Adam Parson: Dancer, Choreographer, World Traveler
“You got it? Yes or no? Yes or no?” A thin voice rises above the booming bass blasting through a dance studio at EDGE Performing Arts Center in Los Angeles. Twenty or so dancers stand and watch as their instructor, Adam Parson, runs through a busy, merengue-laced jazz routine. He’s of compact frame and sports a shaved head. Despite the relentless sun, he wears a long-sleeved shirt and sweats. The tall windows lining the wall present a view of uniformly tall palm trees practically glowing in the sun.
Today’s class is an emotional one. A member of Parson’s professional dance company, Commonality, is returning home to Japan, and she and other company members have shown up to Parson’s class to say their goodbyes. The dancer in question barely comes up to the other dancers’ shoulders. Her hair is short, and baggy sweat pants hide her petite frame. All eyes are on her as she makes quick work of Parson’s choreography.
As Parson paces the room, his eyes look in every direction but the one in which he’s walking. One senses that at any moment, he might bend sideways or backwards like Gumby. And sometimes he does, breaking out of his pedestrian stance to demonstrate a back bend or to pull a quick pirouette. He crouches beside one dancer who is stretching on the ground, pressing her raised leg even closer to her torso. Blessed with unnatural flexibility, she doesn’t flinch, and the two carry on in conversation the way two friends swap gossip over weekend brunch.
With each round, the dancers’ bodies loosen and stretch into bands of taffy, stretching then snapping shut. Some seem to have arrived straight from a modeling audition — not implausible in a city that prizes looks as much as talent. But it’s talent that reigns at EDGE. Scouts visit regularly looking for new faces to fill cruise ships, concert tours, and music videos. The list of celebrities who have graced these halls reads like the Hollywood Walk of Fame: Michael Jackson, Madonna, Prince, just to name a few.
Parson shuts off the music.
“I want you to do more than just let the music guide you,” he tells the room. “It should come from within.” He looks around and points to the less advanced students. “Look around you,” he says. “Watch the other dancers and learn from them.” It’s a note of encouragement, with a push.
It was not so long ago, at age 26, that Parson stepped into his first dance class and learned to plié alongside 10-year-old children. Without hesitation, he left his job as a computer engineer in Washington, D.C., and hitched a ride to Los Angeles, where he lied about his age to qualify for a dance scholarship at EDGE. He got the scholarship, which meant a year of dance lessons and the chance to catch the eye of agents.
“These kids were way more advanced in their technical ability,” Parson says, recalling his classmates. They were also young, and most had parents who paid their bills. “I worked at Jerry’s Famous Deli from 10 at night to six in the morning,” he says. “I think people really underestimate the value of hard work.”
When Parson’s year at EDGE came to an end, he steered away from one-off commercial gigs and instead joined the Power Rangers world tour. For two years, he punched and kicked his way across stages around the world as the Blue Ranger, clad in layers of spandex.
“When I got the job, everybody was laughing, saying, ‘It’s a stupid job, I can’t believe you’re doing that,’” Parson says. “Then, six months in, they were saying, ‘Hey, can you get me in on this gig?’”
The promise of a steady income wasn’t the only thing that lured Parson. “Power Rangers opened up a sense of adventure,” he says, adding, “but my sense of adventure really began in Africa.” To be specific, Kenya, where Parson’s father worked for the U.S. State Department and where Parson spent the first 14 years of his life. In Africa, the Parsons could afford to live in a nine-room white mansion and employ a large staff — an irony not lost on Parson’s mother, whose mother and grandmother served white families in the American south.
Power Rangers eventually came to an end, and Parson returned to Los Angeles and began teaching dance. “I realized I loved teaching,” he says, “and that I love the art of dance more than the business of dance.” He points to the rise of the So You Think You Can Dance generation, referring to the long-standing dance competition show that hypnotized millions of viewers with slick dance routines packed with dramatic stunts and leaps. “A lot of people have lost their own voices because they feel they have to move like ‘this’ to get a lot of attention,” he says. “This industry has become so much about the pop and flash of things that teaching has kind of gone to the wayside.” Still, he says, “I wouldn’t throw an industry job away.”
The thump-thump of bass fills the studio again. Parson stands at the front of the class, marking the routine again, this time at twice the speed. He swivels to face the students.
“Yes or no? Yes or no? Yes? You got it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. The students stare into the mirror as they bend and spin. When the music stops, they hunch over and rest their hands on their thighs, sweat dripping onto the floor. After several dizzying repetitions, class is over.
In the hallway, the Commonality company members huddle around their departing member for a final hug and goodbye. They form a motley crew of height, ethnicity, and body type — a far cry from the cookie-cutter look sought by many professional dance companies.
“It’s very important to me that the company reflect our society,” Parson says. “It’s important that everybody see themselves in my company.” He later reveals that, in fact, several dancers are leaving the company to focus on other engagements. But he’s quick to stress it isn’t disbanding. “It’s dispersing,” he says. “It’s dispersing to allow something else to happen, not because it’s the end.”
Asked about his future dreams, Parson mentions having a fully funded company, for one. Teaching dance to black youth and traveling the globe are on his list, too.
“I don’t think my voice has been heard on the platform that it should be heard on yet,” he says. “But it’s coming. It’s coming.”
As for whether he will continue teaching: “I’d like to say yes.” Then, after a pause, “Probably. If I won the lottery, this is all I would do, teach and choreograph.”
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