Jailhouse Rock

Bret Kaiser's band, Madam X, "High In Highschool"

But Bret missed performing and looked for an outlet. After letting his music sit on the shelf for nearly a decade, he started playing shows again — as Elvis. It was an easy transition, trading in the mane of glam for the pompadour and bright, tight whites of Vegas-era Elvis. Being an Elvis impersonator or, as Bret prefers to call it, an Elvis tribute artist, was always a dream — Bret’s house is filled with memorabilia of “The King” — and it seems to be a fairly lucrative field in the greater Phoenix area. His first gig was entertaining the geriatric partygoers at a luau for the Water Fitness Club of Sun City West, and he’s been booked up most weekends ever since, even doing Sheriff Joe’s annual Volunteer Banquet, during which the two sing a duet. “I get a kick out of it,” Sheriff Joe says, “since I arrested Elvis once, back in 1957 in Las Vegas.” With the pompadour and sideburns that Bret’s avocation requires, he’s well-known among the Maricopa County inmates. And well-liked. Bret’s never had a problem with an inmate in 12 years, and he chalks it up to his experience onstage. “I’m a people person,” he says. “Being an entertainer has helped me as a detention officer. I like to make people happy. That’s what I do best.” He’s even been recognized by inmates; one guy remembered Bret from when he opened for Madam X back in 1984. And Bret knows that as a rock & roll singer, he or any of his friends could very well have wound up in the pods too. Jail’s an unfortunate circumstance, but it’s not his job to judge inmates for their mistakes. It was, however, his job to judge their singing ability. The only musician on the panel, Bret took the lead in coaching the inmates through the process. And he was more than happy to see the tank orders keep piling up, enough so that over the course of the two weeks, the audition panel would hear more than 100 contestants. Christopher Marsh had done some time in prison, and “killed his number,” or finished his sentence, last summer. Then he got hauled back in for an alleged burglary. When not inside, Christopher works in construction, and he’d never performed musically other than playing an orphan in Oliver! back in grade school. Christopher’s previous time made him real jail-savvy, so before he agreed to sing for the sheriff, he cleared it with his “head.” That’s the elected leader of one’s demographic faction; in Christopher’s case, that’s whites, “or Peckerwoods, as they’re affectionately called.” The head Peckerwood wanted to know what was in it for the rest of them. Fast food, was the answer, and the head agreed — “as long as you don’t shake Sheriff Joe’s hand. And you better win.” Christopher had that in mind, approaching the microphone, but he killed his musical number — “With Arms Wide Open,” by Creed — and knew he had a chance at the next round. Katrina Duhart was one of the few women to sign up. She’d been in just a month, and already stood out as friendly and good-spirited despite “some bad choices I’m really trying to get past,” which was Katrina’s way of describing her six months for conspiracy to commit fraud. Katrina’s a big girl, with a husky voice, and the narrow range that goes with it, so she was disappointed there was no Mary J. Blige or Macy Gray on the list. Most of the female vocalists represented, like Diana Ross, would have been hard to hit. Eventually, Katrina chose Alicia Keys’ “Fallin’,” but when she went in front of the panel, she shook so much with stage fright she thought she’d drop the microphone. Katrina sang karaoke with her cousins all the time, so she didn’t know what had gotten into her. It was probably the fear of disappointment, she thought. Jail was already bad news, and she didn’t want any more of that. Bret tried to coax Katrina out of her shell. “You have a beautiful voice, I’m sure, Katrina,” he said. “Just relax and take it slow.” After 20 minutes and several tries ending with “I can’t do it” and Bret coming right back with “Yes, you can, girl,” Katrina finally brought the song in a cappella, just like Keys, and went on to finish with no hiccups. When it was over, Katrina was shocked to see Bret and the other panelists rise for a standing ovation. “Katrina,” they said, “we can’t wait to see you again.”

Katrina doing her thing

With the close of auditions, the panel conferred and compared notes. It was often obvious who would or wouldn’t make the cut, but there were some borderline cases. And sadly, several of the panel’s favorites were either disqualified — violent offenders couldn’t compete — or got released too soon. It was a constant problem, those pesky short sentences. One of the other star female singers had a missing tooth and wild hair, and came out shy like a frightened little mouse, but when she stepped to the microphone and “I Will Always Love You” rang out across the room, half the D.O.s swore it was “better than Whitney.” When the panel learned she would be out before the Inmate Idle finals, Thelda just about cried. She even had a sneaking desire to look at the girl’s record to see if she was a repeat visitor to the jail. Maybe she’d be back soon, she wondered, or perhaps they could bring her in on something outstanding? But then Thelda thought better of it. Bret was equally impressed by a guy who sang a Kid Rock ballad, but he was leaving jail the next day. “You want to come back for the finals?” Bret asked. Not surprisingly, the response was: “Dude, are you kidding?” Working with what they had, the panel winnowed it down to 18 singers. They chose a diversity of contestants and song types, for broad appeal during the semifinals, when Bret would record videos of the performances so the inmates could watch them in their pods and vote directly on who they wanted to see in the final six. But Bret was disappointed that there were no semifinalists singing “My Girl.” That had been the favorite number during tryouts, but no one came near doing justice to the Temptations’ original. Then, at the last minute, Bret was wheeling an amp through the hall at Fourth Avenue when he passed a holding tank filled with inmates coming from court, and Bret stopped in to see if there were any newcomers who had a decent set of pipes. Corey Brothers spoke up. He’d recently turned himself in on a violation of probation, and just missed the auditions. A longtime singer from a musical family — his father has performed with the Gospel Cavaliers for years — Corey was a natural. He hadn’t slept the night before, and he was depressed about making a mess of things recently. He’d lost a fiancée and had just been sentenced to 60 days on a 15-year-old warrant, but Corey had a gentle charisma and friendly demeanor, and when he hit just a few notes of “My Girl,” Bret stopped him short. “That’s all I need to hear,” Bret said. “You’re in.” Round 2: The Semis Good news here at K-JOE today. Many of you guys out there gave it your all in our first-ever Inmate Idle auditions. Our judges listened, and narrowed the field to 19 singers. Now you will get the chance to pick your favorites for the finals. It’s one vote per inmate, guys. You know what to do. Now here’s a little Bobby Darin for ya. “Mack the Knife,” people. Don’t get any ideas. Once the names were announced, life in the Maricopa County jail system felt like a musical, spontaneously erupting into song as practice began in earnest. Gary worked out his Garth Brooks pitch on his bunk. Corey was a “trusty,” meaning he had a job; working the loading dock and kitchens, he’d sing any chance he’d get. John, who wrote his own music, honed his Motown sound. Katrina worked in the laundry, washing hundreds of pounds of stripes each day, and she’d sing with two other girls, Kristi and Tweet. They used to take turns, or sometimes sing ensemble pieces like the reworked “Lady Marmalade” from Moulin Rouge, but with Katrina competing in Inmate Idle, it became Alicia Keys all the time. Bret decided Thelda’s little karaoke kit wouldn’t cut it for the semifinals, so he brought up his own equipment from his Elvis shows — a PA with some nice mikes — to boost the sound quality for the video recording. Another program officer ran the tape. Gary, Corey and John all did one take with little prep, but Katrina had a problem: The camera had spooked her all over again. She screwed up so many times that Bret eventually tricked her into singing by telling her the camera was off. She wasn’t exactly in key on that take, but that was the take they had. Christopher didn’t know he’d made the cut at first. There had been a riot in his pod, its members dispersed to other housing units. Christopher had been thrown in the hole, even though he stayed away from the fight, with his back against the wall. After a week in solitary, he wrote a tank order with three questions: 1. Why am I here? 2. I want to see the hearing sergeant. 3. When do I get to sing again for Inmate Idle? Bret and the other panel members got wind of Christopher’s situation and intervened. They didn’t want Christopher in the hole, because according to the rules of Inmate Idle, contestants in restricted housing could not advance. A few days later, Christopher was back with Bret, in a new set of stripes, loosening up for the camera. “If I make it to the finals,” Christopher asked, “can I make a shout-out?” “Why?” Bret wanted to know. “You got a girlfriend in here?” “As a matter of fact, I do.” That was the real reason Christopher joined Inmate Idle. His girlfriend, Hope, had been taken in on a probation violation, and this was the only way to communicate with her. Maybe she’ll see the video, he thought, or even be in the audience at the finals. “That’s why I want to sing ‘Arms Wide Open,’ ” he said. “It’s a nice ballad for the ladies.”