Hologram Performance by Chief Keef Is Shut Down by Police

26 Jul 2015 | Author: | No comments yet »

Chief Keef Hologram Concert Shut Down By Police.

A performance by the Chicago rapper Chief Keef — or rather, his likeness, beamed live via hologram from California — was shut down by the police on Saturday night in Hammond, Ind., after warnings from the mayor’s office that the performer could not appear, even digitally, promoters said on Sunday. Update: According to a press release and Chief Keef’s manager, Idris Dykes, the rapper’s hologram benefit concert is now set to take place on Saturday, July 25, at a private location in downtown Chicago. “[The] event is in fact taking place.

The surprise appearance of Chief Keef at Craze Fest, a hip-hop festival in Hammond, about 25 miles outside of Chicago, was scheduled after a series of canceled hologram performances by the rapper, born Keith Cozart. Chief Keef’s hologram managed to deliver “I Don’t Like” before police stormed the Wolf Lake Pavilion, turning off the projection and the music and ordering concertgoers to leave, the Chicago Tribune reports.

Last weekend, a Chicago venue called off a similar show after representatives for Mayor Rahm Emanuel’s office deemed Chief Keef “an unacceptable role model,” whose music “promotes violence” and whose presence via hologram “posed a significant public safety risk.” Chief Keef had billed the performance as a “Stop the Killing” benefit concert, meant to raise money for Marvin Carr, an associate who died in a shooting this month, and Dillan Harris, a 13-month-old child killed by a vehicle fleeing the scene of that shooting. A spokesman for the holographic events company said the location is being kept secret because of past efforts by city officials to stop the event, which is supposed to benefit the families of Dillan Harris and Marvin Carr. Keef, who has also started the Stop The Violence Now foundation, will physically be in Beverly Hills, performing on a stage owned by HologramUSA, David’s hologram company. Police say Harris, 13 months old, was hit by a car sought in connection with the July 11 fatal shooting of Carr, a rapper named Capo who was affiliated with Chief Keef. “The show goes on,” entrepreneur Alki David, who owns Hologram USA, said in a statement. “Like the L.A. riots in the 90’s, Dillan Harris’ murder is the tipping point. Despite being across state lines, authorities still warned the festival’s organizer not to host a Chief Keef concert in any capacity. “We spoke to the promoter several times, and they assured us [Chief Keef] would not be performing,” Hammond police Cmdr.

The rapper, whose real name is Keith Cozart, decided to put on the hologram show after hearing about a South Side shooting and car chase that led to the deaths of Keef’s friend Marvin Carr, the rapper known as Capo, and 13-month-old Dillan Harris. And for taking away money that could have gone to help the victims’ families,” David said. “This was a legal event and there was no justification to shut it down besides your glaring disregard for the first amendment right to free speech. The rapper couldn’t appear in person because of a pair of arrest warrants issued last year — one for nonpayment of child support and a second for not showing up to a pretrial hearing after being charged with driving under the influence of drugs. Keef’s manager says the rapper and his entire team was taken aback by the city’s attempt to block what they view as nothing more than an attempt at spreading goodwill to their community. “It really upsets me when I read people’s opinions [on Keef], especially big leaders, and they say all these negative things,” he says. “I’m like, ‘Wow, how can you say this about a 19-year-old kid that you guys never even once attempted to sit and have a conversation with? “Every time something like this happens,” Peedapan continues, “Keef is like “Damn, why can’t they see the positive things I’m trying to do?””

Chief Keef also remains a controversial figure because of violent messages in his lyrics — such as the 2013 song, “You,” which contains the lyric, “You ain’t going to let me f— you and I feel you, but you gone suck my d— or I’ll kill you.” McDermott Jr., the mayor of Hammond, said in an interview that his office became aware of the surprise performance, which was also streamed live online, through social media. Plus we’ll be back to sue your asses.” 2015 may not bring everything that Back to the Future II promised it would: flying cars, self-lacing shoes, we don’t see ’em happening over the next 12 months. (Then again, don’t bet against Nike.) But this year will definitely pack plenty of punch when it comes to cultural happenings. All of the Craze Fest acts — which included Riff Raff, Lil Bibby and Tink — had been previously vetted because the event was held at a public park, he said. “I know nothing about Chief Keef,” Mayor McDermott, 46, said. “All I’d heard was he has a lot of songs about gangs and shooting people — a history that’s anti-cop, pro-gang and pro-drug use.

Mad Max will roar back out of the apocalypse while Mad Men rides off into the sunset, rock’s Antichrist Superstar and hip-hop’s Yeezus will rise again. Chief Keef and David will match the money raised through the show and donate it to the Harris and Carr families and select South Side anti-violence charities, according to the press release. There were no arrests, citations or incidents as more than 2,000 fans were cleared from the park. “It’s not like we’re anti-rap,” Mayor McDermott said. “It’s just this specific case.

Early in the evening on July 26, 2012, Michael Haynes was cruising around Morgan Park on Chicago’s Far South Side when he and his friends, Harry “Slick” Fullilove and Lester “Doogie” Freeman, got word of a fight about to break out. Haynes — who went by Mikey, though also answered to “Big Bro,” “Lil’ Bro,” and “God Bro,” because so many Morgan Park residents considered him family — was a 22-year-old basketball star five days away from heading to Iona College in New York. He was a familiar sight on the courts near his house: six-foot-seven with broad shoulders, wearing crisp white Nikes and colorful warm up gear, shooting jumpers and smoking blunts with friends. Everyone there lived along a dozen or so blocks in Morgan Park dubbed “The Jungle.” Four miles past the final stop of the city’s main subway line, in what is known as the Wild 100s, The Jungle’s main drag on Vincennes is a thoroughfare for drugs and violence.

Dealers use the two-way street for open sales through car windows, and slip through the “cuts,” spaces between the houses, to more secluded parts of the neighborhood. Now, Don P and JaJuan were arguing over a 14-carat gold chain that Don P had lent to JaJuan, and JaJuan had apparently lost. “I really wasn’t supposed to give it up,” Don P says. “He caught me at a nice moment.” Earlier that day, Don P had gone to JaJuan’s house, hit him and tried to throw him over a porch railing. Doogie says Mikey was calling out Q for disrespecting a member of the neighborhood’s elite crew; Slick says Mikey was upset to see guys who grew up together rely on a gun to settle an argument; and Q, who denies giving JaJuan a gun, believes Mikey was looking to start a separate fight the moment he exited the Buick. “Man, you bogus as hell,” Mikey said to Q. “You bogus for giving a gun to one of the guys.” A crowd gathered around them.

Five days.” Mass shootings in Aurora, Newtown and Charleston drum up the national gun debate, but any given holiday weekend with decent weather in Chicago sees similar devastation. Yale sociologist Andrew Papachristos found the average annual homicide rate during a recent decade in one West Side Chicago neighborhood was 64 per 100,000 people, nearly the casualty rate for civilians in Iraq during the height of the war (hence the nickname “Chiraq”). Once in the streets, firearms are often bought and sold within trusted social networks, and tend to be old; the median age of guns confiscated from gang members is over a decade. Recent legal developments, though, have only loosened restrictions: in 2010, the United States Supreme Court overturned the handgun law, and last year a federal judge ruled that prohibiting the sale of firearms was unconstitutional. Mark Jones, a former special agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives and an expert on illegal firearms at the University of Chicago Crime Lab, says interviewees consistently tell him, “We are not afraid of the police.

We’re afraid of other people in the neighborhood who might try to kill us.” Gun violence in Chicago is routinely attributed to gangs, but crucial distinctions exist between gangs, cliques and random feuds. Morgan Park is the territory of the Gangster Disciples, one of Chicago’s historic sprawling gangs, the kind that wrote rulebooks and implemented rigid chains of command.

But after two decades of police targeting top leaders, the structures fragmented, leaving behind hundreds of less organized and more violent neighborhood cliques. They will be with you.” But when affiliations are loose and firearms are plentiful, the likelihood that two people will cross paths at the wrong moment, with tragic consequences, becomes that much greater. “Because the gangs were so well-organized, the shooting was fairly targeted,” Kotlowitz says. “And today, it feels so much more random and so many more people getting caught in a crossfire.” Mikey spent his first decade living with his mother and three brothers in a house on 115th Street and Vincennes. She has debilitating arthritis that keeps her bound to the house; Mikey bragged that when he turned pro he would move her into a mansion with an elevator. Some of his friends earned cash by stealing or selling drugs, but Mikey cultivated a better hustle on the basketball courts at nearby Blackwelder Park.

He was third generation — Annie had come to Chicago as part of the Great Migration of African Americans fleeing the South in the first half of the 20th century. Many of the towers’ residents protested the decision, but between 1995 and 2011, the city tore down three infamous furnaces of violence — the Cabrini-Green, Ida B. To improve his standing in the eyes of college recruiters, he enrolled at George Washington High School on the east side of Chicago his sophomore year. George Washington lost the Chicago public school championship that year to Simeon Career Academy, led by its dazzling point guard, future NBA MVP Derrick Rose. A district policy prohibits students from competing in sports for a year after transferring, which effectively ended Mikey’s high school career in Chicago – he could only practice with the team.

At one of his first practices with the new squad, he had an altercation on the court with another Fenger player. “They thought Mikey was just a hooper,” Slick says, “that he ain’t have nobody that’s gonna pull up.” By the time the team exited the gym, Phil Greene, who played for Fenger, says Mikey’s protection was waiting in the parking lot “car loads deep.” Along with Slick was Mikey’s oldest brother, Terrence, who had done time for selling cocaine and aggravated assault. “That was us,” Slick says. “Make that phone call. Six months later, in the summer of 2011, Mikey’s former AAU coach Loren Jackson got him a spot on the roster of Indian Hills Community College in Ottumwa, Iowa. Though only a five-hour drive from Chicago, the rural small town – where the population is 98 percent white – might as well have been a foreign country for an inner-city black kid with tattoos covering a seven-foot wingspan. (Mikey once wondered at the sight of an unfamiliar creature on the side of an Iowa road; it was a deer.) But the school quickly embraced him.

He electrified crowds with rattling two-handed dunks and a signature roar – fists clenched, muscles flexed, and a bellicose cry reverberating against the walls – and led Indian Hills to the junior college national championship tournament. He would pop into their dorm after practice for late-night pancakes, and often hung out with a sophomore cheerleader, Jenna Strom, whose dad has been out of her life since she was 11.

After his standout season in Iowa, Mikey got another chance to play basketball at the next level: Iona College, a small Division-I school north of Manhattan, offered him a scholarship. Even Mikey occasionally swept through to party. “Cinque’s thing was trying to fit in with people around him,” says Q’s next-door neighbor, Wadell Hardy, who’s an officer with the Chicago Police Department. “That wasn’t his demeanor when I met him.” Hardy had been close with Q’s family. Hardy drew up a 14-page report of Section 8 violations, but never filed it. “The day that I was submitting it,” he says, “was when the incident occurred.” That morning of July 26th, Q walked out into his front yard and said hello to his 16-year-old neighbor, Aliczay Christian.

Mikey’s 21-year-old younger brother Brian was sitting in a car on Vincennes, with Doogie and Don P hanging out on the curb, when he received a phone call that Mikey was dead. Gabriel Fuentes, the assistant coach at the time, describes Mikey as thoughtful, while Brian “was disrespectful” and “a bit more into being a thug.” Brian quit the team, and at 17 was charged with three crimes in four months: battery, assault and disorderly conduct. One police report describes him as a “self-admitted and documented Gangster Disciple.” Armed with a pistol, his face red and eyes bloodshot from crying, Brian marched from the car toward 116th Street. More than a thousand people squeezed inside the Salem Baptist Church for Mikey’s funeral on August 3, 2012, requiring extra chairs and making the choir section standing-room only.

When they stopped at a police station to ask for directions, the cops warned them not to go. “We were all definitely scared,” says Mikey’s college friend, Jenna Strom. Before the cheerleaders exited their van parked a few blocks from the church, Strom had everyone bow their heads and pray for safety. “We knew Mike was going to protect us,” she says. And to me, that’s a hero.” But those who understand the workings of Morgan Park —its inescapable street code enforced with handguns — believe his undoing was more complicated. “I think he was flirting between the street and basketball,” Liggins says. “Mikey did want to live up to that street life.” Pastor Dearal L.

After Mikey’s killing, he hid out at his three-year-old son Jordan’s mother’s house, before heading off to play football at Edward Waters College in Jacksonville, Florida. Although his family’s home had been torched, JaJuan believed tensions had since subsided – after all, he figured, the argument over Don P’s chain had nothing to do with Q shooting Mikey. JaJuan had a gun too, which he kept under a seat in the car. “Turn back around, bro,” he told Williams. “Let’s go holla’ at them.” Williams parked the Dodge just down the block from Q’s old house on Vincennes.

He wasn’t able to identify the shooter, but has a hunch it was one of “Don P’s people.” “Hopefully it’s over,” Williams says. “You never know.” Q shot Mikey, Don P shot JaJuan, and now someone had shot at Williams. “I got a theory that every time somebody gets killed, it wakes up another killer,” he says. Then, almost filling in the gaps of his theory, Williams imagines what other Dirty Butts or Gangster Disciples might have said to Don P to perpetuate the violence. “They probably was pressuring Don P,” he says. “‘Mikey got killed over your chain.

Here you can write a commentary on the recording "Hologram Performance by Chief Keef Is Shut Down by Police".

* Required fields
All the reviews are moderated.
Our partners
Follow us
Contact us
Our contacts

About this site