How does Jailtime Records operate internally? What kind of work is involved that is not visible on the surface?
Internally, Jail Time Records is structured so that on one side there’s the creative and operational team: that’s me and Steve, the co-founders, who direct the project and its artistic side. We have recording studios inside the prison, all run by inmates, where we provide education in sound engineering and music production. The studios are open, and prisoners have unlimited access. When we do projects outside, we have a studio there too, run by formerly incarcerated artists.
The invisible work is huge and operates on many levels. There’s the office side, which isn't our favorite since we’re all artists: emails, grant writing, and bureaucratic work. Then there's the groundwork: doing prevention work inside and outside prisons, organizing workshops, one-on-one mentoring, and Steve working with artists in the studio on production. And then there’s all the music production work: finishing songs, mixing, mastering, working with instrumentalists, photography, social media, everything it takes to put music out.
How personal is the work? Which relationships are essential for Jailtime Records?
The work is very personal. Steve and I started the project, and it continues because of a bond grounded in dedication and passion. I’m not sure I would have found the stamina and commitment to push forward if it wasn’t a shared mission. Steve was actually in prison when we started. It really comes from his own experience and the role music played for him while incarcerated. Beyond our relationship, it’s essential to build close connections with the artists we work with. These become almost personal relationships because when people are living in that situation, it goes well beyond working together. You end up involved in their lives, sometimes in big cases, often with their families.
How do different forms of labor (artistic and non-artistic) interact within Jailtime Records?
We mostly work with creativity and art. On one side, there’s the art of the participants, people who are partially or fully incarcerated, or people at risk, so it’s about putting a light on that work, helping them shape it, and giving them professional tools. Then there’s the artistic direction of the project, which we shape together. And then there’s all the other work: writing emails, grants, and accounting.
How do you see the work of facilitation—who engages with it, and why?
We set up the studio inside the prison to be self-running and self-sustainable. The day-to-day is coordinated by the studio manager, who’s incarcerated, and he establishes his own rhythms with the artists. Often, artists tell us they didn't have enough access, or that they had to trade something just to get in. It's understandable, because prison is a difficult place and people find ways to survive. We come in to rebalance things or facilitate communication when there’s been tension. It’s a constant balancing act in a tough environment.
Can you describe a specific moment when you and an incarcerated artist disagreed on how a song should sound, and how did you navigate that tension?
That’s happened a couple of times, but mostly it’s about the artist's expression. We’ve never asked anyone to change their lyrics or story. On the production side, things like how a line is sung can come up as a conversation, and Steve might share his opinion. If someone felt strongly about doing something a certain way, everyone’s open to talking it through. The creative leadership is very collaborative. Different people bring ideas, and we work to fit those ideas within what’s possible. There’s never been a situation where someone felt uncomfortable with how their music was represented.
When you first handed over responsibility for the studio to Vidou H, what did you have to let go of, and what surprised you?
When I handed over the reins, I didn't have much of an idea about music myself. So I didn’t set any real direction; I just hoped he’d make the most of it. I felt confident he had a good vibe. About four months later, I came back and listened to what he’d done, and it was amazing, way more than I expected. I discovered things I hadn't thought of, like electronic and experimental Afro influences coming through.
Looking back, is there a decision you made early on that you would handle differently now?
Within such a difficult environment, sometimes it’s better to keep roles a little more separate or to keep relationships with some artists on a professional level, rather than getting too close. Otherwise, you end up deeply involved in people’s lives, their families, their issues, and that can become complicated. Setting clearer boundaries can help the relationship on both sides and create more realistic expectations. It’s something you learn to manage through the process. But overall, it’s been a great adventure and experience, with no big regrets.
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Dione Roach is a co-founder with music producer Steve Happi of Jail Time Records, a non-profit music label born in 2018 at New Bell Central Prison in Douala, Cameroon.
- Cover Image
Macabo Gattè in the kitchen of the prison, dancing a traditional dance from the south-west region of Cameroon. The costumes are hand made in prison by the dancers through shedding plastic rice bags. ©️ and courtesy Dione Roach.
