A few years ago, Karina Marakshina had to explain what K-pop was when asked to describe the musical style of her Moscow dance studio. Now she says she hears it blasting out from nearly every mall where she shops.

Russia shares a lengthy border with China and has long fostered cultural ties with East Asia. But as sanctions have made it harder to access Western cultural products such as films and music, younger Russians in particular are turning to countries like South Korea, Japan and China for entertainment.

Russian fans no longer have to travel to Japan to attend an anime festival.

More than 1,000 cosplayers dressed in purple wigs and traditional kimonos and brandishing fake swords turned up at a festival last November in Moscow, roaming the stalls of local vendors to purchase trinkets from their favourite Japanese animations.

Marakshina’s K-pop dance school, GSS Studio, started in 2016 with only two groups practising in halls rented by the hour. It now has thousands of students practicing in three big studios in Moscow, and more in other cities.

GSS also hosts large-scale events such as an annual student concert and a dance “battle” with prizes for winners, and even organises tours to South Korea for the biggest K-pop enthusiasts.

“All the teenagers I talk to are into Asia,” says Marakshina. “K-pop is everywhere now, and it’s only gaining momentum.”

‘TOGETHERNESS’

Polina Ivanovskaya, a choreographer who has worked with GSS for over five years, recently led a class with more than a dozen young dancers in a Moscow studio, where a two-hour trial session costs 600 roubles ($6.50).

“What I like about this (dance) trend is that you dance as a whole group,” she says. “You feel the togetherness of a group of people.”

The 22-year-old says the studio has experienced a boom in interest as the music and dance style becomes more visible in Russia.

“It’s gotten so widespread because a lot of K-poppers started going out on the street to film (music videos),” Ivanovskaya says.

Several mesmerised school-age girls looked on as eight female dancers mouthed along to girl group MiSaMo’s “Do not touch” during a video shoot held in the food plaza of a Moscow shopping mall in January.

Another K-pop dancer, Madina, recently shot a music video in an empty parking garage with four other members of the group Snaky, the troupe clad in workmen’s beige coveralls.

Dancing connects her to “the inner life of the idols”, Madina says during a break from shooting, referring to K-pop stars. “It’s like you’re part of this community.”

 A few years ago, Karina Marakshina had to explain what K-pop was when asked to describe the musical style of her Moscow dance studio. Now she says she hears it blasting out from nearly every mall where she shops.

Russia shares a lengthy border with China and has long fostered cultural ties with East Asia. But as sanctions have made it harder to access Western cultural products such as films and music, younger Russians in particular are turning to countries like South Korea, Japan and China for entertainment.

Russian fans no longer have to travel to Japan to attend an anime festival.

More than 1,000 cosplayers dressed in purple wigs and traditional kimonos and brandishing fake swords turned up at a festival last November in Moscow, roaming the stalls of local vendors to purchase trinkets from their favourite Japanese animations.

Marakshina’s K-pop dance school, GSS Studio, started in 2016 with only two groups practising in halls rented by the hour. It now has thousands of students practicing in three big studios in Moscow, and more in other cities.

GSS also hosts large-scale events such as an annual student concert and a dance “battle” with prizes for winners, and even organises tours to South Korea for the biggest K-pop enthusiasts.

“All the teenagers I talk to are into Asia,” says Marakshina. “K-pop is everywhere now, and it’s only gaining momentum.”

‘TOGETHERNESS’

Polina Ivanovskaya, a choreographer who has worked with GSS for over five years, recently led a class with more than a dozen young dancers in a Moscow studio, where a two-hour trial session costs 600 roubles ($6.50).

“What I like about this (dance) trend is that you dance as a whole group,” she says. “You feel the togetherness of a group of people.”

The 22-year-old says the studio has experienced a boom in interest as the music and dance style becomes more visible in Russia.

“It’s gotten so widespread because a lot of K-poppers started going out on the street to film (music videos),” Ivanovskaya says.

Several mesmerised school-age girls looked on as eight female dancers mouthed along to girl group MiSaMo’s “Do not touch” during a video shoot held in the food plaza of a Moscow shopping mall in January.

Another K-pop dancer, Madina, recently shot a music video in an empty parking garage with four other members of the group Snaky, the troupe clad in workmen’s beige coveralls.

Dancing connects her to “the inner life of the idols”, Madina says during a break from shooting, referring to K-pop stars. “It’s like you’re part of this community.”

Born in impoverished favelas, Rio de Janeiro funk music has emerged as a global phenomenon, embraced by superstars from Anitta to Beyonce and starring in museum shows – though it still faces stigma in Brazil.

Blending hip-hop and electronic music with Afro-Brazilian beats, funk emerged in the late 1990s in Rio, fuelling massive, all-night parties in the favelas, or slums, before spreading to other Brazilian cities and beyond.

Now, funk is having a moment.

Beyonce sampled Brazilian funk legend O Mandrake for “Spaghettii”, a track on “Cowboy Carter,” the hit album she released last month.

Anitta, the Rio-born sensation who has done more than anyone to take the genre global, has her own new album coming out Friday, “Funk Generation.”

Fellow funk star Ludmilla performed this month at Coachella, the high-profile music festival in California.

With museum expos and even an artist-in-residence program dedicated to the genre, funk is suddenly everywhere.

“Funk is a source of self-esteem for the favelas,” says writer Taisa Machado, founder of online platform Afrofunk Rio.

“Those of us who work with funk always knew its power, its musical and cultural quality. We’ve been waiting for this moment,” she tells AFP.

FROM STREET TO MUSEUM

In Lapa, a trendy nightspot in central Rio, a dozen youths from the favelas and city outskirts are rehearsing their final show for #estudeofunk, a residency programme at the Fundicao Progresso cultural centre.

Four girls in tight-fitting athletic gear and streetwear are practicing their dance moves under the watchful eye of their director.

The goal is to “professionalize” their knowledge and turn their passion into a marketable skill, says the woman behind the project, Vanessa Damasco.

“I want to be able to make a living from my music, my art,” says funk singer Gustavo de Franca Duarte after rehearsal.

The 35-year-old father of four is a night watchman. But Duarte’s dream is to make it as “MC Gut Original” – his stage name.

Things have also gotten funky at the Rio Museum of Art, which is currently hosting an exhibit with hundreds of photographs, paintings, videos and installations devoted to the music and the iconic dance parties it fuels, known as “baile funk”.

The show, which has drawn large crowds, also highlights key moments in the genre’s mainstream arrival, like when Olympic medallist Rebeca Andrade, Brazil’s most famous gymnast, used it in the soundtrack for her floor routine at the Tokyo Games in 2021.

One of the artists on display is French photographer Vincent Rosenblatt, who has been documenting “baile funk” for 15 years in a sensual body of work that was also exhibited in Paris recently.

He started shooting funk parties around the time Rio officially declared funk part of the city’s cultural heritage, in 2009.

But the music “had to fight” to get there, he says: the same day the city council adopted the designation, it also revoked a law restricting funk parties.

LIKE A ‘PHOENIX’

Funk music is about “day-to-day life in a favela, teen trends, slang,” says anthropologist and filmmaker Emilio Domingos, the screenwriter for a 2020 Netflix documentary about Anitta.

“The lyrics talk about the favela as a place of pride.”

But the songs are also tinged with references to the drug trafficking and violence that permeate the favelas.

That has fed the stigma the genre faces.

Ironically, just as funk is booming on the world stage, “baile funk” parties are growing less common in Brazil.

“Funk moves a lot of money, it creates jobs, it opens up important debates and has the power to exert a positive influence,” says Machado, the writer.

But “it also faces a lot of prejudice, racism, machismo and elitism.”

Rosenblatt, the photographer, agrees.

But “funk is like the phoenix: the more they try to repress it, the more it will be reborn somewhere else,” he says.

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Cricketer and commentator Wasim Akram has taken to social media to share insights into his morning routine and breakfast habits, revealing the secret behind his fitness despite battling diabetes. 

In a video on his social media accounts, the cricket star said he rises at 6am every morning, administering six units of insulin alongside. He elaborated that his day typically starts with a brisk 8-kilometre walk after dropping his daughter at school. 

“I have been living with diabetes for 25 years,” Akram emphasised in a crucial video message, highlighting his daily struggle and dedication to maintaining his health.

He said that he “rises at 6am every morning, administering six units of insulin alongside.” 

Currently, in Melbourne, Akram stated that he was recording the video at 10am local time while having his breakfast. Before his meal, he had already administered another six units of insulin.

Detailing the contents of his breakfast table, he explained that his wife had prepared low-fat yogurt for him along with some bananas, blueberries, and muesli, which help regulate sugar levels throughout the day.