Mr. Wave: “I Became Mr. Wave in One Hour”
Before the internet, before TikTok trends, a Bronx kid made his body move like electricity. Known to the world as Mr. Wave of the New York City Breakers and the film Beat Street, Tony Wesley helped turn Hip-Hop dance into a worldwide language.
In this conversation with Chuck “Jigsaw” Creekmur and DJ Thoro, he retraces the moment Dr. Electric became Mr. Wave, the Bronx block-party days, and the red-curtain audition that changed his life.
Chuck Creekmur: First off, thank you for what you gave this culture. When we saw you dance, we said, “How? We didn’t think he had bones.” How did you develop that style?
Mr. Wave: To be honest, it started with admiration. We didn’t have much-just a black-n-white TV. I’d watch Michael Jackson’s cartoon and then see him on “Dancing Machine.” That was magic. My first name in the early eighties was Dr. Electric, because I lived the Electric Boogaloo. I was also deep into mime, creating illusion. The float and the glide were really technology and illusion: lift one side, move the other.
When I saw everyone doing the tick, I decided to smooth it out. I combined the tick, the boogie, the vibration, the mime…and that became the Wave. I gave my whole body to it. That’s what made it different.
DJ Thoro: So how did Dr. Electric turn into Mr. Wave?
Mr. Wave: That’s the wild part. One day I’m down on Delancey Street with my man Asa. We had just bought some sheepskins, got “Dr. Electric” ironed on my jacket. This kid rolls up on a motorcycle—Kidd Nice from the New York City Breakers—and says, “Yo, we’re auditioning to dance for Katherine Dunham and the President at the Kennedy Center Honors (1983). Come through.”
I’d always been the rebel at home, so I went. The room was packed—Popmaster Fabel, Norm Ski, Mr. Wiggles—straight legends in training. Agents were watching from the side. I went into a corner and said, “I’m gonna combine everything I know.”
Michael Holman, who managed the Breakers, spotted me. He pulled me into the hallway with Chino, the founder, and said, “We want you in the group.” I said, “Cool.” We went back in; they announced it; everybody clapped. Then Chino said, “You’re so smooth we’re renaming you Mr. Wave.”
All that happened in one hour. That was it—Dr. Electric was gone, Mr. Wave was born.
Chuck Creekmur: What was New York like at that time—those early years before everything exploded
Mr. Wave: From ’81 to ’84 was the real evolution. It was block parties, jams in the projects. You’d watch them set up for hours—no fights, no craziness. When the DJ finally hit power, your chest jumped from the bass. The concrete vibrated for blocks. You didn’t need a flyer; you could hear the party coming, like the ice-cream truck.
Every jam had moments for the women too. You had to let them dance all night. That’s what made the culture whole. Everybody had a lane: B-boys, B-girls, MCs, DJs. And there were so many crews. People only mention the big ones, but every block had a team.
DJ Thoro: You always looked different from everyone else—never wore the one-piece suits. Why?
Mr. Wave: Because of where I came from. I’m from the Nine, the Bronx. I couldn’t go back to my block wearing tights! No disrespect to gymnasts, but I had to think about survival. Michael Holman understood that. He said, “We’ll tailor you Adidas and Puma suits instead.” They made them tight so I could move. That look became part of my style—and it made the wave flow better.
Chuck Creekmur: Michael Holman gets a lot of credit for bridging worlds. What did he do for you all?
Mr. Wave: Michael was a connector. He helped the Breakers, Rock Steady, Jazzy Jay—everybody. He saw what Hip-Hop could become. He even got us an attorney. In 1984, we were making $10,000 a show, splitting it between members. We’d split up—three of us hit one country, four hit another. We were one of the highest-paid dance groups in the world.
Chuck Creekmur: So you’re already hot—and then Beat Street happens. How did that come together?
Mr. Wave: We had just performed for President Reagan at the Kennedy Center. On the plane back, Michael Holman says, “As soon as we land, we’re going to the Roxy—Harry Belafonte wants you in Beat Street.”
We get there and walk past thousands of dancers waiting to audition. Behind a big red curtain were Belafonte, his daughters, and producer David Picker. Harry said, “I know you just got back, but could you dance for me?” We performed, and he said, “Congratulations, you are the Beat Street Breakers.” No audition, no waiting line—just like that.
DJ Thoro: Why were you called the Beat Street Breakers and not the New York City Breakers?
Mr. Wave: Because Harry Belafonte saw the film as a love story first, Hip-Hop second. He loved the dance more than the names. He wanted it universal. He wasn’t wrong—his vision globalized Hip-Hop. Beat Street showed every element: the B-boy, the DJ, the MC, the graffiti writer. It was culture and storytelling together.
Chuck Creekmur: Looking back now, how do you feel about what that era created?
Mr. Wave: It was magic. We didn’t know we were making history; we were just kids trying to out-dance each other. But those jams, that energy, the way people came together—that’s what built Hip-Hop. You can’t erase that.
Look For Part 2 With Mr. Wave Only At AllHipHop
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