This dude right here seems like he has the worst possible job — he's the DJ hired by Liberty Place to play really loud music over the loudspeaker rants of the Black Israelites. It was ruled back in July — as it should have been — that the First Amendment covered these guys yelling slurs about everyone not in "their target audience of blacks, Hispanics and Native Americans" at their regular Friday sessions on public sidewalks at 16th and Chestnut, according to the Daily News. (This reporter has personally been cited over the megaphone as an example of genetic inferiority, due to her glasses.)
The workaround that Liberty Place, unable to legally evict the Black Israelites, came up with: hiring a DJ to set up right across from them, about 20 yards away, and blast Rihanna (and others, though "We Found Love" was playing when we walked by) from the building's own property to drown out the nonstop tirades about how gay people are going to hell, various passing women are sluts, white people are devils, etc. The DJ booth is flanked by a couple of security guards, and though it seemed like it would be pretty miserable gig, the guy behind the turntable actually seems to be having a surprising amount of fun with it.
He seemed to be enjoying deliberately pissing off the competing act by tailoring his playlist to things happening and being shouted — "Hit the Road, Jack" as the Black Israelites were packing it in for the day brought some angry commentary about "this white boy," so the next song was "Play That Funky Music, White Boy," a song which the Black Israelites appear to really dislike.
Further shouts calling him a white devil were responded to with "Running With the Devil" interspersed with sampled loops of "Shut up, dingus." The Black Israelites seemed even madder than they usually are, and were throwing various pieces of their setup on the ground to demonstrate how mad they were. Someone nearby said that the DJ is only allowed when the Black Israelites don't have a permit or something? We'll have to verify this next week — it's Friday afternoon.
The music was deafening, so we couldn't talk to the DJ right then and there, but he said he'd email us. Please, Mr. DJ. Email us. We are desperate to hear how you ended up with this gig.
(Note on Saturday: He did! Here's the interview!)
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