December 11 Was the Night That Everything Changed

Image via Ramelle Kamack

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At the age of 21, Ramelle Kamack went to jail for his role in a gang-related shooting. During his nearly two decades of incarceration, the Inglewood native has turned his life around, earning three college degrees and becoming a writer. In his own words, he’s attempting to use his education to build a platform that prioritizes giving back to underserved communities:  

His POW columns reflect on his life in prison, the circumstances that led him there, and the inextinguishable hope that sustains him while serving a life sentence. 

You can write to Ramelle at the address below:

Ramelle Kamack
#AA-1281
CTF -Facility C (ZW-308)
P.O. Box 689
Soledad, CA 93960

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I was 13 years old when I learned to play the snare drum. I loved how that rhythmic instrument empowered me to energize anyone in earshot. It was also at that age when I taught myself how to play the piano. I began by tapping random keys, my ears searching for the precise notes until I formed simple melodies such as “Heart and Soul” and Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” Before long I was creating my own songs. By fifteen, I had mastered the full drum kit, was the best in the school district, and had learned how to create instrumentals with beat production software.

At 17, I laid a rap verse over an instrumental and featured several other local artists. I figured by then, with my first-ever song recorded, that I was ready to break into the music industry. The only problem was everyone else in L.A. with a keyboard and a microphone was also fighting to get into the industry. This was back in 2005, in Hollywood, where parties and dance clubs were huge social events to listen to the hottest songs and to dance with some of the most gorgeous women in L.A. Each night of the week, dozens of clubs on the Sunset Strip, Hollywood Boulevard, and Vine Street drew hundreds of people who waited in lines that stretched down the block just to get inside. For me, these events that attracted local rappers, radio DJs, and beautiful women were the perfect opportunity to network with someone who could turn my music aspirations into reality.

One night, after the annual Dubb Magazine Auto Show, I went to an afterparty. There, among hundreds of partiers, a woman with dark silky hair and cream-colored skin gracefully weaved through the crowded dance floor. I watched as she politely declined requests from overzealous guys before I reached for her hand. I told her how stunning she was and we talked for a minute before I told her that I was an aspiring musician. Then, instead of giving me her phone number, she handed me a business card.

“Call me,” she said before flashing a smile and sauntering away.

A woman had never given me a business card before. Her name, Ali Levy, and her workplace was printed on the front—Geffen Records. I couldn’t believe it. I had actually met someone who worked in the music industry! I just needed to record more songs to impress her record label.

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Soon after, on another night at a different club, I struck up a conversation with two dark-skinned guys. One was tall, quiet, and menacing. The other, burly, talkative, and bald. Both men seemed to be in their mid-twenties and were at just about every party and event that I attended. They were at the clubs that I went to, the restaurants, the parties, and even the afterparties. It seemed as if I saw these guys more than my own family.

Through our conversation, I learned that they were brothers. Pooh, the stockier of the two men, was a club promoter and had started his own company, Blue Division. The taller one would later be known as Glasses Malone and would sign a record deal with Cash Money Records. It was at one of Pooh’s parties that I met DJ Dense, a radio DJ for 100.3 The Beat.

One night, I and several other invited guests were onstage beside DJ Dense as he maneuvered his hands over the turntables. He played hit song after hit, stirring the dancers into a frenzy before I handed him a CD.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s my song,” I said. “It’s a banger. Can you play it?”

He hesitated. His eyebrows raised and his face was full of uncertainty. “But I haven’t listened to it yet,” he said.

I pointed toward the crowd and grinned. “Trust me,” I said. “They’ll love it.”

He slid my CD into a player, giving me the chance that I needed. Seconds later, an uptempo beat with heavy sub-bass, synthesizers and reverberating claps boomed through the surrounding speakers. The song was called “Get Down.” Overtop a buzzing melody, myself and a producer named Phuture exchanged verses. The song played with the dance floor still going crazy and I walked off the stage to join the crowd.

In the following months, DJ Dense invited me to 100.3 The Beat’s radio station in Hollywood. There, during his evening shift, we’d discuss the latest music, the inner workings of radio stations and record labels, and how I could take my music to the next level. One night, he gave me and my friend Jorge two tickets to the Lauryn Hill concert that was several blocks away from the station. Before I left, DJ Dense told me that getting my music played in clubs was a step forward but if I really wanted to get a record label’s attention I needed to record more songs and work with more people.

“This industry is all about who you know,” he said. But where was I supposed to find more people in the industry?

So far, I had met a charismatic woman who worked for Geffen, a pair of club promoters, and him, a radio DJ who I looked to as a mentor. It was around that time that I received a phone call. It was from someone who I had no idea could take me to the next level: Mark Spears. In just a few years time he’d be known as the award-winning producer Sounwave.

It was several weeks after my 21sr birthday when I drove toward Carson, a city about fifteen minutes away from my house, with the invitation to listen to some hip-hop beats that were going to an ascending rapper from Compton.

“I’m sending some beats to Guerilla Black,” Mark’s raspy voice sounded through the phone. “Come through, I want you to listen to somethin’.”

By then, I had known Mark Spears for years. We met through a mutual friend Alex “Mailman” Graves and had partied together before we learned that we both produced music. Long before his music was played around the world, he had a poised demeanor that was so calm that at times I questioned if he even had a pulse.

“I’m on my way,” I told him. I took the 91 Freeway and exited Avalon Boulevard.

Mark was from Compton and had a home studio in Carson where he worked and at times lived with several other musicians. Years later, I discovered that house was actually home base for Top Dawg Entertainment and those musicians that occupied the house would later be known as Jay Rock, Schoolboy Q, and Kendrick Lamar.

Mark lived in a quiet and sunny neighborhood down the street from a park. On the house’s second floor he had converted a bedroom into a cozy recording studio. The original carpet had been pulled up and varnished hardwood stretched the length of the room. There was a sofa against the far side wall and a closet that stored microphone stands and cables. Beside another wall, two large speakers flanked a wide desk and a computer monitor that was as large as a bay window. I took the sofa while Mark sat at his desk and selected a beat for me to listen to. Just then, heavy snare and bass drums filled the speakers and reminded me of a large southern marching band. The melody was layered with several wailing electric guitars, and a score of brass horns paved the bridge and hook.

“That’s dope,” I said.

Next, he played a melody that could have derived from an orchestra concert. Pizzicato strings alternated from the speakers and beneath them a tambourine led into a dry snare and kick drum. Then, he played a different beat, then another, and another.

As I nodded my head to a beat, my eyes veered toward the wall. A framed paycheck was mounted across from his computer monitor.

“Why’d you frame a check?” I asked.

“It’s from Lil Wayne,” he said nonchalantly, as if I had just asked him how his day was going.

Mark had worked with Lil Wayne? He was further into the music industry than I figured. Maybe he’d be willing to help me with something. Several weeks prior to visiting Mark’s house, I received a phone call from my old high school’s band teacher, Mr. Moses Hall. He had heard that I had recorded music and he had listened to a few songs that I posted online. He was impressed and had emailed a link to his friend, an A&R at Interscope Records.

“What’s his name?” I asked Mr. Hall.

“Kevin Black. He’s interested in you. Here, take down his number.”

As soon as my phone call with Mr. Hall ended, I called Kevin Black. It took me twice to reach him. When he answered he had a deep, friendly voice, the type that sounds as though he smiled when speaking.

“Put together a demo of about three or four songs,” he said. “Then we’ll arrange a meeting.”

I couldn’t have been happier. Interscope was the record label of some of my favorite rappers. If things went well, I could be signed to the same company as Dr. Dre, Eminem, 50 Cent, Rakim, and Busta Rhymes.

As I sat in Mark’s studio, listening to beats, I decided to let him know about the interest I’d received from Kevin Black.

“Word?”

It was a long shot to ask Mark if I could have one of his instrumentals to rap over. After all, I didn’t have cash like Lil Wayne and Guerilla Black had, and even if I did, why would he give one to me? I didn’t even have a deal yet.

To my surprise, he told me to choose from the ones that he had played for me.

“But I thought those were for Guerilla Black?”

“Pick two. They’re yours.”

To this day, I haven’t met someone in the industry as generous and humble as he was. I chose the first two that he played for me—the marching band anthem and the symphony with the dry snare drums.

A day or two later, I wrote two hot songs and recorded them at a studio near my house with an engineer named Rasheed the Pro Tools Master. With two songs produced by Sounwave and a club banger in DJ Dense’s play rotation, I wanted one more song to showcase my range, perhaps a conscious song over a soul sample. I called my old producer, Phuture, and we arranged for a studio session.

It was about a day or two later, December 11, 2007, at approximately 7:50 AM, when I was on Century Boulevard and approached Prairie Avenue. In the rear-view mirror, a sheriff’s patrol vehicle flashed its lights.

My heart sunk and my palms sweated while I gripped the steering wheel. I pulled over and killed the engine. Seconds later, a commanding voice boomed from the car’s bullhorn.

“Driver, exit the car slowly with both hands raised in the air!”

This was different than the other times that I’d been pulled over for traffic stops. Usually, they’d step out of their car, approach my window and ask for my ID. I exhaled and did as the voice commanded. When I stepped out of my car my heart pounded and the morning air seemed frigid and still.

“Lower to the ground and rest on your knees!” the voice said.

I lowered to the pavement as cars zipped past. Seconds later, two officers lurked from the patrol vehicle with their guns drawn. Then, I felt the cold grip of steel around my wrists before I was yanked to my feet.

“What’s this for?” I shouted.

“We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“For what charge?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. I had been hiding something, and I would pay the consequences of it for the rest of my life. After what felt like an eternity, the officer announced my charge.

“First-degree murder.”

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