I CONFESS TO SOMEWHAT UNHOLY THOUGHTS about what is surely the most beautiful parable ever written — the prodigal son. Does he really make good? Does he fall back to his slovenly ways? If your life is a tabernacle, did forgiveness from the father make a lasting difference? (Admittedly, I have also wondered what would have happened to Icarus if he only injured his arm, would his brush with grandiosity and near death have improved his character?)
But back in this world, a young musician of talent and promise experienced some miracle of forgiveness. And he needed it: he had stolen $450,000 and spent it all. Ready to be sentenced to 20 years in prison, he did something that the presiding judge had never witnessed. The man, reduced to penury, represented himself and told the truth. What happened next is the story you are about to hear. The prodigal son in this, forgiven, forgives himself and starts a new life. — OL
I have to start with Blackchild being a pretty unusual name.
My birth name is Garry Martin Beasley. When I was growing up, my grandmother is Choctaw from Mississippi, and my mom came down with ovarian cancer when I was around, I want to say 12 or 13, and I was sent to live with my grandma on the reservation. Well, it’s just a little town, Philadelphia, Mississippi, and it’s the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians.
I was the darkest one in my family, and everybody had nicknames, and she called me Lusa Huma — her little black boy, because I was the darkest one. So I kept that nickname that my grandma gave me because she’s the only grandma I ever had. I never had a grandma or grandpa on my mom’s side because they died when she was young, and I never had a grandpa on my dad’s side. All I had was one grandma. So she taught me about my Choctaw culture and that name stuck with me.
As I got older and I started to do my family history, I realized that Beasley is a slave-given name. We worked on the Beasley Plantation in Mississippi, and when my ancestors left the plantation, you took the name of your plantation owner. So Beasley is not even genetically related to me. So I dropped that name when I turned 18 and I adopted Delusa Huma, which means black child.
So you identify with being Native or Black?
I identify with being an Afro-indigenous person, so a Black Native American.
Down in Mississippi, in that area, there’s a ton of Black Native Americans. We mixed because a lot of the freed Black slaves would get jobs on the reservations or they would be Pullman Porters building railroad tracks to the reservations, and they would end up mixing.
So you grew up there.
I was only there for a few years. My mom recovered and I moved back to Pasadena, California. That’s where I pretty much was raised, and that’s where my music career started.
My first gig, I was hired to be a guitar player for this band called the Montezuma Project, and that was with Taboo, one of the members of the Black Eyed Peas. That was my first gig ever. I was just an electric guitar player. I didn’t even know who the Black Eyed Peas were at that time — they were still an underground hip hop band. We played all the clubs in Hollywood, and that was like my first taste of the musician life. That ended because the Black Eyed Peas got signed and he pursued that project.
Then I decided to just keep pursuing my own thing. I had a few rock bands in LA that didn’t do anything. It was just Los Angeles, Hollywood — we were trying to be rock stars and that wasn’t going anywhere.
Then I became a dad. I became a dad at 20. I was really young when I had my first daughter.
There was just no way we were going to be able to sustain a family in Los Angeles. So me and my ex-wife set our eyes on New Mexico, and we moved to Albuquerque. We ended up having two girls and raised them there. When we got a divorce, she went back to LA with the girls. I stayed, but I wasn’t really vibing with Albuquerque.
A good friend of mine, Mateo Garcia, who’s like my best friend in New Mexico, said, You know what? I got a job for you in Santa Fe. Just come up to Santa Fe. Start work on Monday. Boom, and everything just meshed. And 15 years ago I moved to Santa Fe.
What works about Santa Fe for you?
The community. I never really had a community my whole life. I’ve always been kind of like a solo vagabond drifter. When I moved to Santa Fe, I really felt like I found a good community of people that really took to me. They took to my story and I just planted some roots. I fell in love with Santa Fe from the first day I got here.
It felt so old, and I’ve always lived in really modern cities until I came to Santa Fe. I mean, Albuquerque doesn’t even feel old, you know? This felt really old, it felt ancient. There was something magical. I came during monsoon season, so there were thunderstorms. I’d never experienced that. And back then, the Santa Fe blues scene was really popping. It kind of ebbs and flows here. But there was something really mystical about it, so I decided to stay.
Earlier you told me about this period you had where you did something wrong. Can you talk about that experience?
Yeah, yeah. So while in the beginning of that Santa Fe stint, I took a job. I had some friends roll through, they were actually coming back from Burning Man and heading to Savannah, Georgia. They were like, just come try out Savannah. You could make some money and, you know, just hang out and if you don’t like it, you can just go back to Santa Fe.
So I went with them to Savannah, Georgia. I took a job; I hated it.
What was the job?
I was the men’s retail manager for Urban Outfitters. It was just totally not my thing. My kid’s mom was really hitting me up, threatening to take me to court. I had been very behind in child support — very, very behind. I was in a really desperate place. I wanted to get back to New Mexico. So in a moment of desperation, I stole from the safe in the building and I didn’t realize how much money was in it. It was an extremely large amount of money.
You can tell me.
Like $450,000.
So I took it and ran, ran back to New Mexico, and I hid out here in Santa Fe for a long time. Until I went down to Ruidoso, and I had a show one night and I got pissed drunk. I got in a fight with somebody and I was walking down the middle of the road in Ruidoso. These two sheriffs were cruising by, and they came up to me and they’re doing a welfare check because I wasn’t doing anything wrong. They’re like, Buddy, you’re walking in the middle of the road. It’s 2 o’clock in the morning with two guitars. Can we give you a ride? You’re not under arrest.
So I got in the car, but I didn’t realize once you’re inside any law enforcement vehicle, you have to show proof of ID. That was it for me. I showed them my ID, they did a search, and I had a felony fugitive warrant, which I had no idea about, out of Savannah.
So they took me to Carrizozo Jail, booked me, and they said, Well, if US prisoner transport doesn’t come within 12 days, we have to let you go. On day 12, I was thinking I was going to get out, but US prisoner transport showed up. Took me to Savannah, Chatham County Men’s Sheriff’s Complex, which is a private for-profit prison, and I sat there for a year and six months just awaiting my trial because I couldn’t afford a real attorney. My public attorney was like, You’re facing 15 to 25 years in a federal prison because that money was federally insured that you took. So I pretty much thought it was over.
In jail, they treat you like an animal. You have no rights. They strip search you. You have to be naked in front of other men all the time. You don’t get the medical attention you need. You’re like caged animals, basically.
I saw so many older men in there, they were basically dying in there. They needed medical treatment, they had diabetes, they had epilepsy and they weren’t getting treated. Every other week somebody died. We’d get on lockdown and you’d see them pull this guy out on a stretcher and then by the end of the day, that bed’s filled with some new guy. It’s like a cattle facility.
It was a nightmare to see. You felt helpless. There’s nothing you could do. Nothing you could do in there but pray that you don’t die.
When I finally went to see the judge, I asked to represent myself. My lawyer thought I was crazy. He’s like, What are you doing? I was like, No, I’m just going to tell him the truth. I’m going to tell him why I did it.
So I told the judge exactly what happened and how I did it and why I did it, and how stupid I felt for doing it. I told him that I gave most of that money to my kid’s mom, which I did — and she opened a salon with that money, which she still owns to this day. With the rest of the money, I said, Your Honor, I used it for music, I partied some of it away, paid my rent.
He’s looking at the DA and they’re like, Oh my God, this guy’s crazy.
Then the judge looks at the DA and he goes, Does Mr. Beasley qualify for the First Offenders Act? Meaning if it’s your first felony offense and it’s a nonviolent crime, no drugs involved, no firearms involved, you can get time served, and it’s up to the judge’s discretion if he wants to give me more time.
The judge looked at me and said, Mr. Beasley, this is your lucky day. I’ve never had anybody just tell me the truth. So, time served, two years probation, go back to New Mexico.
That moment changed my life because I realized, dude, you got so lucky. So, so lucky. To do music, to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing, and I almost had that taken away from me. I would have been an old man by the time I got out. The lesson was to work hard and that nothing is given to you. It really was just a spiritual awakening for me. It was the universe telling me, like, you have an opportunity now to really be who you are. So do it.
Are you familiar with the prodigal son?
Yes.
So you were, shall we say, rather prodigal?
Yeah, rather prodigal, for sure.
But you asked for forgiveness, you were completely vulnerable, you had no leverage.
He was a white judge, and I was in an all-Black men’s facility. He looked at me as a Black man that made a mistake and was just telling the truth, and I think he saw my heart, though. He knew that I wasn’t a criminal.
So what happened next?
I got back to New Mexico and I got my second chance at life, and something just changed inside of me. I felt like we only have so much time. When you’re locked up, you realize how precious time is. Every day away from my family, every day away from my kids, every day away from my friends, every day away from nature, all the things I love. Time is so precious.
Up to that point, I didn’t really value time. I didn’t see the importance of how little time we have on this earth to do what we love, to have our bodies before we begin to deteriorate. That was the biggest thing. When I came out, I realized every day is so important. Create, create, create. Use your gift and don’t be stupid. Don’t be impulsive again.
When I got out, I really did change as a man. I really tried to be a good person and help people more because I felt bad. I felt like I was lucky, but I also felt bad for what I did. I really felt bad. That’s not my character to steal. I really tried to change. I completely changed as a man. I became a man after that.
But I didn’t have any money. Before I left, I was working a construction job for the Raincatcher for Reese Baker. When I got back and he found out what I did, he still hired me back. God bless that man.
I told my friend Mateo, I got an album. I got to get this done and I don’t have money. So Mateo gave me an advance. He’s like, Gary, I’ll give you a $5,000 advance. You gotta pay me back, but we’re gonna get this album done for you. Within two months of the album release, I was able to pay him back. Then I was just making profit. I was like, Dude, you’re a musician now. You got an album out.
The next thing you know, tours started and I started to go on tour and open up for these big acts. It’s kind of surreal how it happened, now I’m a full-time touring musician opening for the big boys: Ray Wylie Hubbard, Nathaniel Rateliff, Charley Crockett, Nicky Diamonds, Shinyribs, a lot of the guys that I idolized for so long.
Talk about some of your songs that are particularly meaningful.
Son of the Southwest is one of the most meaningful songs to me because it’s about one of the first friends I ever made when I moved to New Mexico. His name was Zach Pacheco. He was Santo Domingo Pueblo, and he used to come to all my shows. If I was playing Santa Fe, he’d drive up from the Pueblo. If I was playing in Albuquerque, he would go see me.
He taught me a lot about Native culture here, and the ways of the… I was actually invited to the Pueblo because their feast day is August 4th, which is my birthday. So they allowed me to go on the Pueblo and I played on Santo Domingo Pueblo for everybody.
He was just such a good person, but he had a very bad addiction. He was really addicted to cocaine and alcohol. He was so gifted at what he did, but he drank from 5 AM till he passed out, and then when he would wake up, he would just do coke all day to keep going. It took a really bad toll on his health. He came down with pancreatic cancer, and I think he was only 40 when he passed, but he did not want to go through the pain of having cancer.
I remember him sending me a weird text one day saying, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore. He went up to Taos. He went to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge and he jumped off.
I found out two days later because I saw it in the article. I felt like if I would have known I would have went to the bridge and talked him off the bridge.
So this song is about giving up. It’s about suicide and how prevalent that is in New Mexico and addiction. Son of the Southwest — I want to say he’s the son, and is living vicariously through me because I’m choosing life and he chose death. I feel like it’s a song to honor him because he taught me everything about New Mexico and the culture here.
Where I’m from in California, if you’re broke down on the side of the road, people just pass you by. In Taos, I live in Arroyo Hondo, whenever you pass a car, you wave hello. If somebody’s broken down, people stop. Hey, what do you need? There’s this very helpful culture here.
People here don’t really give a damn if you’re some big movie star or whatever. What they want you to be is respectful. They want you to acknowledge the culture and where you’re at. I really dig that. They care about your character here and who you are and what do you do to help the community. I love that about New Mexico.
Do you feel like you’re doing that?
I do feel like I’m giving back, especially to the community and town where I’m at. I do a lot of charities. I do a lot of benefits. I have ideas for things that I want to do, especially in Hondo where I live, because it’s a really poor community and there’s a lot of drugs up there and the kids get into a lot of trouble. We have this really cool community center that’s just vacant because nobody wants to put money into it.
I think I’ve always been a very kind person. I think I was trying for a long time to run away from it to fit this image of the outlaw, the vagabond outlaw. But I have a heart. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for people that are going through something, for homeless people, for people with addictions, people that are struggling. I just feel called to help them.
Tell me about another song.
I have a song on this album called Black Farmer. Gardening has been this new thing for me. I’ve been doing it now for three years and I’m kicking ass at it. I’m realizing how I’m tapping into what my ancestors did. They farmed down in Mississippi; everybody was a farmer. Everybody was a sharecropper. I’m just tapping back into that. It’s really cool that it came full circle. So the song is celebrating this big Black farmer movement that’s actually happening in the South, where young kids my age and younger are doing farms again and growing their own food. So this song is celebrating that, it’s slide guitar, and it’s a foot-stomper. It’s really like Lynyrd Skynyrd meets Taj Mahal, that kind of a vibe.
I love hip hop, but a lot of hip hop is very negative and puts Black people in a negative light, like we’re gangsters. All we’re doing is hustling and shooting. I’m like, no, man, I want to present Black people as like, nah, we’re farming, we’re planting seeds. We’re doing good things.
There’s another one on the album. It’s very country blues. Just a Black Man in New Mexico. The verse goes, I’m just a black man in New Mexico, trying not to get himself killed. Whenever I play it, I get all the white people to sing it with me, and it’s awesome. It’s breaking barriers, it’s breaking stereotypes, and there are not a lot of Black people in northern New Mexico. So whenever I see another Black person in New Mexico, we’re like, hey.
When you say that Black man trying not to get himself killed, do you feel like that?
I do. I do. So now that we’re under the Trump administration, I feel like all the closet racists are out of the closet. I get comments made to me in Northern New Mexico because there’s a lot of racist cowboys up there. I’ve been called nigger. They say, Your kind shouldn’t be playing that kind of country music.
I’m like, There wouldn’t be country music without my kind.
So I do feel like I get attacked here.
But to your point, your song you’re describing to me is basically joyful, comic, satiric. Is that right?
Yeah, it’s a comical song, but it also, it’s like, yeah, I’m just trying not to get myself killed. I really do face this. I think a lot of Black people that live in rural places where there’s not a lot of Black people are dealing with this right now. It’s like we’ve gone backwards in time a little bit. Not just Black people. I feel like Hispanic people are getting attacked. Queer people are getting attacked. With this administration, it’s like they want to turn back time.
What are your influences?
So, I’m reading a book right now, Life by Keith Richards, one of my favorite guitar players. The way he plays rhythmically, I’ve embodied that style. I’m not a shredder. I’m a rhythmic player. So he’s one of my mains. John Lee Hooker is the man that got me into the blues. I studied him for years and I still study him. I can’t figure out how he is so simple and so powerful.
I read a lot of philosophy and history books. I’m reading a book about the Mexican Revolution. I study history and I study philosophy. I’m reading another book, The Art of War. I love Taoism. I love Buddhism. I like to read. I think it’s important. It’s a lost art form because everyone’s listening to the audiobooks and all that, which is great. But I like physical copies of books. I have stacks of them all around my house because I just love literature. I think it’s really important.
Why do you love music so much?
I really enjoy performing in front of people and seeing their reaction. Since I was a kid, my parents said that when we’d have family gatherings, I would put on a Michael Jackson outfit, and I had my little tape player, and I would just perform. To me, it’s the best high you could ever get.
Believe it or not, I’m quite an introverted person. The way that I could express myself was with music. That was the way that I could get across to people. I was a minority, so I didn’t really fit in with a lot of the kids in my school. So my way to stand out was with my music and I felt like I was appreciated for that. They’re like, Oh, Garry, yeah, the Black kid with the guitar. He’s actually pretty good.
Then I ran into people telling me, You got something, dude. You got it. When you get told by one of your peers, somebody that you idolize, that you have it, that you have the gift, I mean, you pay attention.
What does a gift mean?
I think it definitely has something to do with spirit and creator. Just being able to tap into that source. I think everybody is born with a gift. But a lot of people are not taught to cultivate it. And also, if you’re not connected to source and to spirit, you’re not going to be able to really tap into it to your fullest potential. But yeah, I believe we’re all born with gifts and the gift of music is what I was born with. So I feel like I’m obligated to share that until I die.
Well, now you’re screwed.
I’m screwed, yeah, I can’t do anything else.