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Johnny Cash played his last prison concert on November 6, 1980 at the Louisiana State Penitentiary—more commonly known as “Angola.”

I was there at the time, and very much a part of the activities surrounding that event. I recently watched the Paramount+ documentary “June”—a chronicle of the life story of June Carter Cash, Johnny’s wife. It ushered the memory of that Johnny Cash concert back into my mind. Here is what I recall about that day.

I was co-editor of the prison’s awarding-winning newsmagazine, The Angolite. Wilbert Rideau was the publication’s other co-editor. Rideau and I had been together as the publication’s primary writing team since 1977. With the approval of Louisiana Correction Secretary C. Paul Phelps, we had transformed the publication from a “prison rag” into a national and international acclaimed newsmagazine. We worked under the supervision of Assistant Warden Peggy Gresham who gave us a lot of leeway in how we did our jobs.

Several days before the concert Gresham walked into the office unannounced as she sometimes did.

“Wait till I tell you guys what is next on our agenda,” she said.

“As if we don’t already have enough,” Rideau replied, laughing. “Okay, okay, so what do you have for us?”

“Johnny Cash is doing a concert next week in the rodeo arena for all the inmates,” she said. “And if that is not enough to get your attention, his representative told me that he personally wants to meet “those two convict editors” and have his picture in The Angolite. That’s all he wants for doing this free concert.”

Rideau and I looked at each other.

“Hey, I’m the country music fan,” I said, “I know ‘Walk the Line’ by heart.”

“My only concern,” Gresham interjected, “is whether our black inmates will show up—it’s not like Johnny Cash is their favorite music artist.”

“The brothers will be there,” Rideau assured. “I promise you that. That’s my Joe Namath guarantee.”

Rideau fulfilled the guarantee. He personally spoke to every black leader in the prison urging, even cajoling them to turn out big for Johnny Cash.

“You want me and my lifers to go to some Hee-Haw, shit-kicking concert?” Monroe Green asked incredulously.

“Hell yes,” Rideau answered. “Outside media will be there. The brothers need to show up in force. You owe me, Monroe. Pack the brothers in that arena for me. Hell, you might even get a cultural education out of all this.”

And the black inmates did pack the arena—several thousand of them. The arena was drenched in rain the night before. A mist hung over the overcast day. The stage was set up for the performance when Rideau and I arrived. Chairs had been placed in the middle of the arena for Republican Gov. Dave Treen, his entourage, a large contingent of prison and corrections officials, and several political dignitaries accompanying the governor.

Rideau and I shook hands with Johnny Cash, his band, and a number of other people with the group.

“All I want is my picture in that Angolite,” Cash said, with a hearty smile. “So I expect you fellas to get some good shots of me and that crowd I’m about to make go wild.”

“You got it, Mr. Cash,” I said.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up there guys,” he replied. “Don’t call me mister. I’m no mister to you. I’m Johnny Cash. I’m here for you, because of you two. If there is any mister-calling around here, it will be me calling y’all mister. We on the same page here?”

“Yes, we are, Johnny,” I answered. “In fact, I have an older brother named Johnny.”

“Good,” the singer responded. “You know how to say the name.”

The entire group laughed.

In the meantime, the officials and dignitaries were seated observing the interplay between Rideau and I and the musician with his entourage. Some were obviously agitated having to wait for a performance they believed was being put on for them. The governor’s stare alone said he was not pleased that we were receiving all the interest and favor from Cash. That’s not the way he believed things were suppose to go—two celebrated convicted killers hob-knobbing with a country music legend.

The band slowly gathered on the stage, laughing and chatting as they tested the sound equipment. Cash had his stage manager turn the stage away from the official dignitaries and pointed towards the huge crowd of inmates sitting in the stands behind double razor-wire fences.

The Man in Black then took the stage, facing the inmates.

“Hello, I’m Johnny Cash,” he announced his trademark opening. “Thanks for coming out today in this lovely weather. I know there are a lot of other things you fellas could be doing—pickin’ cotton, washing clothes, mopping floors … and all those other things they make you do for free.”

The crowd gave a rousing applause.           

“If you notice fellas,” Cash told the inmates, “this stage is directed towards you. I’m here to play for you – not them.”

He pointed toward the dignitaries.

The inmate crowd came to its feet, erupting in a full-throated roar of cheers of approval that could be heard across the entire Main Prison Complex.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rollin ‘round the bend …” Cash opened.

The inmates start clapping, stomping their feet in approval.

They were jubilant, the dignitaries squirmed.

Rideau and I moved about taking pictures of Cash, the band, and the inmates who loved the concert. But I kept an eye on the dignitaries. I occasionally caught glimpses of the governor sitting, arms folded, not pleased. Phelps and Angola Warden Frank Blackburn stood a short distance from the dignitaries. They were both uncomfortable.

It was at that point I realized that the dignitaries had traveled to the prison thinking Johnny Cash had come to perform for them. Some were furious that one of country music’s most revered entertainers told thousands of inmates he had come to perform for them, not the dignitaries.

Rideau and I became the target of some of their frustration and anger. We had personal access to Johnny Cash, they didn’t. That definitely rubbed Gov. Treen the wrong way—our enjoying that kind of freedom in the state’s most maximum security penal facility. He expressed his displeasure to Phelps and Blackburn about that appearance before leaving the prison.

Phelps dropped by The Angolite office later that afternoon.

“Well, you two certainly outdid yourselves today,” he said. “You managed to piss off the Governor by having Johnny Cash sing directly to the inmates, not to mention that Warden Blackburn had them sitting in the mud while Cash sang and twanged. What else can this prison do to me today?”

“Hold it, Mr. Phelps,” Rideau answered.. “We had nothing to do with that stage arrangement. I heard Johnny Cash tell his stage manager to correct it so he would be playing to the inmates.”

“I know that, Wilbert,” Phelps replied. “But that’s not the perception, and perception is all that matters in the world of those people who sat in the mud. The governor made that clear to me before he left.”

“A perception about us?” I asked.

“Let’s leave it at this—the governor was not pleased with what he saw.”

Phelps got up and walked out of the office.

Rideau and I sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” Rideau said, after a moment of reflection, “I don’t think Gov. Treen will be attending anymore Johnny Cash concerts.”

“And I don’t think Johnny Cash gives a fuck,” I replied, laughing.

We closed the door on the subject with me saying:

“Wilbert, I will remember this day for all my days, not because I got to meet Johnny Cash, shake his hand, and interview him, but because I got to see that puny little governor dressed in a blue suit whose pants legs were above his ankles wearing those shined black Thom McAn shoes and white socks tippy-toeing through the mud with that mud splotching those pretty shoes and white socks. What other state in all these United States could you find a governor who wears blue suits, black shoes and white socks? That almost equals the country song ‘Rednecks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer.’”

“What do you say,” he proposed, “let’s call it a day … go to the gym and play a little racquetball.”

“Sounds good to me.”

One final anecdote to this story: We interviewed Cash in his tour vehicle. He offered us a cold beer from his small refrigerator. We graciously declined the offer.

“Look, you fellas do not have to worry about The Man while in here with me,” he insisted. “This is my deal in here – screw them out there.”

We still declined.

Cash seemed disappointed.

Seeing him just months before his death at June’s funeral, I looked back on that day and thought, “I should’ve just drank the goddamn beer.”