the Soundview section of the Bronx, and was 17 for most of 1977. The Get Down is a vivid reminder of just where I began my life's journey. Much like the lead character, Ezekiel "Books" Figuero (Justice Smith), I was a piano playing, poetry writing nerd teen coming up in a household that didn't always understand my artistic pursuits. And much like Zeke's love interest, Mylene Cruz, I had two loving, hard working parents trying to stretch a dollar and protect me and my sisters from the streets. And like most teenagers, I was balancing my love of music, art, film and books with my interest in boys; trying to keep up with my cigarette and weed-smoking, wine-swilling, disco dancing, record-swapping, relationship-drama friends; and coping with the overwhelming expectations from my parents and teachers for a promising future, where I would overcome my humble beginnings and ultimately get out of the South Bronx. (I did, btw.)

The show's ongoing visual of a grafitti-covered elevated subway train spinning over Westchester Avenue past burnt out tenements through the St. Mary's Park Houses toward the magic and promise of Manhattan (the show's episode titles are spray-painted on the cars) was part of my everyday reality, along with the bodegas, the storefront churches, the avenue beauty salons and record stores, and the clubs and discos that director Luhrmann so painstakingly recreated for the series. I had my Sweet 16 party in a community room on Sedgwick Avenue, not far from where hip-hop forefather Kool Herc held court (my party DJ is now the founder and CEO of the Universal Hip Hop Museum). Like Mylene, I often told my parents I was "spending the night" with a girlfriend but we snuck out in slinky disco dresses, makeup, and Charlie perfume on the 6 train down to the East Side of Manhattan, where we danced The Hustle with strangers at places with names like Ipanema and Pegasus and Copa Cabana. When the Blackout of '77 hit, I was just out of high school watching TV at home, and banned from leaving the house by my rightfully terrified parents. And I was a witness as the neighborhood crews sparking attention were now dudes with the powers to move the crowd through microphone and turntable skills as we danced under the playground streetlamps and shouted some of the first "Throw your hands up in the air and party like you just don't care" s ever heard.

The Get Down brings it all back. Watching now recalls moments of the 1975 film Aaron Loves Angela, a star-crossed teen lovers riff on Romeo & Juliet starring Irene Cara, whom Mylene actress Herizen Guardiola resembles; Wild Style, the 1983 film depicting hip-hop culture; and Fame, the urban high school musical classic from 1980.

As with most Luhrmann productions, the storylines are a bit overheated and at times surreal -- particularly the depiction of Shaolin Fantastic's initial legend and in the treatment of Grandmaster Flash as a mystical being. But I can accept that -- because early hip-hop was regarded by its young devotees as a mysterious, competitive and closed discipline that required dedication and skills for entrance. The glory of the series is in the details - the elaborate set designs, the precise costuming, and the pristine cinematography create a colorful tableau and brought me right back to those days of afros and tube tops, platform shoes and leisure suits, bell bottoms and 1940's styled dresses. The show gets the very smallest parts of the era right -- from Papa Fuerte giving his niece money for Huckapoo shirts, to Rah Rah advising Zeke to be "soave bolla" with Mylene, and especially to the exacting nature of turntablism and emceeing.

In fact, for me, where the series really gives me a jolt of electricity, is when the characters talk about their love for music. When Grandmaster Flash asks Shaolin why he wants to be a DJ and explains the sheer power inherent in music, and why music is its own reward, the hairs on my arms stood up. That message resonates with all music creators and fans, of every genre. Other characters, like washed-up songwriter Jackie Moreno and small-time gangster Cadillac, also talk about the pleasures of music in heartfelt terms.

The Get Down excels with its cast of young players, primarily Justice Smith as the earnest, smart and resourceful Zeke; the marvelous Shameik Moore (of Dope), who balances mysteriousness, toughness, and vulnerability as Shaolin Fantastic; veteran Jimmy Smits as "poverty pimp" politician Papa Fuerte, chewing the scenery with delicious abandon; Jaden Smith as the dreamy self-styled rebel and graffiti artist Dizzee; Skylan Brooks (who broke my heart in The Inevitable Defeat Of Mister & Pete) as youthful sage Ra-Ra; and fresh-faced Tremaine Brown, Jr., as small-fry comic relief Boo Boo. Mahmoudou Athie is a perfect ringer for Grandmaster Flash; and despite his role as cartoon villain Cadillac, Yahya Abdul Mateen II, tricked out in his sharpest Teddy Pendergrass look, is nothing less than sublime talking about his love of disco and dancing the floor in the Les Inferno club. Guardiola does her best with the teenaged Donna Summer wannabe role of Mylene; and Broadway vet Lillias White stretches out as Les Inferno's boss madame Fat Annie.

Kudos to Luhrmann and his production team for bringing in Grandmaster Flash himself, along with co-producer Nas, to help ground this show in the true spirit of hip-hop. Can't wait for the next six episodes, due in 2017.