Larisa Stow and Shakti Tribe
Larisa Stow and Shakti Tribe Go Behind Bars To Break Down Barriers
It’s not unusual these days to walk through security to enter a concert venue. Maybe you have to flash your driver’s license, open your purse, handbag or satchel or get padded down. While weapons are verboten, cell phones can still be carried in, even though many of the current models are equipped with everything from a camera to a voice, music and video recorder, as well as blogging software.
For the most part, these accoutrements have become assets more than liabilities in our constantly connected society.
In some settings, though, the reality is far different. That’s to say if a concert even gets to happen at all.
There are a few select concert venues in California that involve metal detectors and empty pockets, dress codes and security clearance, handing over a driver’s license, passing through multiple sets of locked doors and even standing under snipers, trigger finger at the reader. Here there are no iPhone apps glimmering with an electric flame or live Twitters with updates. Tickets can’t be purchased online, since this isn’t your usual date night kind of thing. And it takes a band that’s unusually dedicated to volunteer their time to play in prisons and negotiate the daunting amount of red tape to even get in the door.
On a recent Friday night, I was a guest for one of those types of gigs accompanying Larisa Stow and Shakti Tribe as the nonprofit outreach effort of their band – the Shakti Tribe Foundation – played for the inmates at the Federal Correctional Institution, Terminal Island, in San Pedro. They entered the facility under the auspices of the Agape International Community’s Freedom Light Prison Ministry, coordinated by Judy Osuna.
Additional audience members are usually not permitted to attend the band’s prison appearances. Weeks before my visit, I had to turn over an uncomfortable amount of personal statistics to obtain the security clearance and special dispensation for my participation. And even though I was there to observe and write a story, there was no camera, recorder or even notetaking allowed. The dress code included instructions not to wear anything revealing (it’s a men’s prison) and no khakis (so we wouldn’t be mistaken for someone meant to spend the night).
The band set up in a room set aside for spiritual practice, under the watch of the prison chaplains. The chapel was a fitting environment as this was no simple rock concert or even kirtan, but a true transcendent experience, in terms of how it appeared
on the day’s schedule and its effect on everyone present.
It’s important, especially at this time, to remember that there’s no separation.
As is the case at any highly anticipated show, where the audience arrives early to secure a prime spot, soak up the vibe or just feel the hum of excitement, there was a group of prisoners, who had either seen Larisa and the Tribe on their previous visit to Terminal
Island, or who heard the buzz about the group. They were cleared out of the room while we set up (and I fulfilled my role as unofficial roadie), yet many had saved their seats prior to our arrival, tagging them with a T shirt, piece of paper or some innocuous item that could be left behind.
Once we were fully set up and the doors swung open, the group quickly flooded in, jostling for position; some wanted the front row, others were content to stand in the back, uncertain how they felt about the scene. The room filled to capacity with a diverse group of men of all ages and ethnic backgrounds, some tall, tattooed, foreboding, arms tightly crossed, others with a ready smile. There was someone in a wheelchair whose place was saved in a key location.
That night, as is the case with most of the prison shows they’ve been performing around California since 2007, Larisa and the band began with some catchy English pop/rock songs from their repertoire. As she says, “If they know we’re cool, they’re more likely to open up to the Sanskrit.” In the songs including “Heaven,” a common opening number, as well as “What You Gonna Do With All That Love,” the popular “Bloom/Mother Mary” and the poignant “Christian Peace Prayer,” the messages are consistently about love.
They don’t just sing in English and Sanskrit and their set list includes influences from faiths around the world (such as the Lord’s Prayer, sung in Aramaic or Muslim Peace Prayers, sung in English), reflecting the diversity of their audiences and their desire to make a connection.
As the evening went on, they busted out into a rap-reggae-bluesy version of their original tune, “Rock on, Sat Nam,” composed to contain beats familiar to their audience combined with a powerful, loving, spiritual message. Then during “Amba Amba” I found myself moved to tears, particularly watching the swell of song coming from the men. I wasn’t the only one to be a bit shocked by the response to Sanskrit chants. In fact, the thing that surprised Larisa the most about the band’s prison experiences has been the groups’ response to Sanskrit lyrics. “They love being able to sing it back to us, especially ‘Amba Amba;’ they want to experience that divine mother love.”
It continued, as I chanted “Om Namah Shivaya” along with the band and a whole room full of uniformed prison inmates, as they swayed and pumped their arms up in the air. It felt like quite a sight and revealed something about the freedom that can be found within each one of us no matter what our circumstances. “Ek gong Kar” and even the practice of a Kundalini kriya, were hits since many group members were familiar with the Kundalini vibe, since staff Drug Treatment Specialist Cindy Cirlincione teaches Kundalini Yoga at Terminal Island.
Whether rocking the house in Sanskrit, Gujarati, Aramaic or English, all the members of the Shakti Tribe are committed to their outreach effort. When they’re unloading the equipment in the prison parking lot, setting up inside the locked gates or decompressing over pizza later, they’re uniformly passionate. Part of it may come from each individual’s commitment to service, their spiritual path, their own individual transformation and the fact that they see themselves as literally belonging to a tribe. Both in and out of prison, Larisa Stow plays with Benj Clarke on bass, Marti Walker on flute, percussion and vocals, Kimo Estores on guitar and Richard Hardy on saxophone and flute.
In addition to the Terminal Island facility, Larisa Stow and Shakti Tribe have taken their impassioned outreach efforts to Pitchess Detention Center, Los Prietos Boys Camp, Century Regional Detention Facility (the women’s jail commonly known as Lynwood) the Atascadero State Hospital and Men’s Central Jail in Downtown Los Angeles, among others.
They said that their show at Men’s Central was their most intense yet. Sixty percent of the men there were imprisoned for murder, they were told. Guards with sniper guns were perched up above the band. Yet even here positive change can occur; some time after the show, the band received a letter from one of the men who had been in attendance that day who relayed that their concert was a turning point in his life. He got out of prison, started practicing Yoga and rock climbing and found a good job and a girlfriend.
It’s a testament to the power of love. The Tribe walks into a facility consciously holding a vibration of love and forgiveness. According to Larisa, it’s as infectious as laughter or tears. There are people this band has performed for over the past two years, who have seldom, if ever, experienced someone meeting them with that level of love and that much of an open heart.
It’s surprising to the band that they haven’t had an easier time taking their show to more prisons. After all, they’re volunteering. The funding for gas money, equipment and song lyric handouts comes from fundraisers, donations to the Shakti Tribe Foundation and the bandmembers themselves. The bureaucracy is intense, and there are times, for one reason or another, they’ve been denied entry, even when prior permission was given, schedules made and they were standing at the gate. There’s no unilateral statewide policy. And according to Larisa, attitudes sometimes seem to be divided into two types of ideologies: those that favor rehabilitation and those that believe in punishment. Her dream, though, is to meet Arnold Schwarzenegger or Maria Shriver and plead the case that these types of programs make a positive impact. And a long-term goal is to be able to have their nonprofit (sponsored in turn by the International Humanities Center) create a pipeline to bring in other artists and guest speakers to continue compassionate work.
Larisa was initially inspired to pursue this type of outreach because she had seen first-hand, how love, acceptance, spiritual practice and another point of view could shift the life and experience of someone who had been imprisoned. The genesis of the Shakti Tribe Foundation came from a fan, during Larisa’s full-on pop-rock incarnation, who introduced her to the work of Bo and Sita Lozoff, the founders of the Human Kindness Foundation, located in North Carolina.
Bo Lozoff is the author of We’re All Doing Time and It’s a Meaningful Life – It Just Takes Practice. The Human Kindness Foundation’s work includes the Prison-Ashram Project, which encourages both prisoners and prison staff to recognize their mutual humanity through spiritual practice and social justice activism. Inspired, Larisa traveled repeatedly over a two-year period to the Foundation to study and work side by side with former prisoners whose lives had transformed as a result of their exposure to meditation practices, love and kindness.
While Larisa was getting inspired, she and bandmate Marti Walker kept talking about how they wanted to do more outreach work. Each was drawn to working with people behind bars and inspired to find a way to take music (their expression of love and spirituality) to prisons. The manifestation of the dream began through a series of personal connections.
Marti was working for the Long Beach Arts Council and spoke with Connie Sziebl, a woman who served on the Arts Council Board of Directors, worked in volunteer services in the prison reentry program and is now a field representative for Los Angeles County Supervisor Don Knabe. Other early support came from Sergeant Randy Dempel. Their connection at Terminal Island came through Cindy Cirlincione, who had heard about the band and connected them with the Agape Ministry. One gig continues to lead to another.
There was a guy in the audience and at the end of the show, one of the counselors brought him up to talk to us, and there were tears in his eyes. He said that for the first time in his life, he felt he could forgive and he felt he could be forgiven.
And each gig has an impact. Larisa recounts examples that demonstrate how their evening concerts serve as a catalyst for positive shifts. “At Pitchess, there was a guy whom we didn’t notice in the audience, even though we are able to make eye contact with a lot of them. At the end of the show, one of the counselors brought him up to talk to us, and there were tears in his eyes. He said that for the first time in his life, he felt he could forgive and he felt he could be forgiven for the part he played in the Iraq War. His counselor said that he hadn’t been able to get through before that evening, that the man had been a prisoner of war and tortured at some point.” Even though she didn’t know the story of what had happened to land him behind bars, or even his life after that moment, knowing that this opening had occurred was profound and meaningful to her and the band. There was something about the effect of their music, the love and the vibration, even though the band didn’t make a personal connection with him, which had an effect.
In addition to connecting to their audience through rap, reggae, sacred sounds and rhythm, band members often shares their stories between songs. There’s a brutal honesty to this that breaks down the barriers. At Terminal Island, Kimo joked that although Larisa and Marti are “squeaky clean,” he and Benj have a past that includes struggles with the demons of addiction which share some commonalities with the people in khaki (including time in front of judges or in jails). The confessions of Benj and Kimo create an instant common ground and the communication of the idea that indeed anyone’s live can be transformed.
Between July of 1993 and July of 1994, Kimo had been arrested four times related to meth use. He said he was fortunate that a sympathetic judge gave him the choice of rehabilitation in a recovery home or incarceration. Although he was full of resistance and struggled his way through rehab (even being named “Least Likely to Succeed”), his life is vastly different now than it was when he stood before that judge. He readily shared these events with the audience at Terminal Island where playing has some particular poignancy for him. He spent his year-long court-mandated recovery in a house across the bay with a clear view of the prison, continually thankful he got to spend time on his side of the water. Kimo feels that if he can transform his life, then anyone can, and it’s a belief he embodies when he plays, when he speaks and when he interacts with people after the music is merely the echo of a vibration through the walls.
There were a few minutes of mingling at the close of the show before regulations mandated separation. Men expressed their gratitude, tears in their eyes. They carefully folded up the song sheets, wanting to remember. As I was standing to one side, helping pack up, one of them walked right up to me and called me by name. Initially, I was startled, since the band hadn’t introduced me, and I racked my brain to remember if I knew anyone currently in residence at Terminal Island. Then he told me that he reads LA YOGA, since Cindy Cirlincione brings it to the Kundalini Yoga class, and thanked me for the inspiration within the pages. I blinked, still surprised, and touched.
We packed up alone and as we walked out, carrying the equipment, there was a group on the far side of the fence, waving their thanks. And as we went back through security, we breathed there was a collective sigh of relief.
In the midst of this, we discussed the fact that in the big picture, imprisonment, freedom and who is on which side of the fence are bigger issues. They all pointed out to me, that although we live in America, land of the free, we also have the highest per capita incarceration rate in the world. (This is verified by a variety of sources.) Societally, that says something, and it is not a statistic we should repeat with pride.
This fact makes moments like the ones facilitated by Shakti Tribe even more significant. Benj Clarke says, “I think it’s important, especially at this time, to remember that there’s no separation.” We all need to experience love and in some situations, people are experiencing a severe lack of love. Whether coming or going, we’re all talking about the same love, Benj insists. “If we can come into situations with love, and throw our energy into making a change, hopefully we can have an impact.”
Larisa Stow and Shakti Tribe are currently recording their newest album, spearheaded by bandmember Benj Clark. They’re excited that Walfredo Reyes, Jr (a drummer who has played with a variety of big names including Santana, Steve Winwood, Traffic and Lindsay Buckingham) has been joining them for recording sessions. The new album is inspired by their peace work and concerts in prisons, jails and detention centers, and will feature “Rock On, Sat Nam,” among other new material.
The Shakti Tribe Foundation is always looking for leads to continue pursuing this outreach. To connect them with a facility, talk further about their work, host a fundraiser or make a tax-deductable donation, visit: larisastow.com. To contact them about booking, email Leanne Wood at: leannewood@roadrunner.com.
By Felicia M. Tomasko, RN
