On ‘Long Time Gone,’ Prison Music Project Gives Voice to Those Society Dehumanizes

The police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis has renewed a dialogue that only seems to happen when a video of horrific police abuse goes viral. That dialogue centers on a few things: specifically the nature of policing, the use of police authority in urban population centers, and the fraught relationship between law enforcement and minority communities.

The other part, one that we’ve seen after the deaths of Michael Brown, Sandra Bland, Philando Castile, Botham Jean, and now George Floyd, is the humanity. The people who’ve died are living, breathing human beings. Men and women with families, friends, jobs, aspirations, and lives. In a fast-moving world where everything tends to be shunted into black-and-white, emotionless talking points and political fodder, the very real, very human element is what carries such heavy emotions.

But the conversations surrounding George Floyd and comparable horrific events are only one part of an essential dialogue. The other part is the prison system and the very essence of incarceration in America.

Are jails meant to be sole forever homes for convicted criminals, an interminable form of dehumanizing punishment? Or are they meant to be rehabilitative, a way to teach people and help them grow and transcend the circumstances that led them to be incarcerated? Too often, these questions receive non-answers rooted in statistics on recidivism and crime rates. The human side — the lives, the stories, the futures of the men and women in prison — goes unaddressed.

Long Time Gone from the Prison Music Project takes the humanity of those in prison and brings it to the forefront, so that it can’t be deflected from, denied, or ignored. The Prison Music Project is driven by singer-songwriter Zoe Boekbinder. From 2010-2014, Boekbinder volunteered at New Folsom Prison, performing concerts and hosting writing workshops. Since then, Boekbinder (with the help of the icon Ani DiFranco, who co-produced with Boekbinder and is releasing the album via her Righteous Babe Records label) has taken the writings of these incarcerated men and set them to song.

Recording devices aren’t allowed at New Folsom Prison, so most of the 10 tracks don’t feature vocal performances from their lyricists. The couple that do were recorded over the telephone and only one, the Kendrick Lamar-indebted “Survivalist,” was recorded in an actual studio (after writer Alex Beatriz was released from prison). But despite the inability of the composers to contribute directly, Boekbinder and DiFranco’s abilities to concoct spot-on arrangements and recruit talented musicians to play help to highlight the profoundly human, very real stories at the core of Long Time Gone.

Take “Monster.” It’s anchored by a percussive beat and dramatic cello work by Leyla McCalla. Raye Zaragoza sings the lamentations of the incarcerated Greg Gadlin: “Please understand I really was never given a chance / I was pushed to the streets and forced to be a man / I had to show a side to those watching eyes / to prove my gangster would be upheld at all times” and reflects on the conditions that led him to commit violent crimes that have led to the societal perception and his self-image as monstrous.

Ken Blackburn’s “All Over Again” is a poem of relationships lost and the passage of time behind prison. Sung by Boekbinder, it’s arranged and performed expertly as a soulful ballad. Blackburn’s words seem particularly well-suited to the blues form, and his “Coffin Song” and “Just Another Link in the Chain” sound as if they could have sprung from the true-to-life experiences of Mississippi Delta bluesmen at the turn of the 20th century.

Long Time Gone closes with the song “Villain.” It cuts to the quick of the issues behind the dehumanization and capitalization of convicts and the perception of these individuals as less than human. It’s boldly arranged with the type of hook-y melody you’d expect from Halsey. Featuring an outstanding vocal performance from Aranesa Turner, the words of Nathen Jackson stay with you long after the final notes fade away. I’ll leave them with you below.

even you remain, tales locked inside
intricate puzzles, tales of lost lives
you trap us in, green grass looks good
sweating bodies running barefoot
wild men you can keep, most of us will never leave
but you can’t keep out the heat
there’s more than one kind of release
you love to call me a villain
you’re makin a killin’, a killin’

cool and constant, you put up a solid fight
I press my body against you to escape the heat of the night
still and silent against my vicious blows
I remain grateful in your shadow
though you are a comfort, I’d love to watch you fall
gamblers are still betting and you’re still a concrete wall
you love to call me a villain
you’re makin a killin’, a killin’