I once played a gig for a gymnasium full of inmates. The Tennessee Prison for Women was hosting a performance series in which my band was invited to play. Hours before the show we entered the grounds through a high chain link gate topped with razor wire. Inside, guards x-rayed our guitar cases, our amplifiers, our drums and microphones. Everything. We were asked to remove our hats before being scanned with a metal detecting wand. Finally, we were patted down with an unapologetic thoroughness that would have revealed any overlooked contraband.

Once in the auditorium, we plugged in and tuned up as the prisoners were escorted through the doors and toward their seats. Half were lost in some animated conversation with their neighbor. Half were lost inside a thousand yard stare, like they could see right through the walls. All wore identical uniforms, muted gray scrubs with a stencil on the back: TN DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS.

I gave a nod to the band and hollered, "One...two...one, two, three, four!" The stutter of a kick drum and the wash of guitars filled the room...

Afterwards a guard told me, “Those ladies couldn’t understand a word you were singing.” The cinder-block walls only reverberated the music into mush and knotted the lyrics into some indecipherable language. But they had stomped their feet and clapped for us. They had roared with unchecked enthusiasm. They had understood something about the songs. At least that’s what I tell myself. That’s what I always tell myself.