Curtis Small took his place in front of the video camera as an ethereal portrait of his son K’Sean lit a screen on the wall behind him. He was flanked by about 20 dancers, who steeled themselves. In this big, open room, on the main floor of a mental health services center, many of them had competed against Small’s son, or traded dance steps with him, or just watched over the years as the lanky, quick-witted kid from Brooklyn made a name for himself in Harlem, one battle, one party, one joke at a time.
K’Sean Nurse, known as KShakes, had used his long, wiry limbs, humor and keen timing to cultivate a distinctive dance style that captivated audiences on social media and in concert venues. He danced for artists including King Combs, G. Dep, Busta Rhymes, Lady London and the Lost Boyz. Nurse’s stage name derived from his finding fresh nuance in the Harlem Shake — the real one — with fine control that could render the dance spastic or billowing in service of the song. His shoulders rolled for R&B and quivered for hip-hop.
On Sept. 6, Nurse, whose viral videos, geniality and expressive power made him an icon of New York City’s street dance culture, died at 31, two days after having been shot during filming for a music video in Brooklyn. Police are still investigating. Since then, this tight-knit family has sought catharsis in a handful of tributary dance gatherings in the parks and community centers where their culture thrives, like Union Settlement in Harlem, the site of the Teen Night workshops and battles where KShakes honed his talent.
More than a month after his death, roughly 150 dancers, family and friends convened at Union Settlement to film the video for “Shakes,” an elegy performed by Small under his rap name, Bakeman Global. The song, which has gained airplay on New York’s Hot 97, has the bouncy feel of a live event and drums that evoke handclaps. Before filming began, Mr. Small addressed the group: “I thought I could do this, but it’s still kind of hard, you know? I need y’all to carry me.”
With cameras rolling, Ohana, KShakes’s 3-year-old daughter, pranced into the shot and began to dance. Mr. Small dabbed at his eyes. The dancers closed in even tighter around him, resting hands on his back.
Tatianna Butler, the video’s director, called for a round of takes to focus on the All In, a step KShakes popularized through a viral TikTok challenge and a song of his own. Its chorus gives straightforward instructions: “Two step/wiggle/bounce bounce.”
Ryan Primus, one of KShakes’s closest friends and a protégé, did a series of emphatic All Ins that ended with him dropping to the floor on his back, then being lifted up by his partners. He shrunk away after the take. Butler noticed his heavy breathing and reddened eyes and walked over to offer a hug.
“Dancing, for me right now, is in a space where, if it’s not in tribute for him, I don’t want to do it,” Primus said. “It feels pointless without him here.”
KShakes was especially beloved by dancers in the hyperkinetic Litefeet form, whose moves are often canonized and named for their originators. He was equally revered by the fluttering, free-form stylists known as the Shakers, whose most popular cultural export remains the Harlem Shake. Though both styles originated Uptown, their adjacent cultures are territorial.
His friends say one of KShakes’s proudest moments was being presented the Shaker of the Year award by Maurice “Motion” Strayhorne, who helped popularize the Harlem Shake in the early 2000s. By bringing a Shaker’s approach to crowd interaction and improvisation into Litefeet spaces, KShakes brought dancers from both styles together “because he was deeply socially respected in both camps,” said Amanda Adams-Louis. Adams-Louis, a documentarian with Kut the Rug Institute, has photographed New York City’s dance cultures for two decades. At the video shoot, she navigated the cellphone-wielding spectators, squeezing her camera into the tight dancers’ circles or standing on folding chairs to shoot them from above.
“We really lost a good one,” said Ikeem Jones, whose spirited battles with KShakes are lore in the street dance world. “His style influenced others,” he said. “You’ll see people doing the Milly Rock and All In exactly like how he’s doing it.
Once the shoot ended, dancers spilled into the courtyard outside the community center. Someone set up a telescoping LED light above the scene that cycled red, orange and green every few minutes. A sped up, bass-heavy remix of Maxwell’s “Ascension (Don’t Ever Wonder)” rumbled out of a Bluetooth speaker. Freed of the directions tossed around on the shoot, the dancers erupted in ciphers. Jones went into frenzied splits, rocking his shoulders.
Elijah Soto, KShakes’s friend and partner in the Team Rocket dance collective, stood by the exit doors, hugging everyone who passed.
“I’m all cried out,” Soto said. “There’s nothing left to do but dance in celebration of my brother.”
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