Lifestyle
People in prison explain what music means to them — and how they access it
Many states have introduced tablets into prisons, allowing users to do things like listen to music and send messages. Several incarcerated people told NPR that while the devices aren’t perfect, the ability to stream music has been a game-changer.
Sarah Gonzales for NPR
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Sarah Gonzales for NPR
Many states have introduced tablets into prisons, allowing users to do things like listen to music and send messages. Several incarcerated people told NPR that while the devices aren’t perfect, the ability to stream music has been a game-changer.
Sarah Gonzales for NPR
Joe Garcia first heard about Taylor Swift in the late 2000’s, while he was in the Los Angeles County jail awaiting trial on murder charges. He initially wasn’t impressed with her music.
Now, multiple albums and prison transfers later, he credits Swift’s music with helping him get through his life sentence.
“Taylor Swift’s voice, the fairytale romance of it all, takes me back to a much more idyllic time and kind of keeps me focused on recapturing that type of sentiment as I go forward in life,” said Garcia, who was convicted of murder and is eligible for a parole hearing, which is tentatively scheduled for April.
Garcia — who counts “White Horse,” “The Man” and “…Ready for it?” among his top five — detailed his journey into Swiftdom in an essay that was published in the New Yorker last fall in collaboration with the Prison Journalism Project (PJP), a nonprofit organization that trains and publishes incarcerated writers.
The piece describes the impact of Swift’s music on his life — including his rekindled relationship with the woman he describes as his “sweetheart” — and the often-complicated logistics of accessing music behind bars over the years.
It has since been shared widely on social media, where many users wrote that it brought them to tears.
Garcia, who is now at High Desert State Prison in California, told NPR that even though he wasn’t able to follow the reaction in real time, he’s been moved to hear that his essay (one of many he’s published through PJP) resonated with so many people.
“In a lot of ways, I’m a normal human being with all kinds of emotions and heartache and depression … just like anybody who’s not in prison,” he told Morning Edition in a phone interview. “And so I’m always trying to figure out a way to communicate that type of empathy, I guess, and get people on the outside to understand what it’s like in here.”
Joe Garcia wrote about his experience listening to Taylor Swift in prison in a New Yorker essay that went viral in September.
Courtesy of Prison Journalism Project and Joe Garcia
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Courtesy of Prison Journalism Project and Joe Garcia
Garcia hoped that centering Swift, one of the most beloved and influential musicians working today, would be a relatable way to get that point across.
And while he can (and did) speak at length about his favorite eras, his piece shines a spotlight on a much broader topic: the mechanics, and meaning, of music in prison.
How people get access to music in prison
Garcia’s story illustrates some of the challenges that incarcerated people have faced in accessing music — and how new technology has made it possible for many to listen to songs and artists of their choice, some for the first time in years.
His essay details how he navigated ever-changing sets of rules and social dynamics to listen to music in various prisons over more than a decade.
That journey included shared CD players, a borrowed pocket radio, a reconfigured “old-school boombox,” an MP3 player paid for by his family and, most recently, a tablet.
Dozens of states have made tablets available — either for free or for sale — to prisoners in recent years, starting with Colorado in 2016. Almost all people incarcerated in California, where Garcia resides, now have them. And the companies behind the tablets said they had roughly one million users nationwide as of late last year.
“We are given a free tablet that is assigned to us by the state,” Garcia explained. “And then there’s a whole bunch of services that are either free or we have to pay for.”
Users can pay money to send messages, make video calls, play games, download books and stream music, among other functions.
There are still limits around consuming music, as incarcerated people told NPR. Songs cost money and tablets are in many cases only allowed during certain hours of the day. And the streaming services they come with don’t all let users do things like play an artist’s entire discography or curate a personalized playlist — as opposed to saving existing playlists.
Even so, they say, the technology makes a big difference in their day-to-day lives.
“Music is just a huge, tremendous factor in here,” Garcia said. “All throughout my everyday day to day, you see guys walking around with headphones on, with earbuds in. They’ll be singing along to whatever they’re listening to, they’ll be reciting their own type of rap lyrics, they’ll be in circles comparing things.”
Not everyone is listening to the same songs, of course.
A Spotify playlist of the dozens of songs PJP writers said meant the most to them in 2023 includes artists as varied as Smokey Robinson, Carrie Underwood, Kendrick Lamar, John Lennon and Miley Cyrus (and also Swift).
Music as a means of relief and connection
Several people at prisons across the country told NPR that music makes them feel connected, both to others and the outside world.
Jeffrey Shockley, who is 24 years into serving a life sentence in Pennsylvania for murder, says music offers some relief from the “mundane monotony” of prison. That’s especially true when you’re not limited by what radio stations are nearby and which songs they decide to play, he adds.
Jeffrey Shockley, who is serving a life sentence in Pennsylvania, says he listens to everything from Beethoven to Eminem.
Courtesy of Prison Journalism Project and Jeffrey Shockley
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Courtesy of Prison Journalism Project and Jeffrey Shockley
Shockley estimates he has more than a thousand songs on his tablet, ranging from Christian music to classical to Eminem. He says being able to choose what he wants to hear throughout the day — like reggae on a happy morning or Beethoven before bed — has a huge impact on his mood.
“It’s being able to have that ability to reach out and hear something different that will catapult you out of whatever depths of hell you may be in in that moment, figuratively speaking,” he added.
Plus, Shockley said, listening to different genres gives him more to talk about with different types of people.
Garcia similarly says music is one of the few mediums — along with sports and news — that people in prison can share, regardless of their race or background. He says music helps him connect with others, even as someone who was admittedly somewhat antisocial before prison.
“Music is kind of one facet of me trying to open my heart and really appreciate people for who they are,” he added. “And I really do see that a lot in the other incarcerated guys … We end up using it as a platform to come together instead of being divisive.”
Garcia said music not only helps him connect with other people, but also with the outside world. He’s spent his whole life paying attention to new music — which is why he’s now listening to Billie Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo at age 54.
“I don’t want to lose track of what the world is like,” he added.
Reflecting on the past and looking to the future
Music can bring back powerful memories and provide a source of hope for the future, incarcerated people say.
Shockley, 61, says hearing the music his grandmother raised him on, like gospel and Aretha Franklin, reminds him both of his family and simpler times.
“[Like] when you’re a young boy and you’re doing things and running around, playing in the backyard in the green grass,” he explained. “And now you’re sitting in a concrete jungle and hoping for a breath of fresh air .. It’s like a tranquil moment that some people may take for granted because when you don’t have it, you miss it.”
That music, he adds, inspires him to try to give back and uplift others as he was taught — but admittedly struggled to do — when he was younger.
“I don’t want to be who I was,” he said. “So I’m going to be who I can be or should have been.”
KC Johnson, who is incarcerated in North Carolina, described their tablet as a “lifesaver.”
They got it in 2021, just two months before their mom died. The two shared a love of blues, and Johnson was especially grateful to be able to listen to music that reminded them of her.
KC Johnson, whose release date is in three years, looks forward to going to concerts for the first time in over two decades.
Courtesy of Prison Journalism Project and KC Johnson
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Courtesy of Prison Journalism Project and KC Johnson
Johnson, who was convicted of robbery and second-degree murder, said music — especially concerts — was a huge part of their life before they went to prison some 17 years ago.
Now they listen to music pretty much all day: on their tablet while studying, with a portable radio while running or over the speakers at their work-release job at a local food bank (notably the only time they don’t need headphones).
“That’s where all my money goes,” said Johnson, 45. “It’s for my tablet, for my music.”
Johnson’s projected release date is in late 2026, at which point they are planning to move into a halfway house. They are especially excited that the facility allows MP3 players, which will hopefully mean easier access to artists on demand, including on runs.
Johnson is also looking forward to seeing live music again, for the first time in over two decades. Going to a festival is at the top of their to-do list. They say they’ve always loved the positive energy at concerts, where everyone is there for the same reason and getting along.
“I just want to get back in that atmosphere,” Johnson said. “So much has changed in the world, but I feel like going to something like that, it will still be like it was when I was younger — or I hope it is.”
Johnson sees music as a way to reconnect with their past self — and expects the same will be true even once they’re out of prison.
“The songs that I’ve listened to and hear will remind me of my strength and endurance and everything that got me through,” they said. “It’s a powerful tool, music is.”
The broadcast piece was produced by Mansee Khurana.
Author Julia Elliott won for her short story collection Hellions.
Forrest Clonts/Tin House
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Forrest Clonts/Tin House
Writer Julia Elliott has won this year’s Carol Shields Prize for Fiction for her short story collection Hellions. The award honors work by women and nonbinary authors in the U.S. and Canada.
Elliott, who also authored the novel The New and Improved Romie Futch and the short story collection The Wilds, is known for blending elements of Southern gothic horror, surrealism and fairy tale. Hellions, published in 2025, includes stories set against backdrops like a plague-stricken medieval convent, a feminist art colony, and small Southern towns.
“This eerie, eclectic, genre-leaping collection takes no half-measures; every sentence of Hellions crackles or crawls,” wrote the prize jury in a statement. “Here, human folly moves against a backdrop of horror and magic … But for all its wildness, there is tremendous control.”
The prize, named after a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist, awards $150,000 to one winner each year. Novels, short story collections, and graphic novels by women and nonbinary authors are eligible.
This year’s finalists included Quiara Alegría Hudes (The White Hot), Lee Lai (Cannon), Megha Majumdar (A Guardian and a Thief), and Sonya Walger (Lion). They will each receive $12,500.
The Carol Shields Prize went to writer Canisia Lubrin in 2025.
You can listen to actor Donna Lynne Champlin read Elliott’s story “Hellion” on the Death, Sex & Money podcast here.
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By Helen Shaw, Vanessa Friedman, Léo Hamelin, Laura Salaberry and Sutton Raphael
June 2, 2026
At around 1 in the morning at the Sassafras Saloon in Hollywood, four masc lesbians in cowboy hats and chaps were dancing on top of the bar while bartenders attempted to continue making espresso martinis beneath them.
One performer crawled into the crowd and between the spread legs of an audience member, licking the air between their thighs. Another wrapped a belt around their girlfriend’s neck while thrusting against her to Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.” The ravenous audience, almost entirely women, fluttered dollar bills all around, while easily filling the saloon’s 300-person capacity.
Across Los Angeles, countless strip clubs and revue shows were unfolding at that same hour, though none quite like this and likely few provoking this level of frenzy. The night had all the riotous energy of a scene from “Coyote Ugly,” with the choreographed masculinity of “Magic Mike.” Playing on the latter’s name, this was the doing of Magic Mascs, an all-masc lesbian and translesbian revue, by sapphics for sapphics.
Skye Valentinez, from left, Alexa Legend, Daddii Syd and King Captain are members of Magic Mascs, an all-masc lesbian and translesbian collective, that started in February.
“Our idea was to give lesbians what men get all the time at a strip club, but instead of just sitting around and singing ‘Pink Pony Club,’ actually going wild,” said group founder Daddii Syd, a.k.a. Syd Latimore.
The performers, self-described “daddies” — Daddii Syd, Alexa Legend, Skye Valentinez and King Captain — formed Magic Mascs in February. The performance at the Saloon was their third overall, but the group has already become an institution within lesbian nightlife in Los Angeles. They will make their debut during a Pride Month performance on Friday at Womxn Pride’s rooftop party in downtown L.A.
The members come from professional dance backgrounds. King Captain entered dance school at age 12 and taught dance for nearly a decade. Daddii Syd has danced since childhood. Alexa Legend spent years go-go dancing across clubs in the city before joining the troupe. Skye Valentinez, the baby of the group — cherub-faced, smiling through braces — is the newest to performing, though she steps into it naturally, exhibiting the same living, breathing caricature of masculinity as the rest of them.
“No one’s trying to be cisgender,” King Captain makes clear. “We’re not trying to be the kind of men who are born into and fed by patriarchy,” Daddii Syd added. “We’re redefining masculinity.”
King Captain gets their underwear stuffed with dollar bills from the crowd.
Magic Mascs’ success follows a broader trend of lesbians confidently stepping into masculinity before hungry eyes. In the past year, performative masc competitions have appeared across the country, with lesbians — hair slicked back and carabiners dangling from their Carhartt jeans — showing off in front of leering crowds. Magic Mascs feels like a more professionalized version of that phenomenon, less tongue-in-cheek — just tongue.
“We always knew there was a huge hunger for this,” Daddii Syd said.
Their first performance, in San Diego, sold out fast.
“I knew right away we were onto something special,” Daddii Syd said.
Videos of the troupe traveled far across sapphics’ algorithms, especially clips of King Captain, whose devoted fan base — known collectively as “The Castle” — make arduous trips just to see them in the flesh. One fan drove more than 20 hours from Dallas to San Diego to see Magic Mascs. Another sent an edible fruit bouquet from Australia.
Backstage, every gesture from the troupe was ultra-confident. Captain, wearing briefs stuffed with a sock full of rice, talked to me with a leg cocked on the footrest of my stool. Daddii Syd, Alexa Legend and Skye Valentinez stood pelvis-forward, hands behind their heads, flexing ropey muscles. They loved the camera, eyeing it like prey while tipping the brims of their cowboy hats. (“You guys are like the modern-day Beatles,” our photographer said.)
King Captain gets the Hollywood crowd into a frenzy during a recent show.
Everything in the show revolved around their hips. The performers rolled and glided before delivering sudden, mechanical thrusts powerful enough to rattle nearby glasses. Their bodies were taut with effort and exaggerated lust. Daddii Syd performed with her girlfriend Jamie in matching plaid, not leaving much to the imagination as they licked whipped cream off each other.
Alexa Legend, who described herself as shy offstage, eventually stripped down to nipple pasties and a cowboy hat, firing confetti from her crotch into the crowd. King Captain swerved their hips like a powerful mechanical bull. “Oh, Captain, my captain,” someone in the crowd said, hand pressed dramatically to her forehead.
They paid particular attention to a woman in a wheelchair in the crowd — typical of their performances — asking if they could sit on the wheelchair. They received keen consent. “That was, um, very nice,” she told me after, still a little lost for words.
“We’re huge on consent,” Daddii Syd said. At the start of the show, they told the crowd to cross their arms in a Wakanda Forever pose if they didn’t wish to be touched. They checked in constantly while moving through the crowd, leaning close to ask questions like, “Is this OK?” and “Anywhere you don’t like to be touched?”
Captain learned these habits through work in intimacy coordination and under the mentorship of Tonia Sina, among the first professional intimacy coordinators in Hollywood. That ethos of care extended beyond their interactions with the audience and into the way they interacted with one another offstage.
“We want everyone in the crowd to feel gorgeous,” King Captain said before the recent show at Sassafras Saloon in Hollywood.
King Captain, left, and Lauren Henson, a stage kitten for the Magic Mascs, perform together on the bar.
Forming a sanctuary for themselves was just as important to the troupe as emboldening others’ desire. “It’s hard to find other masc friends,” Daddii Syd said. “Everybody’s weirdly competitive and trying to sabotage each other.” King Captain agreed, asking: “Why can’t we all be daddies at the same time?”
Daddii Syd and King Captain, who are both in their 30s, had little butch representation or friendship growing up and they have now become something like father figures to Alexa Legend and Skye Valentinez, who are in their 20s.
“We have to protect each other,” King Captain said. “We have to look out for each other.”
Daddii Syd put her arm around Skye Valentinez and said: “Look at this beautiful baby we have.”
That tenderness carried straight into the night. There was a striking seriousness to the whole performance, which spanned from just past 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. Unlike a bachelorette party or the typical male revue, there was no giggling in the room, and no wink of camp from the performers. Here was a rare claim to unabashed public sapphic desire; it was given the scale and seriousness routinely afforded to heterosexual display, like the gleeful bravado of a man striding into Hooters.
By the end of the night at Sassafras Saloon, the performers had stripped down nearly to nothing, pouring water over themselves while the audience roared. The atmosphere felt like one of collective release, a recognition that masculinity and desire don’t belong only to men — that a group of four masc lesbians can be horny, inspire horniness and ultimately stir a hysteria that once greeted Channing Tatum or even the Beatles.
It was the magnitude of the response that night at the Saloon, as on every other night they’ve performed, that’s inspiring their next moves: total domination in sum. The troupe is already planning a national tour through Florida, Dallas and Sacramento, though Daddii Syd’s ambitions extend much further.
“The idea,” she told me, “is to go global. Like a boy band.”
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