Guitars Behind Bars

“Before we begin, I would like to make it abundantly clear that I cannot sing. Prepare your ears accordingly.”

You can’t say that I didn’t warn ‘em.

It was a Thursday morning. I was locked in the dining hall at Metro Regional Youth Detention Center. I do not like Metro. The plexiglass windows are covered in graffiti, the doors hammer shut with a resounding boom, nothing ever rarely occurs on time or in an orderly fashion. It is chaotic, dimly lit, sterile, and a horrible place to house at-risk youth who have already made poor decisions and are now thrust in an environment where they’re easily persuaded by other at-risk youth to make more bad decisions.

I visit Metro every Thursday morning to lead a guitar class for 4 to 6 incarcerated boys aged 13-17. We had a professional musician leading the class but he moved to Birmingham, so I dusted off an old guitar and decided to do it myself. I watch YouTube videos of simple guitar riffs and teach a new song each week – Another One Bites the Dust, Smoke on the Water, Ode to Joy, Sunshine of Your Love - simple stuff really.

A few weeks ago, I watched Scorsese’s The Last Waltz documenting The Band’s final concert. One song has been stuck in my head since then, Mannish Boy by Muddy Waters. I decided to learn it on guitar; turns out, it’s quite simple, which as I mentioned earlier, is perfect for our class.

Last Thursday, the boys shuffled into the cafeteria for class. One was turning 17 the next day and would be transferred to an adult prison to serve out the remainder of his time. He was on edge; he’s been with me since the first guitar class. Truth be told, he was a horrible guitar player for the longest time. He showed up to class high, easily lost his place, and acted like he didn’t care. A couple weeks ago, something changed. He played an old riff from memory, the first time he had ever shown interest in class or what we were doing. I looked him in the eyes and smiled. I told him how proud I was of him. I told him he did such a good job, and he had played every note perfectly. And the strangest thing happened – he smiled back at me. His face lit up. He actually smiled at me. I’d never seen him smile before. All I’d ever seen was a face hidden behind dreads, a face with a forlorn look and bloodshot eyes. I then realized, sometimes, all these kids need is someone to tell them that they did a good job. Here’s the beautiful thing - it doesn’t cost me a dime to tell that kid that I am proud of him, that he accomplished something, that he has done a good job. It took nothing and yet it meant all the world to him.

But back to our class. As the boys sat down, I noticed that BJ had decided to come to class today. BJ is by far the worst guitar student we have ever had. He acts like he can’t play even though I know he can. He acts like he doesn’t care, acts like they force him to come each week, acts like he can’t learn. Sometimes he’ll pick up the guitar and intentionally hold it upside down and ask me mockingly, “Am I holding it right?” I know he’s acting out for attention, but God has granted me patience to love him regardless.

I told the kids we would be learning a new song today, Mannish Boy by Muddy Waters. BJ’s face lit up, “Wait, Muddy Waters? I’ve seen a movie about him.” I was perplexed; I’d never heard of such a movie. In a flash, he told me all about Muddy Waters’ life; he had indeed seen a movie. I encouraged him, “Yes, yes, you’re 100% right, now we’re going to learn one of his songs.” BJ realized he’d revealed his secret to the class – he was smart, he knew things. In his excitement he had stood up, he quickly slouched down into the chair bolted to the ground, eyes averted downwards.

We began to learn. One of my old baseball teammates Hayden Dwyer donated his electric guitar and amp to our program. When those boys touch that electric Fender guitar, magic happens. The room vibrates with an electricity, the energy palpable, the noise often deafening. They love the distortions it makes, the sounds of metal strings wailing out songs. We passed the guitar around, each boy practicing the simple riff over and over again. In that moment, I felt like that guitar has been blessed by God himself. The second they place that strap over their heads, those boys smile.

BJ tried playing. He acted like he didn’t know what a fret was even though we’ve gone over it a hundred or so times. He played a few times, not sounding particularly good or bad. He passed the guitar along to the next student. I offered encouragement, “Good job, BJ. I’m proud of you.” He didn’t smile.

I showed them the main beat to the song. BJ smiled now, “That’s smooth, I like that.” I told them it was time to learn how to sing while playing the guitar. I issued a warning – “I can’t sing. Don’t laugh.” I played and sang the Muddy Waters tune.

After a while, I continued with the beat but stopped singing; I’d forgotten the lyrics. BJ nodded along, his turn to affirm me. “That was nice.” For context, when a young Black kid like BJ says “nice,” this is the ultimate compliment. I, for once in my life, was nice. I felt on top of the world.

The other students piped in – “BJ, rap over it.” I didn’t know BJ could rap; he’d never mentioned it. He looked down sheepishly, “Naw, forget about it.” I nudged him, “I didn’t know you rapped, come on bro, let’s hear it.” He looked at the guard in the corner, then at his fellow students. He leaned back, almost to the ground, “Naw, naw, I can’t guys.” They continued to cajole him. I started to play the beat, this time, down an octave, producing a sound more suitable to rap. He wouldn’t go for it. I reached over to the amp and turned up the bass. I think I saw his foot begin to tap along, but I didn’t look at him too intensely, not wanting him to shy away.

The boy who would turn 17 tomorrow and be sent to adult prison pleaded with BJ, “Come on man, we gotta hear it.” I picked up the tempo and sure enough, BJ began to “spit”.

The speed and intensity of his words were beyond my listening comprehension. But he rapped, and rapped, and rapped. The other boys heard and interpreted every word. At regular intervals they cheered, smiling ear to ear, basking in the moment. Finally, BJ stopped, “Aight, that’s all I got.”

I quit playing. I extended my hand in a fist bump and exclaimed, “BJ, you were nice with it!”

We finished our class with a discussion about decisions. The male brain doesn’t stop fully forming until you turn 25, and some research postulates it might take until 35 for some men. I told the boys, “Look, your brains aren’t fully formed. Think of that fact when making decisions.” A group of boys had started a riot two weeks prior - classes had been subsequently cancelled. “Don’t make this experience worse than it already is. Don’t cut yourself off from programs.” They nodded along. I prayed the message would stick.

At the end of class, I asked the boys, “What song did we learn today?”

And BJ – the once disinterested student - answered proudly.

Nice, I thought. So nice.

Spencer