Max Pollak was five years old, growing up in suburban Vienna, when he saw Fred Astaire dancing on television. He didn’t understand the history. He didn’t know the language. But he knew he had to do that. The rhythm, the movement, the magic of it — it spoke to him. And it sent him on a lifelong journey that would eventually lead him from Austria to Harlem, to Havana, and back again.
Before he ever put on a pair of taps, Max was tapped in.
He asked his parents if he could learn to dance like Astaire. But there were no tap teachers in Vienna at the time. So Max did what any determined, rhythm-hungry kid might do: he watched old musicals whenever he could find them and started imitating what he saw. He made up steps. He created rhythms. And without even realizing it, he began cultivating a deep relationship with improvisation. For Max, making it up as he went wasn’t just a necessity — it became his artistic foundation.
When he was 14, everything changed. He met Carnell Lyons, a master tap dancer from Kansas City who had moved to Europe during the civil rights era. Lyons had grown up alongside Charlie Parker, performed with the greats, and carried within him the spirit of Black American performance culture. He was, as Max described him to me, “the embodiment of groove and of hipness.” Lyons took Max under his wing, made him his assistant and translator, and shared not only the craft of tap, but the cultural weight and lineage behind it.
Eventually, Max moved to New York to study drums and pursue a life in music. At The New School, he joined Bobby Sanabria’s Afro-Cuban ensemble. Sanabria, a master percussionist and educator, posed a question that would become a turning point in Max’s artistic life:
“Do you want to tap dance to Cuban music — or do you want to tap dance Cuban music?”
That distinction challenged Max to reimagine what tap dancing could be. It wasn’t just about dancing with the music, or on top of it — it was about being the music. He began studying clave, singing, incorporating body percussion and Afro-Cuban folkloric rhythms into his practice. Eventually, he developed a new hybrid form he called RumbaTap — a synthesis of tap, voice, percussion, and ritual movement rooted in Cuban tradition.
One night, members of Los Muñequitos de Matanzas — the legendary folkloric group from Cuba — saw Max perform in New York. Afterward, they approached him and asked: “Who taught you how to dance like that?” When he told them he’d developed the style himself, they asked him to teach them. That invitation led to collaborations in Cuba, performances in sugarcane fields, and moments of deep cultural communion.
Max has often described dancing with Los Muñequitos as transcendent. “They make you levitate,” he said. “Their groove is so deep. It’s ancestral.”
Max Pollak's upcoming performance at 92NY, featuring members of Los Muñequitos de Matanzas, celebrates the 25th anniversary of RumbaTap. The event takes place this Thursday, April 24 and marks not just a milestone, but a living tribute to the traditions that have shaped him — and the new traditions he continues to shape.
Sometimes, the rhythm finds you. For Max Pollak, it led him on a path that bridged continents, cultures, and art forms — all united by the universal language of rhythm.
