“I think that’s a very important thing: to give a man some hope in prison, to give a man some incentive to be a better citizen while he’s in there and if he’s a better citizen while he’s in there, he’ll come out a better citizen.”
-Johnny Cash, testifying before the House Committee on the Judiciary, 1972
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There were some signs hanging on the red wall behind the stage in the North Dining Hall – some words and some musical notes presented in circular script and glittering with silver. They were a bit garish and too small for the space and were placed so low that they would be difficult to read once the show started. But when the stage was empty, they were clearly visible:
San Quentin
Welcomes
Johnny Cash
The dining hall was cavernous and dank but alive with activities before the day’s performance. As the roadies were setting up the stage and the Carter Family, the Statler Brothers, and rockabilly singer Carl Perkins were getting ready for their sets, cash was presented to members of his crew and his wife and co-star, June Carter Cash, on a long table. A film crew and engineers set up recording equipment, and photographer Jim Marshall documented the whirlwind of activity.
For as long as Cash was a working musician, Cash had been associating himself with crime and imprisonment, and in San Quentin he presented himself to audiences as their embodiment.
It was February 24, 1969, and Cash was famous for unpredictability. He had been using amphetamines heavily for the past decade, and its effects on his health were devastating. In recent years he had started looking weak. His voice often sounded like a sandy whisper, and there was no way of knowing whether he would appear when his performance was scheduled or which version of him would step on stage if he did. On good days, he stalked his audiences like a wounded hunter – wild and thrilling as he growled and strummed his guitar. At other times, he wandered around like a bone-weary penitent, feeling as if each song might end him.
However, that was the past. Cash was trying to calm down and was in good form. His weight increased again. His voice was gravelly and soulful and he was excited to perform with a clear mind.
When the stage was ready, the musicians mounted it for sound check and Jim Marshall took photographs. She saw Helen Carter, one of June’s sisters, looking at the floor, her hair covered with a thin white cloth. A shot from behind captures the band’s drummer WS Holland looking out across an empty room – one drumstick resting on the edge of his snare, the other on the edge of the cymbals. And when Marshall saw Cash chatting with June, he shouted, “Let’s do a favor for the warden.” Cash followed. He stared into the lens and moved his mouth so that the sarcastic curve of his lips made it clear that he was making a stern impression.
Then he leaned forward and raised his middle finger.
*
As the show time approached, people started coming to the dining hall. They filled the seats, then began claiming the floor and the low stairs against the wall. They wore jumpsuits, denim shirts that had become faded and soft from prolonged use, or dark sweatshirts; Most of them had clean-cut faces and short-cut hair. A man sitting near the stage was smoking a pipe; The other wore dark sunglasses. And the guards, gathered in small groups, were scattered around the room.
San Quentin loomed large in the popular imagination. It was believed to be home to some of the most dangerous people in California. The state’s death penalty was punishable by up to life in prison. But when the film crew accompanying Cash interviewed the men on the day of their performance, they took images that complicated that impression.
The crew talked to the men in their cells, with the camera lens focused on their faces as they talked. One of the people here said, “In many cases they have wives and children. And, uh, they’re here to commit some crime or something like that. But for the most part they’re no different than the average guy on the street.” “They are hiding us,” said another. “The society there has prepared many of us. I myself feel that the greatest crime of which a good portion of us in San Quentin are guilty is one thing: that we were born poor.”
“Every time the bell rings, it means something,” said one resignedly. “I think you can spend too much time, and it institutionalizes you and you can’t think for yourself.” Another said, “Everyone is playing their own little game trying to get out of this madhouse.” All expressed grief over the violence they faced. One said that several murders occurred in his first week in prison. Another reflected that, although seeing a person in pain had always troubled him, it no longer did. “I’m getting to the point now where I almost don’t worry about it.”
Carl Perkins came on stage to open the show and stepped up to the microphone. The room was filled with the noise of 1,400 people packed inside a stone box – their voices, the scuffling sound of feet on the floor, and their hands moving restlessly over the tables, were echoing. But when he spoke it became quiet.
“We feel like you’ll enjoy yourself tonight,” he said politely in Tennessee style. “It is our wish.” They then launched a sleeker version of their “Blue Suede Shoes”. When they finished playing, the Statler Brothers and then the Carter Family took the stage while Cash watched from the hallway. From his hiding place, he could tell there was a charge in the air, and when he felt it rising, he emerged and walked past the front row of dining room tables, shaking hands as he went.
Looking at the hundreds of people gathered before him he felt that, at that moment, he had the power to push them towards violence.
The band was playing the opening bars of “Big River”, but the room was otherwise quiet as he climbed the stage and gave his standard greeting. “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash,” he said, and the crowd cheered.
For as long as Cash was a working musician, Cash had been associating himself with crime and imprisonment, and in San Quentin he presented himself to audiences as their embodiment – an embodiment of their anger, their hurt. He strutted, teased with familial kindness, and performed a raucous version of “Folsom Prison Blues.” But once he got their attention, he softened his tone. He played a spiritual called “I Don’t Know Where I’m Bound” followed by a humorous account of the time he was arrested in Starkville, Mississippi. He had never performed a song before and the same was true for his next selection.
Sitting on stage, Cash explained his origins. “I was thinking about you guys yesterday,” he said. “I’ve been here three times before, and I think I understand a little bit how you feel about some things. It’s not my business how you feel about some other things, and I don’t care how you feel about some other things.” The crowd laughed lightly. “I tried to put myself in your shoes,” he continued, “and I believe I would feel the same way about San Quentin.”
The audience was quiet when the band started playing a fast tempo. “San Quentin,” Cash sang, “you’re living hell for me.” After a moment’s delay, the audience realized what he had said and let out a collective roar of approval. Cash sang to their cheers and they fell silent so they could hear his words. He cursed the prison, accused it of scaring people, and when he said the last line – “San Quentin, I hate every inch of you” – the audience cheered.
They calmed down after a few moments, but Cash kept them on the line by teasing a surprise. “One more time?” he asked jokingly. He requested a glass of water, and when a guard brought him a glass and poured out the water, he broke the cup with his feet. Then they played the song again, the tension increasing with each verse. The second time, he ended it by saying, “San Quentin, you’re living hell for me,” and the audience jumped on tables and began stomping their feet and screaming.
With the room shaking, show producer Bob Johnston planned to move toward the nearest group of guards. He felt that the crowd was going to riot. Cash had the same idea, and, looking at the hundreds of people gathered before him, he felt that, at that moment, he had the power to push them toward violence.
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derive from The Midnight Special: The Secret Prison History of American Music By Colin Asher. Copyright© 2026 by Colin Asher. Publisher, WW Norton & Company, Inc. Used with permission. All rights reserved.
