Jail House Rock

It's the energy in the room. Intoxicating. Police outside, the auditorium jam-packed, many more pushed back from the theater doors by security. The music is good; there's a lot of hip hop. It's surprising to see so many children. But after, when I go backstage to talk to the 15 inmates who make up the eclectic band Rimas de Alta Calibre, I watch as a parade of family members--moms, dads, younger siblings, children--come to greet the musicians. One of the bandmates, in a white tux and black tie to match his long, thinning black hair, holds a baby granddaughter he's meeting for the first time. Others meet with mothers with fancy eye-wear, overly stimulated children. "I can't remember when the troubles began," one mother tells me. Her son, battling addictions, has been in and out of prison since he was a teen. Perhaps now he's experiencing some peace in making music. There's suddenly a future where there never really had been. The optimism of the music is palpable.

There is also the energy of the crowd, scrawny teenagers with bad complexions who listen to the hip-hop from their cousins in America and who grew up on their parents'  punk and surf rock albums, who have to walk past squad cars and vans with grated windows to get into the show. Besides all this, the rap is heavy and flows well over la cumbia.