The rise of krip-hop: with a new compilation album, rappers with disabilities challenge the music industry.

IN A SCENE FROM THE 1984 FILM Breakin', a young Chicano drops his crutches and spins, locks and pops in dazzling form with the sole use of his upper body. As this popular dance film shows, people with disabilities have been part of hip-hop's cultural forms since its beginnings. But one scene featuring a hip-hopper with a disability hardly trumps a sea of popular images of able-bodied artists within a hip-hop industry that emphasizes style and physique.

Enter the world of krip-hop, a ripple movement within the ever-widening umbrella of hip-hop.

Branding their music as a unique niche within a hip-hop that has become estranged from its transgressive roots, artists with disabilities are hoping to forge new pathways for visibility within hip-hop culture by forming support networks and independent outlets to create and distribute their music. Earlier this year, poet and activist Leroy F. Moore, Jr. released Krip-Hop Mixtape: Volume 1, an independently produced and distributed album that features 19 artists with disabilities and their allies. The first track by Moore sets the album's tone and perhaps the movement's manifesto: "Hip-hop, you are under arrest ... We're setting off metal detectors while we roll, limp and hop to the stage."

The emergence of krip-hop as a niche that both gives voice to the needs of a particular community and also educates outsiders about that community is a familiar theme within the history of hip-hop, says hip-hop historian Davey D., host of Hard Knock Radio. He recalled that young Black and Puerto Rican people seeking out music by people who look and sound like them fueled hip-hop's beginnings. Hip-hop artists with disabilities "need a safe space to ... exist without the overshadowing presence of the industry," he remarks. "The industry doesn't even concern itself with the lifestyle of someone with disabilities."

Through Myspace.com and e-mail, Moore--who has cerebral palsy and lectures widely on race and disability--put out a call that resulted in sounds as diverse as "gospel rap," spoken word, "Crank" (from Down South), funk and old school. All are independent artists, and several have their own labels and entertainment companies. "There [are] a lot of people with talent who have disabilities," notes Jesse "DJ Quad" Morin, who is featured on Krip-Hop. "There's a bigger market out there that needs to hear what we have."

What they have, at least with this album, is a mix of styles and interests. On the make-you-wanna-dance track, "Good Foot" Zambian rapper C.R.I.$.I.$ dedicates a party song to people with disabilities. The lyrics include these choice lines: "Make your wheelchair spin. Call up your friend and let 'em know there's a new trend ... The paralyzed, everybody please report to the dance floor. This is your day. We gonna give you what you asked for." Other songs are more self-reflective, including "Don't Know" by wheelchair-bound New York rapper MF Grimm, and some like Rob "Da Noise" Temple's "Pushing Limits" serve as musical mantras that counter attacks on the self-esteem of disabled people living in an ableist society.

When Yonkers, New York-based rapper Preechman met an entertainment promoter for the first time the night he was scheduled to perform, the man looked at Preechman--who contracted polio as a child and uses crutches to walk--and his brother standing next to him and automatically assumed his brother was the MC.

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"He was so embarrassed," recalls Preechman, who, along with Moore will be part of a panel about hip-hop and disability at the Hip-Hop Journalism Association's conference this July in Miami, Florida.

Public perceptions of what disabled people can do are often an added barrier that emerging hip-hop artists with disabilities have to face, says Morin, a DJ and music producer based in Los Angeles.

Morin was paralyzed in an accident at age 16 and has been confined to a wheelchair ever since. A couple of years after the accident, he hosted a practice session for some local MCs in his home in exchange for some lessons on the turntables. He says he was hooked that day and soon started a mobile deejaying service with some cousins.

"There's always a reaction [from] people who don't know me," remarks Morin, who released an album called Bringin' the Heat last fall under his independent label, 5th Battalion Entertainment.

While the Americans With Disabilities Act of 1990 requires that public accommodations be accessible to people with disabilities, clubs and other performance venues often disregard the law.

Preechman says he takes special precautions, like requesting a hands-free microphone, to ensure he will even be able to perform in the venues where he is booked. He notes, "Clubs are not made for disabled artists."

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Preechman--who has been making music since he was a child and now runs his own company, 2Tha Point Entertainment--says he usually sits in a chair as he performs and always brings a crew of friends to help him navigate the venue. "When I first walk into a venue, I look for exits and how the stage looks. I don't perform in no venues that have one entrance," he states.

Moore cites a performance he helped organize in Berkeley, California where there was no wheelchair access to the stage as evidence of how disabled artists get pushed to the margins.

While hypermasculine, ableist bodies of Black and brown rap artists usually dominate mainstream, commercialized hip-hop, both Morin and Preechman say they want to be judged by the quality of their music, not by their physical appearance.

"Give me props because you like my style. I don't want nobody pity-clapping me," says Morin, who has mentored other MCs with disabilities in Los Angeles. Preechman adds: "Automatically, I'm judged. But the minute I get on stage and the mic is in my hand, I shut it down."

Beandrea Davis is a freelance writer in Oakland, California and an editorial intern for ColorLines.