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Dear Hendrix,
I’m writing this letter to you on August 12, 2025, at 5:02 a.m., which is six hours before I arrive at the Monroe Correctional Complex, a medium- and high-security level prison in Monroe, Washington. But my story of performing in prisons starts about 2,000 miles away in the flat, humid town of Lexington, Oklahoma, at the Joseph Harp Correctional Center.
A few months ago, the Black Tones were invited to play Muzik Fest, a three-day music festival at Joseph Harp Correctional Center in Oklahoma. An event featuring music ranging from gospel to hip-hop, metal to rock ‘n’ roll and we were the festival headliners. Combining my love of music and reaching out to the prison population has always been a dream of mine. I know it’s not a typical dream, but your former bank-robbing grandfather, my dad, spent time in “the joint,” as he calls it, and while inside, he was the keyboardist in a funk band. In an email he sent me years and years ago, after he was released, he wrote, “Music helped me bridge the gap between my sanity and isolation.” Ever since, I’ve wondered how I could use my music to contribute to the prison population. What could I do?
This was before I’d ever heard of Johnny Cash and his famous Folsom Prison Blues live album (but I’d like to think I was hip to it not long after). My inspiration actually came from three other sources. First was Harry Smith and his collection of recordings called the Anthology of American Folk Music, which was released in 1952. The second was a random series of prison music recordings I’d found surfing the web, and the third was field recordings by historian Alan Lomax. Lomax is known for initiating the folk revival movements in the US and abroad. I mused to myself, “What if I were the Alan Lomax of contemporary prison music?” My intention was to go into prison complexes, record musicians there free of charge, and share their songs with the world. But after a few attempts to connect with a few different places, nothing came to fruition.
You can understand why I was so excited to be in Oklahoma. The night before I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what to expect. Everything from the plane ride from Seattle to the long drive from the airport to the facility was a blur. My memory kicks back in with the front office security check, which included a full-body scan with both a wand and a metal detector.
Before we knew it, we were on their turf. Immediately, normal society was absent, and the silence spoke volumes. All I saw was a sea of men in orange jumpsuits slowly roaming around. It took me a minute to catch my bearings. But being there was soon validated when, upon spotting me, one of the residents yelled out, “Mama! There’s a spider in my room!” I couldn’t believe it. These guys not only listened to our music, they screamed the fucking words back at us in excitement!
I lost my shit.
As soon as we were welcomed by the residents with cheers and singing, I knew that this was going to be an unforgettable time. We were greeted by a resident named Chuck, who was also the organizer of the fest. He had been doing this for five years, which is only a fraction of the sentence he’ll be serving.
Chuck showed us around the facility, and during our walk, more and more residents joined in. There were some racially segregated groups, but our Black band was met with so much enthusiasm and love from everyone we encountered. I gave high fives, hugs, and blew kisses. Your uncle later told me that he even overheard some guys squashing beef because it was such a positive day for everyone. It was a time to feel good, a time for a few hours of peace through rock.
We were escorted to the gym where they had barbeque, chips, and fruit prepared by residents and, let me tell you, the BBQ in an Oklahoma prison is amazing. It was better than a lot of the BBQ I’ve found in Seattle (although shout-out to my Uncle Perry and Lil Red’s on Rainier)!
When we sat down, Chuck and a few others joined us at the table, which filled with several dozen people at one point. I wanted to hear stories, and they shared everything with us, from the crimes they committed to the music they were making on the inside. We heard the length of everyone’s sentences. Some men we met will never get out.
After a few hours of chatting, eating, and joking with the Oklahomans about how they stole our Sonics, it was time to walk over to the chapel where we would be performing. The venue was blasting hip-hop, and it was great to see the guys feel like they could cut loose. They were laughing and dancing and jumping and taking turns bouncing around in the middle of the circle they formed. I even ran to the front of the circle, and they let me in. I had to show off my best Elaine Benes!
When we hopped onstage, the requests came in. “Mr. Pink!” said one. “Mama, There’s a Spider in My Room!’ shouted another. “Ghetto Spaceship!” yelled a third. And we played them all! It was one of the best performances I have ever experienced.
As our set ended, I thought about the tour Chuck took us on. It included a stop in the prison’s music room. The place was filled with guitars, drum kits, basses, and a keyboard like the one your grandfather played. I thought about what he’d said music did for him. After our final song, I told the story of my guitar. How the white Stratocaster, which had been with me for 18 years, was the first six-string I bought with my own money. I was 17 and had just completed a horrible summer job. I named the guitar Ruth after my maternal grandmother (her middle name). I’d toured the world with Ruth, written many songs with it that made it on the radio, and played live for tens of thousands. It had been there through the darkest moments and the brightest. But, at that moment, I had a thought.
It feels like the right time to leave this here…
That’s what I did. I took Ruth off for the final time and gifted it to the residents at Joseph Harp Correctional Center in Lexington, Oklahoma. As I handed the instrument to Chuck, the residents cheered. I saw some even tear up. It’s a day I’ll remember forever. I don’t know if I’ll ever top it.
Eva Walker is a writer, a KEXP DJ, one-half of the rock duo The Black Tones, and mom to her baby girl, Hendrix. She also co-wrote the book The Sound of Seattle: 101 Songs That Shaped a City, which was released in 2024. Every month for The Stranger, she writes a letter to Hendrix to share wisdom learned from her experiences—and her mistakes.