The prison as a therapeutic music scene: Exploring musical identities in music therapy and everyday life in a prison setting

Introduction

This article is based on an ethnographic study conducted by the first author in his dual role as researcher and music therapy practitioner in Bjørgvin prison, a low secure prison in Norway. As part of a wider study into music therapy in the prison setting, the presented material explores music’s roles in music therapy and everyday life within the institution. The rationale for the study was the belief that in order to understand what music therapists may offer the prison, we need a deeper understanding of how people engage with and use music in prison settings. Stepping back from preconceived definitions of music therapy in the field we do not seek to describe music therapy interventions or establish the effects of these. Instead, we recognise music therapy as a ‘situated social practice’ (Procter, 2013) alongside and encompassing other musical practices, and consider the prison as a music scene (Bennett and Peterson, 2004) supported by a music therapist. ¹

Historically, music has held many contrasting roles in places of incarceration. Music has been associated with counterculture and resistance, it has been employed for its perceived edifying virtues, it has been valued as an arena for social learning and transferrable skills and, as is increasingly documented, it has been employed as an instrument of discipline, incarceration and torture (Coutinho et al., 2014; Digard and Liebling, 2012; Grant, 2013; Harbert, 2010; Hesmondhalgh, 2013; Mangaoang, 2013). When music therapists enter the prison setting, music is employed to address relationships between music and health (Stige and Aarø, 2011). The introduction of music therapy is not unproblematic however; as a young profession in prisons, music therapy must inevitably navigate inherent tensions between music as an emancipatory agentive practice on the one hand, and music as a technology of incarceration aiding the production of ‘docile bodies’ on the other hand (Grant, 2013; Mangaoang, 2013). Aside from a selection of illuminating ethnographic studies of music’s roles in the social life of places of incarceration (Harbert, 2010; Somma, 2011), much research into music in prison settings focuses on describing or evaluating highly organised music activities in the form of rehabilitative programmes, formal education, devised creative projects or structured therapy sessions (Coutinho et al., 2015; Mendonca, 2010; Wilson et al., 2009). Forming part of this picture, studies of music therapy in prison settings are primarily concerned with music as an intervention in the treatment of psychiatric disorders in forensic mental health settings (Coutinho et al., 2015). Within the field of music therapy and music studies generally, there is however an increasing interest in music in everyday life (Ansdell, 2014; Crafts, 1993; DeNora, 2000; Frith, 2002; Hargreaves and North, 1999; Hesmondhalgh, 2013; Sloboda et al., 2001). In music therapy this turn towards the everyday has drawn heavily on Christopher Small’s (1998) concept of musicking, referring to music as a situated social action rather than as an object. ² Despite our increasing knowledge about the importance and benefits to individuals and communities of everyday musical practices, few studies have examined musicking as an everyday practice in prisons. ³

Paying particular attention to the ‘ecology of relationships in musicking’ (Ansdell, 2014: 29) within Bjørgvin prison, the goal of this study was to generate knowledge about the affordances of musicking for the prison inmates, both in music therapy and everyday life situations. Inspired by Feld’s (1994) echo-muse-ecology, we use the term musecology to describe the systematic study of the social, material and acoustic ecologies of musicking (Ansdel and DeNora, 2016; Clarke, 2005; Small, 1998). Our project more broadly is thus to develop a musecology of incarceration, understanding the co-constitutive relationships between people, materials and music in the prison setting. Focussing in the present article on identity and musical caring, we show how music contributes to the ‘emotional geography of prison life’ (Crewe et al., 2014) and how it can become a means for empathy-in-action.

Music therapy and the emotional geography of prison life

Crewe et al. (2014) point out how prisons have traditionally been described as one-dimensional emotional spaces, differentiated only by the notion of backstage and frontstage domains (Goffman, 1968). Prisoners are often seen as taking on identities of hardened machismo in order to adapt to an environment of distrust and violence and any expression of other more nuanced or ‘soft’ identities are often presumed to be reserved for private spheres (Crewe et al., 2014). Prison ethnography has, however, shown that the distinction between frontstage and backstage is not straightforward because of the distinct lack of any truly private space (Ugelvik, 2014; Wacquant, 2002); singing in the shower is not a private matter in Bjørgvin prison. In response to what they call ‘only a partial account of the prison’s emotional world’, and challenging accounts of the prison as ‘unwaveringly sterile, unfailingly aggressive or emotionally undifferentiated’, Crewe et al. (2014: 1–2) have called for a deeper understanding of ‘the emotional geography of prison life’, recognising the significance of spaces within prisons as sites for varied and sometimes otherwise hidden expressions of emotion. They argue that people create emotion zones which ‘enable the display of a wider range of feelings than elsewhere in the prison’ (p. 1). This nuancing of prison life is mirrored in a growing body of literature in which Norwegian prisons specifically are increasingly understood as complex and paradoxical emotional sites (Fransson and Johnsen, 2015; Mjåland, 2014; Shammas, 2014; Ugelvik, 2014). Looking specifically at a Norwegian low secure facility, Shammas 2014 identified confusion, boundlessness and ambiguity as some of the ‘pains of freedom’ which emerge in low secure penal regimes as enactments of power become ‘softer’ and more hidden from view. This research illustrates the complex and constantly evolving nature of the prison as an emotional space.

Exploring music as a technology of self in a wide range of contexts, DeNora (2000) has shown how music can be a resource for health as people go about their daily activities. Drawing on Goffman, DeNora (2013) argues that musicking affords forms of ‘asylum’ where people find ‘respite from distress and a place and time in which it is possible to flourish’ (p. 1). In the field of music therapy research, this turn towards everyday musicking engages precisely with the ecological situated-ness of music therapy within institutional settings (Aasgaard, 2000; Ansdel and DeNora, 2016; Pavlicevic et al., 2015; Procter, 2013). An important concept here is ‘the ripple effect’, referring to how ‘music naturally radiates’ and ‘works outwards’ to create community (Ansdell and Pavlicevic, 2004: 16). In the specific field of music therapy with offenders, the considerable proportion of studies available focus instead on music therapy as treatment of mental illness or as an agent for behavioural change (Cohen, 1987; Dickinson, 2006; Fulford, 2002; Gallagher and Steele, 2002; Glyn, 2003; Hakvoort, 2002; Reed, 2002). There are still relatively few large-scale quantitative effect studies of music therapy with offenders, but Thaut (1989, cited in Coutinho et al. (2014: 70)) tested the impact of three different music therapy techniques with 50 inmates in a psychiatric wing and concluded that they brought about positive change in terms of relaxation, mood and perception of self. More recently, Gold et al. (2014) carried out a pilot randomised controlled trial exploring the effects of music therapy for prison inmates on anxiety and depression. The study was inconclusive, partly due to the short sentences of many of the participants. Chen et al. (2016) carried out a similar study in China, where they found music therapy to improve anxiety, depression and self-esteem. Forming a counterbalance to this medically informed emphasis on effect, community-oriented approaches (Ansdell and Pavlicevic, 2004; Stige and Aarø, 2011) to music therapy in prison settings have been researched through qualitative methods (O’Grady, 2011; Tuastad, 2014). Of particular relevance to this study, Tuastad and O’Grady (2013) identify music as a ‘freedom practice’ which simultaneously affords inmates escape from their immediate conditions and entry into the ‘real’ world. A mixed methods study of ‘psycho-socially rather than medically oriented’ music therapy with women in a UK prison identified improved engagement with ‘prison resettlement interventions’ (Leith, 2014: 6). Beyond these illuminating studies, relationships between music therapy and the everyday life of prisons remain obscure.

Methods

Centred around an already established and ongoing music therapy provision in the prison, ethnographic fieldwork was carried out over a period of four months during which the first author spent three days a week as a music therapy practitioner and researcher at the prison. Methods of data collection included audio recordings, interviews, participant observation and the collection of artefacts. Participant observation took place in music therapy sessions but also in the form of hanging out (Geertz, 2000) in different situations and areas of the prison such as corridors, lounges and other communal areas. Some formal semi-structured interviews were conducted (n = 12); however, audio/video recordings of musical interactions and fieldnotes formed the most significant proportion of the data. Participation was open to all inmates, including those who were already involved in music activities. People’s right to not participate was protected through a thorough process of informing about the project and securing consent at the earliest point of contact, before any audio recordings or fieldnotes were made. Prison inmates were also able to participate in music activities without being subject to research. All participants have been provided anonymity through the use of pseudonyms, and in this respect we are mindful of the ethical challenges in representing the voices of other people yet contributing, through anonymisation, to the obscurity and ‘othering’ of those same people. The data were subjected to thematic analysis (Boeije, 2009), drawing heavily on recent developments in sensory ethnography and the qualitative study of everyday life in order to integrate a wide variety of data materials (Brinkmann, 2012; Pink, 2009).

The first author’s multifaceted roles as practitioner/researcher offered both opportunities and challenges from a research perspective. Being employed by the prison, the usual obstacles to prison access did not apply (Ugelvik, 2014), but it also meant that prison inmates might not share aspects of their daily lives which ‘outside’ ethnographers could be privy to. Not wearing a uniform, not having authority to make formal resolutions or carry out sanctions, not being trained in physical restraint and primarily offering music activities meant, however, that most prison inmates experienced a distinction between the first author as music therapist/researcher and other uniformed or administration staff as representatives of ‘the system’. Bennett (2015) highlights the difficulties of defining what are ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ perspectives in cases where people study cultures which they are themselves closely related to. This ambiguity, coupled with inherent conflicts between a critical research stance on the one hand and music therapy practice development on the other hand, carried with it a great responsibility for reflexivity concerning power relations, analytic stance and the influence of researcher participation upon the object of study (Alvesson and Sköldberg, 2000; Hammersley and Atkinson, 2007). A measure through which the first author strived to calibrate a reflexive position was the frequent sharing of emergent analyses with peers and different academic communities. Whilst there are strong precedents in music therapy for carrying out ethnographic research through the lens of one’s own practice (Ansdell, 2014; Procter, 2013; Stige et al., 2010) it is more common for prison ethnographers to bring a perspective from outside the organisations they study, and issues of ‘taking sides’ are often more explicit in the shaping of analytical positions (Ugelvik, 2014: 36). We follow Ugelvik’s (2014) position that ‘prison research does not by necessity have to (…) be a political statement about prison’ (p. 37). Whilst the role as practitioner researcher in this case clearly made for a complex and biased position, it importantly allowed a vantage point that was up-close and ‘inside’ the musical action.

The setting

When entering Bjørgvin prison, visitors are frequently met with the strong smell of freshly roasted coffee beans from the coffee shop, the sound of seagulls, and sounds and visions of labour and artisan activities as inmates mow the grass or build rustic wooden furniture by the saw mill. Established in 2006 as a measure to alleviate long waiting times for people to serve their sentences, Bjørgvin prison has a capacity of 90 male inmates. As a low secure Norwegian facility it is marked by a relatively high degree of freedom in terms of opportunities for leave, phone time allocation, visits and possibilities to work or study in and outside the prison. Inmates carry keys to their own rooms and can move freely within the premises. With its apparently idyllic disposition placed within an expanse of natural and open woodlands, Bjørgvin prison is representative of the notions of ‘Scandinavian penal exceptionalism’ which have been so heavily debated and problematised (Pratt, 2008; Ugelvik and Dullum, 2012). As Shamas (2014) points out, low secure settings, often progressive in their emphasis on personal responsibility, are also places of pain. Bjørgvin is no exception, and with a history of being labelled a drug prison in local media, research carried out specifically at this facility indicated that as many as 70% of inmates may suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (Stokkeland et al., 2014). The prison houses people sentenced for a wide range of crimes including sexual offences, drug-related offences, driving offences, petty crime, domestic violence, assault, financial crime and theft. The length of sentences ranges from three weeks to six years, the average being approximately three months. Inmates are expected to engage in activities during working hours. These include site maintenance, cleaning and other work opportunities, as well as workshops and a comprehensive school department. Employing a philosopher, a visual artist and a novelist Bjørgvin prison has cultivated a profile where arts and craft-based activities are integral to its penal approach. Forming part of this initiative, music therapy is offered in individual/group sessions and as project-based work open to all prison inmates subject to availability. A core programme of recurring music therapy activities includes guitar workshops, open jam sessions and a music café. The service is flexibly organised around the needs and interests of participants and involves supporting individuals and emerging groups/ensembles in creative endeavours such as instrumental/vocal tuition, songwriting/composition, audio recording/music production and live performance. As such the music therapy practice departs from more clinically oriented approaches ⁴ (Ansdell, 2002; Procter, 2013) and is informed by community- and resource-oriented developments in the field (Ansdell and Pavlicevic, 2004; Rolvsjord 2010; Stige and Aarø, 2011; Wood, 2016). Physically the music therapy service is located in blue metal barracks placed centrally within the prison, with activities extending across the site and, occasionally, beyond.

Musical emotion zones

In Bjørgvin prison, music afforded important strategies in the ongoing project of shaping an emotional geography. It was clear that the music room, as the centre for much of the musical activity, represented a multiple and complex musical emotion zone (appropriating Crewe et al.’s (2014) expression) taking on different expectations and meanings. Use of the music room was regulated by the music therapist, and basic ground rules of respect and inclusivity were advocated. Ken, a young man learning to play the guitar, articulated his experience of the music room to a fellow inmate:

You have to go and hang out in the music room. I like to go there. I can’t play, but it makes me feel like a musician. They don’t judge you down there. That’s the good thing about it, that they don’t judge you. (Ken, in conversation with fellow inmate and A1, fieldnotes)

Andy, one of the youngest inmates in the prison, isolated himself from the general prison community and spent most of his time in his room avoiding communal spaces. When talking about coming to prison for the first time he said: ‘I didn’t know what to expect. I have only seen films and TV shows from America about prison. I was quite nervous’ (Andy, in conversation with A1, fieldnotes). Gradually he spent more and more time in the music room, eventually being there with others also when he was not himself playing nor engaged in rehearsal. In the music room he talked openly about his past in childcare institutions, and how learning to play the guitar had been an important bonding activity with his main carer. In rehearsals he eventually began to play the guitar with his sleeves rolled up, exposing large scars from self-harming, thus making his playing an act of revelation about his history and identity. Commenting on the process of settling into the prison he explained how the music room had come to represent something safe: ‘Now I don’t think of it like a prison really. More like a …like a house’ (Andy, in conversation with A1, fieldnotes). The room thus represented a sanctuary from the general prison community where it was both possible and safe to enact other aspects of self than what might be possible in other locations and situations in the prison.

The setting up of a musical emotion zone was also achieved elsewhere in the prison. As DeNora (2013) posits ‘music and sound can change the relationship between public and private experience, and they can change the locations available for this experience’ (p. 63). The simple presence of a guitar in a communal lounge, placed there by the music therapist, afforded new ways for people to interact:

Suddenly a guitar appeared there, and then people sit down and start to fiddle around…it was incredible, I didn’t even know that they could play […] People go in and sit down and start twiddling to themselves, and then we get a much better mood right away. (Interview, Adam)

Perhaps the most obvious musical emotion zones were the public stage performances that took place in the prison. As the prison lacked any purpose-built facilities for musical performance, concerts involved the physical manipulation of spaces to recreate more familiar ‘outside’ performance settings, often contrasting with the general prison atmosphere. For a public concert in the prison initiated by the music therapist in collaboration with two music therapy students, the gymnastics hall was transformed into a performance space using strategic lighting, props, musical equipment and furniture (carpets, decorative lamps and pot plants). Coupled with the alteration of the acoustic ambiance that music brings about (Clarke, 2005), it set the scene for the musical performance of self (Auslander, 2006). ⁵ Bjorn, a man in his mid-30s, had previously had a career as a singer in a local heavy metal band. In conversation, it emerged that he was going through a pivotal time of change in his life, having recently got married and had a baby. As a result he was determined to alter his lifestyle, but felt trapped by the expectations of his heavy metal image and the trappings of a ‘rock and roll’ lifestyle, particularly with regards to heavy drinking. During the concert, Bjorn consciously challenged this image. Notably, this was Bjorn’s first live performance without drinking alcohol. This made him visibly nervous, illustrating the personal risks and emotional labour involved in performing in this setting. Further, his repertoire was carefully chosen to address deeply personal themes. First, he performed the song Chandelier by pop singer Sia, known for her novel and performance art-inspired approach to performance. The song is widely recognised as depicting a problematic and ambivalent relationship to alcohol (www.lyricinterpretations.com). Bjorn sang it with great force and feel, applying his rock vocal technique to match Sia’s intensity on the original recording, but in his own individual style: ‘Party girls don’t get hurt, can’t feel anything, when will I learn’ (Bjorn, vocal performance). Second, he performed a Norwegian folk rock homage to Edith Piaf, ‘I and Edith’ (‘Eg og Edith’, Herborg Kråkevik 2000), and referred to this as his ‘guilty pleasure’.

Bjorn’s performance clearly interrogated gender stereotypes and challenged notions of the machismo of prison (Karp, 2010) as Bjorn voiced vulnerability and ambivalence through the words of strong female performers. Also, the ‘guilty pleasure’ found in Edith Piaf’s legacy represented an abrupt departure from what Bjorn described as his ‘heavy metal image’. Ugelvik (2014) asks how adult men can ‘retain their masculinity […] when they, as prisoners, are given less freedom than a child?’, raising important issues regarding how men’s ability to perform gender are restricted in prison. An additional question illustrated by Bjorn’s performance is ‘how do certain notions of masculinity restrict these men’s freedom to express themselves?’. For Bjorn, the very sense of masculinity that some men feel bereft of in prison was repressive in itself. The performance situation created a musical emotion zone where displays of vulnerability and intimacy were not only allowed, but encouraged, something which was confirmed by the enthusiastic reception by the audience. Thus, the performative practices of rock made available positions of gender disruption, addiction and longing.

Musical emotion zones were not only accomplished through the efforts of the person(s) actually performing, but were co-created with other people. Subsequently, any performance hinges on moments of shared attention, and music was often experienced as an effective way of getting attention:

When you sing, people listen in a different way. If you talk it goes in one ear and out the other. But if you sing, and you’ve got a good melody and they hear it, it triggers something in their brain that says “That was good, now I have to pay attention.” (Interview, Ben)

Musical caring

What I miss most in the prison is physical contact. There is a reason why you see so many men hugging each other here. You need some intimacy. (Male Prison Inmate, 2016)

Men are less likely than women to seek help for mental health issues (Courtenay, 2003), and they are more likely than women to die from health neglect, risk behaviour or suicide (Furman and Dill, 2012). This has led to explanations of the relationships between health and crime which foreground gender perspectives (Karp, 2010; Lander et al., 2016). Mahalik et al. (2006) argue that ‘one potential explanation of why men have less healthy lifestyles is that males are socialized to adopt masculine ideals that may put their health at risk’ (p. 192). In the prison environment, any such cultural obstacles to seeking or giving help become more pronounced; finding acceptable ways of showing care and affection is particularly challenging in an environment where intimacy and the display of emotions is highly regulated both structurally and in terms of inmate codes (Crewe et al., 2014). A prominent finding of the study was therefore how the men in the prison used music as a technology of care. Research has highlighted that an important affordance of music in institutional settings is the unique ways in which it facilitates experiences of intimacy (Procter, 2013). Echoing this, we found that music afforded intimate emotion zones for the men which seemed to contrast the hard front often reported elsewhere. Music thus opened up to specific ways of showing care and compassion for others, and this emerged as a frequent motivation to participate in music. We refer to this as musical caring, building on a wide understanding that to care for someone is ‘in the most significant sense, […] to help him grow and actualize himself’ (Mayeroff, 1965 cited in Noddings, (2013: 9)).

Three conditions underpinned the musical caring that took place within the prison. First, there was a widespread awareness that people suffer from great stress, and in particular the lack of access to drugs as a ‘pause button’ was recognised as a contributing factor to this suffering:

I can see that people walk around with a high stress level. Really. I see that it takes very small things to upset the mood. Yes, you just forget to flush the toilet, and people go crazy. And I think that’s because there is generally speaking a higher stress level in here. (Interview, Boris)

Musical caring was enacted through musical performance, in teaching/learning situations, and through musical gestures in group settings. For Boris, the wish to ‘touch’ and comfort other prisoners motivated him to step outside his comfort zone and perform two carefully chosen songs at a prison concert. Together with a band of other inmates and three student music therapists he sang ‘Smile’ by Charlie Chaplin and ‘Hurt’ by Nine Inch Nails (as recorded by Johnny Cash), as he believed these songs would address common themes and offer solace. After the performance he commented that ‘performing those songs to those guys out there, that was something special!’ (Boris, observation by A1, fieldnotes).

The motivation to use music as a technology for care also translated into more explicit action directed at specific people in the prison. Ben, who was in his late 30s and serving time for drug-related offences, could only play the most basic chord shapes on the guitar, but had previous experience from performing locally and described himself as ‘a bit of an entertainer’ (Ben, in conversation with A1, fieldnotes). Having borrowed a guitar from the music therapist, he often played in public spaces and common rooms throughout the prison, apparently motivated by the response he sensed in others:

I see what it does, if I play to people, how much it cheers them up. How engaged the others are. They smile from ear to ear. Their eyes light up while I’m playing over there [in the pool room], and they laugh. (Interview, Ben)

The notion that prison inmates develop creative forms of caring is not new. Tuastad (2014) has described how a rock band of ex-inmates supported each other in and through musical activities, and in a closely related Norwegian prison setting Mjåland (2014) has even shown how the sharing of drugs in a prison environment was related to a desire to care for others. In a more formal capacity, health institutions and addiction treatment programmes increasingly employ previous patients as consultants (Rydheim and Svendsen, 2014). The term ‘wounded healers’ has been used to describe how people recovering from addiction or mental illness might help others who are not as far along a trajectory of recovery (Heidemann et al., 2016). In a similar way, this study shows how people drew on their own experiences of music’s help (Ansdell, 2014) and, with the support of the music therapist, developed music into their own technology of care. When we examine the physical location of the music therapy service, situated amongst a saw mill, a bicycle workshop, an art studio, a coffee burning workshop and cookery classes, we see an environment that is geared towards learning through doing in master–apprentice relationships (Le May and Wenger, 2009). It is not surprising then that people also treated music therapy in this way; focusing not only on the acquisition of musical skill or the personal/social/health benefits that participation in music may bring, but on learning music therapy by doing. DeNora (2007) puts forward this notion:

By considering the often hidden lay-therapeutic functions music serves in everyday life, it is possible to return to music’s use in hospital and therapeutic settings with new eyes, focusing on the role of the client/patient and what they bring to the music (therapeutic) event – their “lay craft”. From there, it is also possible to see the craft of the music therapist or health-musician with new eyes as they seek to activate latent health-musicking skills in those with whom they work. (p. 284)

Conclusion

Studies of music therapy have demonstrated a particular ‘fit’ between ethnographic methods and the analysis of music as ‘the ethnographic air we breathe’ (Procter, 2013: 86; Stige, 2005). Echoing this, our study suggests that understanding musicking in the prison setting can help us to nuance our view of the prison’s emotional geography (Crewe et al., 2014). Musical artefacts and performance as data can complement studies that exist ‘exclusively and unapologetically in the discursive realm, insisting that the only appropriate data is that which is available in a material (i.e., a discursive or language) form’ (Aspden and Hayward, 2015: 4565/6991).

Musicking was clearly of consequence to people’s experience of identity, meaning and health in Bjørgvin prison. Musical canons and performative practices provided both an emotional vocabulary and the license to employ it. However, since the conditions in Bjørgvin prison did not naturally encourage the spontaneous and varied musical encounters required to sustain a dynamic music scene, this needed nurturing and supporting in specific ways. The presence of the music therapy service modelled and enabled particular qualities of musical interaction and consequently contributed to the creation of a therapeutic music scene. This is illustrative of recent developments in the field of music therapy, from asking ‘how can music therapists help people?’ (Bruscia, 1998), via asking ‘how can music therapists assist people in helping themselves?’ (Rolvsjord, 2004), towards questions of ‘how can music therapists assist people in helping others?’ (DeNora, 2007). Whilst music therapy is often conceived of as setting up a confidential space for the safe exploration of self in private settings (Darnley-Smith and Patey, 2003), the spaces created musically in the prison were not risk free nor confidential; they fathomed both risk and safety on a spectrum of in-between private/public practices. And whilst musicking clearly offered a refuge away from everyday life (Tuastad and O’Grady, 2013), it was a force in actually changing circumstances in a very present here and now. This emphasises how the emotional geography of the prison is fluid and continuously emergent; music did not only occupy spaces where a license for emotional display already existed, instead people appropriated the prison to serve music’s purpose. Whereas Crewe et al. (2014), nor we, enter into defining what emotions are, this study also shows how the moment-to-moment flow of emotions were co-created, underscoring their shared and distributed nature (Clarke et al., 2015).

The enactments of power in, through and surrounding musicking which are evident in the data also point to music’s excluding and disempowering potentials. This should be explored further in future research into music therapy in prison settings. Also, whilst this study demonstrates that music therapy can be an integrated part of the organisational apparatus of the prison service without being perceived as a technology of incarceration, more research is needed to understand tensions that may arise as music therapists and other professionals inhabit an institutional function whilst seeking not to forfeit the emancipatory potentials of the arts.