HOLY FRESH

Before the spotlight and the stage fog, there was a boom box, a linoleum floor, and a kid with curly blonde hair who could spin like a miracle. They called him Holy Fresh—a clean-cut, crowd-stopping 90s hip-hop pop phenom with a blonde mustache and footwork sharp enough to slice through any cipher. The attitude was cool, the moves were colder, and the vibe was pure “fresh to def.”

The turning point? A breakdancing competition where the beats were fierce and the chemistry was louder. He met an LDS girl with a smile like a hook you can’t forget. One conversation turned into many, and somewhere between windmills and whispered prayers, he found a new rhythm—faith. The flex became discipleship. The show became a purpose.

Holy Fresh took that boom-bap backbone and laced it with testimony. Now the set list hits like an altar call with slap drums: phat hooks, choir stabs, and clean bars about mercy, repentance, and walking with the Savior. He breakdances and beatboxes for the Lord—no gimmicks, just craft, joy, and a groove that points upward.

Onstage he’ll pop, lock, spin, then let the silence breathe before the beat drops again—equal parts showman and servant. Offstage, he’s the friend who reminds you to keep your head high, your heart soft, and your kicks scuff-free. For Holy Fresh, the mission is simple: make the message move. If the crowd leaves lighter than they came, the set was a success. That’s the gospel of groove.