They say the soul of Cincinnati lives most fully on Sunday mornings when the parking lots around Paycor Stadium begin to rumble. That’s where Derrick “DJ Diamond” Brown takes the stage behind a set of tuntables at the Bengal Trailer Tailgate. Long before the cheers of a tailgate crowd echoed through Lot E his story began. Raised in Cincinnati in the 1980s, Derrick was the kind of kid whose room was plastered with hip hop posters, who sorted through stacks of old 45’s and vinyl LP’s, and who’d bust out his rendition of the "Ickey Shuffle", as his favorite Cincinnati Bengal rumbled into the endzone. Music wasn’t background noise—it was the quest. Comic books, Saturday morning cartoons, Smurfberry Crunch cereal, and the challenge of matching stacks of records to their covers after parties for his mother—all of that shaped the soundtrack of his youth.

As he grew up, his love for music widened: listening to diverse genres, reading Jet, Ebony, The Source, Billboard Magazine.  His taste in music is diverse.  It was shaped by his mother, his older brothers, his dad, friends and family … all leading him to develop a style that's all his own. He began rapping under the name "The Great Unknown", his daughter’s mother, watching The Players Club, suggested an alternative, “DJ Diamond” after the character in the movie, and she even got him a nameplate one Christmas with “DyMond” spelled out. He decided to adopt it, but spelled like the jewel, because diamonds are a “girl’s best friend”—it stuck. That name would become more than a moniker; it would become a voice.

DJ Diamond’s first tools were modest. His first setup, a Hot Wheels Deluxe City playset that he drew up to look like a boom box, was innovative.  Hand drawn in Magic Marker on the front face were a set of dual cassette decks, 5-band graphic equalizer, and a speaker grill on each of the curved ramps.  Young Diamond folded the playset in half, concealing the car wash and service station inside, then grabbed it by the handle on top and walked around the neighborhood pretending it was an iconic 1980's radio cassette deck.   He mimicked scratching by watching Grandmaster DXT, Herbie Hancock’s DJ who appeared on “Solid Gold”.  He went to the Goodwill to buy used vinyl records and crafted fake names to order ten cassettes from Columbia House for a penny.  DJ MNM showed him how to put the needle on the record and how to count to pick up the beat. He built rudimentary setups: boom boxes, tape decks, borrowed speakers, even improvised gear from what neighborhood folks discarded or donated. Mr. Ray from the neighborhood, a Sanford & Son style collector, helped build his first DJ console from found materials. Rent-A-Center provided “free” speakers from time to time. His early performances were for house parties; listeners were friends, family, and people who showed up. Through every misstep — damaged records, mismatched beats, rough equipment — he learned rhythm, timing, and most importantly, how to listen. How to feel a moment before it hits.

Eventually opportunities came. He made radio audition mix tapes at the encouragement of Mrs. Judy Jones, saved up to buy turntables with pitch control, and began to play at night clubs around Cincinnati. Folks started noticing: he eventually worked radio too, something he hadn’t originally aimed for, but once he stepped in and saw how it helped amplify other pursuits, he embraced it. The radio shows, the steady gigs, the evolution of his skill—each chapter rounded him, sharpened his style. He learned how to scratch on a record, how the “chka-chka” sound of the industry’s best was achieved; he learned that every crowd is a puzzle to be read. He honed what he calls his "boxing combo"—opening with something familiar, slipping in something fresh or unexpected, then rounding it out with another hit. That style keeps people guessing, keeps the energy alive.

And then there’s the tailgate. DJ Skillz, seeing Diamond’s love of Cincinnati pro football, urged him to come down to the Bengal Trailer. At first, Derrick resisted, but eventually he accepted an invite; at the first home game he showed up with his own equipment. From that day forward, there was no turning back. Over 16 seasons later, DJ Diamond is the sound of “The Wilds”.  It’s early morning setup, hauling gear, prepping playlists, checking the crowd from the moment they roll in.  It’s the heart and soul of Bengals fandom, where fans greet you like family, where even rival fans are welcomed as guests, because here it’s not just about winning; it’s about standing together.

On game day, Diamond shows up for the weekly ritual. He makes sure the stage is set, his speakers are tight, sets ready, tents functional. He watches the crowd assemble, watching cups, watching faces. There’s a choreography that only someone who’s done this for years can manage. From first fan walking in, to last tailgate wind-down, he transitions sets, builds momentum, then plays that song that gets people hyped, the one that carries stories of Bengals glory, of heartbreak and of hope. He doesn’t just play music; he invites people in. He’s the bridge between generations, between old fans and new, between those who’ve known the Bengals in darker days and those who only know their roar.

Through all of it, honesty, character, loyalty—they’re more than words to him. “Don’t lie to me, don’t steal from me,” he says, “and I’ll be your truest friend.” That value shows up in how he treats people at the tailgate: fans who ask questions, newcomers who need direction, longtime regulars who know his style. He is earnest. He cares. He wants the tailgate to be more than just drinks and food and cheers. He wants it to grow, to matter.

Today, DJ Diamond’s legacy is entwined with the Bengal Trailer itself. His name is familiar, his voice a fixture. He keeps a massive vinyl collection, prize records, favorite tracks—Fleetwood Mac among them—because for him, the best music is the one that has life’s texture in it: longing, nostalgia, triumph, loss. He believes DJ’ing is storytelling, and every mix, every set, every fade, every scratch is a paragraph in a larger narrative.

When he steps down from the stage at the end of the day, after “Who Dey,” after fans cheering, after games won or lost, he carries something with him: pride. Not just for the moments, but for the relationships, for the years of showing up, of turning up. Cincinnati is his home; the Bengal Trailer is his altar. And his music, the pulse that carries fans forward.