Rapper’s holographic performance prompts police to shut down hip-hop festival

27 Jul 2015 | Author: | No comments yet »

Chief Keef Hologram Concert Shut Down By Police.

Police in Hammond, Indiana, pulled the plug on Craze Fest while Chief Keef was beaming in his set from a soundstage in Los Angeles. Holographic “performances” by the likes of 2Pac and Michael Jackson have already broken laws of taste and decency, but a new show by a living artist appears to have fallen foul of the actual law.Rapper Chief Keef appeared — via hologram — at a Hammond [hip-hop] music festival [Craze Fest] Saturday night, but his performance was shut down by police within minutes. He was just finishing I Don’t Like, and talking about the need to stop violence, when music was turned down, the hologram disappeared and police cleared the stage. The event seems to be at the open-air Wolf Lake Pavilion in a Hammond, Ind., city park, which is apparently generally open for concerts and other events.

The show, held in a public park and attended by 2,000 people, was planned as a benefit for Chief Keef’s friend Marvin Carr – a rapper known as Capo – and 13-month-old Dillan Harris, who killed on 11 July. Chief Keef’s Craze Fest appearance was arranged after a Chicago hologram performance was called off following condemnation from Mayor Rahm Emanuel’s office, calling the rapper an “unacceptable role model” who could present a “significant public safety risk” by appearing in virtual form. The government may impose reasonable content-neutral restrictions on speech in such venues, such as sound level restrictions, and may charge money for the use of the venues. He’s been basically outlawed in Chicago, and we’re not going to let you circumvent Mayor Emanuel by going next door.” “No one ever gave me a reason why they didn’t want the hologram to appear,” said Craze Fest promoter Malcolm Jones. “They didn’t have a real reason.

Chief Keef, 19, had billed the performance as a “Stop the Killing” benefit concert, meant to raise money for Marvin Carr, a fellow Chicago rapper 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. 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. It was the police who did this,” Stefanae Coleman, 17, told the paper. “Everyone was happy … We went through the whole show without any problems.

Pat Vicari told the Chicago Tribune. “Later, an officer working the show realized it was being streamed on one of the hip-hop sites, and promoters were warned again they would be shut down.” No arrests were made after the Chief Keef gig was canceled after one song, even though the 2,000 people in attendance had donated either $50 or $80 for the benefit gig. Ahead of Saturday’s concert, Chief Keef’s team defiantly teased a live appearance by the hologram in downtown Chicago that night. “The location is being kept secret because of past efforts by city officials to keep the charity event from happening,” a spokesman said in a news release. It’s disrespectful to us.” Chief Keef had performed by hologram owing to several arrest warrants against him in the neighbouring state of Illinois. A promotional video boomed: “Banned by the mayor of Chicago: Chief Keef, from a secret Chicago location.” But as showtime approached, Chief Keef posted on Instagram that the show would be held just over the Illinois border at the Pavilion at Wolf Lake in Hammond, the site of Craze Fest. 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.

Last weekend, a similar appearance in Chicago was cancelled after the staff of mayor Rahm Emanuel called him “an unacceptable role model” who “promoted violence” and whose presence, even via hologram, “posed a significant safety risk”. Malcolm Jones, a promoter for Craze Fest, said the Hammond police and a representative from the mayor’s office visited him on site after 7 p.m. on Saturday.

Despite organizers’ insistence that Craze Fest is a peaceful event, Law Cannon, the creator of Craze Productions, said the police presence became heightened Saturday night once word of the hologram performance began to trickle out, the idea being that even a digital rendering of Chief Keef would incite unrest. “In Chicago, it’s a really big focus on the violence,” Cannon said. “We would bring out 2,000 people, play any kind of genre, and we would never have any kind of violence, any kind of shooting. Sons of Confederate Veterans“?, note that the Court in Walker recognized that parks continue to be traditional public fora when it comes to events (as opposed to permanent monuments), and not places for the government to express its own message. 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.

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.

Plus we’ll be back to sue your a–.” “They still feel as if Chief Keef’s music — whatever you hear in the lyrics is going to happen right there,” Cannon said. “At the end of the day, like heavy metal, they might produce a song about killing but it’s not emphasized as much as Chief Keef.” 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. 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. Don P leaned over the seat to hold his fading friend. “Bro, we gonna make it,” Don P said. “And when you done coming out the hospital, Bro, we gonna get back to the females, get back to the money, just gonna live life.” After Mikey’s family arrived at the medical center, the doctor summoned his father, Louis, into the emergency room. 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.

In anticipation of Fourth of July weekend last year, hundreds of extra officers patrolled the city’s most violent areas. “What were the results?” Chicago police superintendent Garry McCarthy asked afterward. “The results were a lot of shootings and a lot of murders, unfortunately.” In three and a half days, 82 people were shot and 14 were killed. 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. According to Williams, Q had a reputation as a weakling and a pushover, “the type of person that if you punch him, he ain’t going to do nothing.” Mikey was supposed to be the type of person who made it out.

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. That’s why I say, ‘We a family.'” Though Mikey didn’t lace up for a single game his senior year, he was still ranked the 12th best player in the state, according to the Chicago Sun-Times.

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.

He pleaded for peace and offered a chance for attendees to give up their guns. “If you’re packing a weapon, leave it under the bench,” he said. “We ought to stop the shooting for a day or two.” His request for weapons went unanswered, he now says: “No one left any behind.” The cycle of violence continued on the afternoon of May 28, 2013, when JaJuan Lewis made his first trip back to Morgan Park. 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.

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