After a probation violation in '99, I was sentenced to a year in a county-jail recovery center in East L.A. I did five months. It was very depressing, very lonely.
I was in over Christmas. It was rough. I got a few guys together. One of them was a hardcore Nazi gang member with white-power swastikas all over his body. And two of them were Crips, you know, black guys from the gang; one of them had killed probably six people in his life. I got these guys together and formed a quartet. I had always sung in choirs. Even when it was something to be laughed at or made fun of, you know, in school. And I was always the kid who was picked at the Christmas concert to sing the solo, you know, while the other kids snickered in the front few rows.
So I taught these guys a bunch of Christmas carols with harmonies and everything. We sang to the eighty inmates who were in our dorm and to the sheriff's deputies and to our counselors. There was something special going on there—an ability for people to break past the normal barriers and closed-mindedness that they had grown up with. It was cool to show the fuckin' sheriff's deputies that we had something good in us, you know what I mean? It sort of shocked them to see us singing so sweet and in harmony. It was a great sort of passive-aggressive way to say fuck you.