Photo via R. City Facebook
Statistics only begin to tell the story: the United States has less than five percent of the world’s overall population, yet nearly 25 percent of its prisoners. Among black males born since the late 1970s, one in four went to prison by their mid-thirties; since the 1970s, America's overall prison and jail population has septupled. These are just a few of the many facts, figures, and keen observations in Ta-Nehisi Coates’ harrowing recent treatise on how incarceration has devastated the black American family in The Atlantic. "The current U.S. rate of incarceration is unprecedented by both historical and comparative standards," Coates cites Harvard University sociologist Devah Prager: "Prison is no longer a rare or extreme event among our nation’s most marginalized groups. Rather it has now become a normal and anticipated marker in the transition to adulthood." America today is the most jailed population ever on Earth. So whywouldn’t we write songs about it?
Even before America’s massive uptick of incarceration in the '80s—even before the phrase "War on Drugs" was coined in 1971—the matter-of-fact portrayal of incarceration has been reflected in pop culture, namely music. You can find it as far back as Lead Belly’s prison and work songs—ones that lament his own incarceration, Jim Crow-era treatment, poverty, existential malaise—in the '30s and '40s. Johnny Cash wrote "Folsom Prison Blues", a fictional tale, in 1955. Elvis Presley’s campy song and film "Jailhouse Rock" came out in 1957, and Cash recorded his famous live albums At Folsom Prison in 1968 and At San Quentin in 1969. In roots music, the outlaw archetype was exalted.
In more recent years, there’s been a shift: System of a Down gave listeners a crash course in the military-prison-industrial complex with "Prison Song", the lead-off track from its landmark 2001 LP Toxicity. Akon scored his first hit with 2004’s "Locked Up", a semi-autobiographical slow jam intended as a "street record", not for radio, where it caught fire unexpectedly. Carrying on the country tradition of prison songs into 2009, Neko Case released "Prison Girls". "They've traded more for cigarettes," Case sings, meeting the despondency of the situation head on, "than I've managed to express."
In just the last few years—perhaps a culmination of this disquieting history—awareness of the prison world in pop culture and politics seems to have reached a new peak. Prisoners' rights have been Pussy Riot’s cause célèbre in Russia, the U.S., and worldwide, showing up at charity functions, live gigs, on talk shows and a music video with Le Tigre members in an episode of "House of Cards". In July, President Barack Obama became the first sitting president to visit a federal prison. A recent special report from HBO’s "Vice" (watch it in full here) followed him inside.
"You have to question whether we have become numb to the costs that it has on these communities," President Obama said, "whether we think it’s somehow normal for black youth or Latino youth to be going through the system in this way. It’s not normal."
Pop music’s latest entry into this tradition is R. City’s "Locked Away", a top-ten hit on the U.S. singles chart. While it fits the larger historical narrative of prison songs, it was a bit of an odd topic amid a mostly carefree slate of summer jams upon release in June. Its "Would you still love me the same?" hook, sung by Maroon 5’s Adam Levine, is sunny and bright, but its other lyrics ("Tell me would you really cry for me?/ Baby don't lie to me") are imbued with keep-your-chin-up positivity in the face of struggle, or what Ta-Nehisi Coates called "earned" hope.
"Hope is not feel-goodism built on the belief in unicorns," Coates wrote in the wake of the riots in Ferguson, Mo. last year, skeptical of Obama’s take on American race relations. "Martin Luther King had hope, but it was rooted in years of study and struggle, not in looking the other way. Hope is not magical. Hope is earned."
And this is what’s exceptional about "Locked Away": It’s the rare hit single that doesn’t look the other way. The brothers of R. City, Theron and Timothy Thomas, look back and, implicitly, forward in its lyrics, which come from personal experience. Growing up on the Virgin Islands in St. Thomas’ housing projects, the Thomases’ father was in jail for five years when they were just babies. “‘Locked Away’ was just a representation of love that we saw [from our mom] growing up and love that we aspire to have with our significant others," explains Theron. "That’s the kind of relationship we would love to have."
In contrast to “Jailhouse Rock” or “Folsom Prison Blues”, the true story and implicit values of “Locked Away” zoom past simple storytelling or genre exercise. But that’s not to say the duo isn’t accomplished at writing songs for others or experiences not their own, either: the Thomases helped author a series of hits for the likes of Rihanna (“Pour It Up”), Miley Cyrus (“We Can’t Stop”), Nicki Minaj (“Only”) and other huge stars over the last few years. What Dreams Are Made Of– the duo’s major-label debut as performers, out this week– and save for the appearance of Adam Levin on “Locked Away”, R. City is largely unaccompanied on the record.
“We didn’t wanna sacrifice a really good body of work versus a good feature,” Timothy said. “We wanted people to become fans of R. City, to buy into us.”
The duo’s current promotional contest calls on fans to share stories on social media of incarcerated loved ones for a chance to win money for their commissary. The Thomases say it’s the first of many steps in helping to improve people’s lives with their music.
"I’ve had people really close to me locked up, from my dad to one of my closest cousins." Timothy says. "I can’t necessarily say I know what it feels like, but that feeling, like, ‘Damn, nobody cares? Nobody can put a little $100 dollars on my book?’ That we can provide that for some family, some loved one, even if we can’t do it for everybody, we’re making a difference."
Timothy references Tupac’s famous "I will spark the brain that will change the world" quote as their goals for future community outreach and activism.
"We wanna touch minds and show these kids the dream is real," he says. "We’re not trying to make history. We just want to help people."
Considering the institutional enormity of the prison-system issue—compounded by the deep personal impact it has on individuals and families—it’s easy to imagine and accept a cultural response of only American anguish and acquiescence. But R. City, like so many recently and throughout history, shows we can sing—speak out—instead.