Parapara We Miss You Lambada

Takeo is pimply, shaggy, gawky, not the hunkiest guy in a groovin' dance club in Kyoto called Isn't It? But Takeo's got something other guys don'the knows how to moveand he's putting those moves to work. Standing on a raised platform in a red sweatshirt adorned with nonsensical English, Takeo punches his arms out in a series of semaphoric gestures. The song changes: he does the same, but with a different set of arm movements. The crowd is watching him, and precisely following his lead. High school girls in hip- huggers gaze up adoringly and Takeo smiles, nods his head to the beat, but ignores his fans. Like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, he's here to boogie.

Takeo's doing the parapara, and it seems like just about everyone is following his lead. The sound of parapara is the heavy, synthesized, Eurobeat-style dance music that rules the Japanese charts. (One-hit wonder Aqua beat out Eminem, Britney and Christina Aquilera on the Japanese charts last year.). Trendy teen mags print full-page diagrams showing the motions that have been created for each new parapara song. Nightspots like Tokyo's hugely popular Twinstar distribute their own how-to parapara videos. Elementary school kids perform the moves at school events and, the ultimate Japanese pop-culture imprimatur, even the strolling Minnie and Goofy at Tokyo Disneyland are parapara-ing: a special dance has been created for the Mickey Mouse March.

Which is all well and good for a Japanese fad, but if the guy in the Mickey Mouse suit in Anaheim started parapara-ing, barely anyone would recognize he was dancing. The Twist may not have been much of an improvement on the Waltz, and nothing has surpassed the Tangoand don't even get us started on the Macarenabut parapara is an entirely different language altogethera Japanese dance phenomenon that is far more Japan than it is dance.

Firstly, you barely need legs: a person in irons could win a parapara competition. A partner is superfluous, rhythm dispensible and improvisation antithetical. To excell at parapara demands a single skill, and one very prized in Japan: rote memory. You learn the hand motions for each song, in order. You can be a leader or, more likely, a follower. The moves are dictated by those magazines and parapara videos, which means that the dance going on in Kyushu is the same as that in Hokkaido. It sounds incredibly easy except for this final fact: there are 1,600 songs to memorize.

While it may lack originality, it has already proven surprisingly durable. Having first surfaced in Tokyo discos in the early 1990s, parapara caught fire again in 1999, when pop idol Takuya Kimura of SMAP went on television and flashed some karate-chop like moves. For dance club wallflowers, uncomfortable with the demands of hip-hop, parapara was a godsend. The steps are simple. You don't have to ask anyone to dance. Everyone's doing the same thing and no one stands outexcept those who haven't done their homework.

As a part of the club scene, parapara might seem the antithesis of cool, but it's just the thing for a generation raised on Gameboys. At Isn't It?, the cigarette smoke is thick and the drinks of choice are Tequila shots for boys and peach fizzes for girls. In a room full of liquored-up teens and 20-somethings, you'd expect a little sexual tension. Instead, there's a vibe of intense concentration, almost studiousness, as the guys and girls, many with matching dyed-blond locks, go through the parapara motions between the tables and chairs, while staring at pros like Takeo and his buddy Kio up on stage.

Kio, a 25-year-old truck driver who helms a Hino across Japan by day, is a recognized parapara master at hip clubs down in Kansai, western Japan. He's learned the moves to over 500 songs and continues memorizing. "I come to these events and do the dance to make friends," he shouts over the music. A social world of its own, parapara offers those who are interested in each other the chance to find common groundwithout even talking.

But not without a ton of work. Razumi, a 16-year-old freetathe Japanese term for a person who isn't in school or working full-timenow dedicates her time to perfecting the art of parapara. Concentration puckering Razumi's pixie-shaped face into a frown, she tries to keep time with the fast-paced beats at Isn't It? "I practice every day and make sure to keep up with all the new releases as they come out," she says, her otaku-ness coming across more brightly than the florescent green of her zip-up sweater.

Not all swinging Japanese are caught up in parapara. Toshi, black hair swooshing three inches off his blemish-free brow, has plenty of experience in parapara paradise as a bartendar at Isn't It? Watching his peers week after week dancing like automatons with a Tequila problem, Toshi has developed strong feelings. "I can't believe they find that dance funit makes me sick just looking at it."