Here in the belly of the beast, life is either totally chaotic or so monotonous that you can feel each second slip by. To find some peace and pass the time, some guys get into arts and crafts, others play basketball or lift weights and still others spend their time in the prison law library, trying to fight their cases. Every federal prison also has a group of convicts that hold it down in the band room. The equipment is ancient and you can bet nobody is getting a record deal, but you can write and practice music, and even play shows for the rest of the inmate population. Here are a few bands that put their work in at FCI Gilmer, a medium to high federal prison in the foothills of West Virginia.
Death Metal Gangstas
Bass player/singer John "Judge" Broman, a Pittsburgh native doing 17 years for bank robbery, sums it up, "We play some punk and alternative shit." He cites Jane's Addiction, Rage Against the Machine, NIN, Bad Brains, and Angry Samoans as influences.
"We also do some covers that we change up a little bit," Judge says. This twentysomething dude who just started his bid will spend the next ten years or so—his prime rockstar time—playing in prison bands for a largely thug-life audience. "I'm not sure if they get the music but they run around and try to break shit when we play. I wish they would learn how to mosh though. That would be cool."
Nappy
Damon Donelson-Bey #06389-007, a.k.a. Nappy, currently holds the crown as the top rapper on the pound. This DC convict has been down eight years and isn't eligible for release until 2031. "I've been rapping since I was ten," Nappy says. "They call me the mad rapper because I don't like nobody." On the street he was part of a band called United Niggas Living Violent. "We did a tape and video but nothing ever happened," remembers Nappy. "Although we did perform at the DC Armory with Craig Mack, Da Brat, and Biggie in 1995." And now the kid is in the penitentiary doing football numbers.
Barry Thompson
Barry Thompson is a West Virginia native who's done nine and a half years and gets out in one more. He grew up on bluegrass and uses the flattop style of picking. During his years in prison, he's developed his own sound. He calls it psychograss, and it's a mixture of blues, jazz, and bluegrass. "You see," he says, "it's bluegrass but jazz-oriented." It might just be the next big thing once he gets out of the feds.
Sixteen Beat
Sixteen Beat is a reggae band fronted by Lover Jack (Orville Montgomerey), from Kingston Jamaica, and Trinidadian Quincy Josephs, who says, "I got a split personality on the mic." Both these MCs, or DJs as they refer to themselves in the Jamaican tradition, have been down a minute, and both are eligible for parole in 2007. Lover Jack has praise for the band programs in prison: "I think it's great. This is where I find my peace." Josephs adds a few verses: "How long will the youth brag about being gun experts/Guns so big til they need triple-X shirts/Sight them, run in the bank, snatch the bank clerk/Now she has to decide what her life's really worth."
El Cano T
Richard Ruiz is a Puerto Rican rapper from Massachusetts who gets out in a couple more years. This boriqua goes by the name El Cano T. "I do it just to give motivation to the Puerto Ricans in here," he says. "I didn't rap on the streets." But he raps inside, and all in Spanish too. When asked for a sample of his skills he spits: "Pero que esta cancion pues la dedico/Atodos mis amigos y tambein al enemigo/Que escunchen esta livica y no los dejen sorprendido/Pues sigo con mi flow cantando y asiendo ruido."
Versatility
Versatility is a nine-person go-go band that uses "bongos, drums, congas, rototoms, bass, guitar, cowbells and four MCs," according to Maurice "Tank" Williams, a DC native and drummer for the band, who's been down for over a decade so far. All dudes from the Chocolate City (and murder capital of the world) have go-go music in their blood.
"When the group starts cranking," Tank says, "Dudes be yelling out their hoods and repping their sets. Everybody be into it hype." And Versatility could play all night long (if they didn't have to go back to their cells for the 9 PM count.) "It's one continuous beat," Tank says.
SETH FERRANTI
