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Maxwell Melvins is a product of one of the most brutal cities in the United States. Growing up the 15th and youngest of a large, by his own admission, dysfunctional family, Camden, New Jersey, was not a good place to be in the 1970s. Poverty, unemployment, drugs and violence were the realities of life on the streets in this desperately struggling, slowly decaying city. It might come as a shock to learn that Maxwell was a self-confessed heroin addict by the time he was 12 years old. Anyone living around the streets of North Camden in the 1970's will not be
surprised at all. Kids like that were a dime a dozen. It was simply normal to the young Melvins –most of the people around him had already been doomed to a life of addiction, and it was almost inevitable that his path would lead that way too. Drug dependency leads to a dead-end of despair, and Max's journey was depressingly predictable. In and out of institution after institution as his criminal acts escalated. Breaking and entering, theft, arson....Max Melvins did whatever he had to do to feed his addition. He wasn't violent – although he
would stand his ground if the situation called for it. He didn't see himself as a victim either– this was the only life he knew. This is how things were. No point questioning it. Eight years after becoming a heroin addict, Maxwell's wretched existence hit rock bottom when he
was jailed for murder in 1980. It wasn't an intentional act. It was that most mundane of circumstances: a drug deal went wrong, Max grabbed a gun and started shooting. One of the bullets hit a close childhood friend, ripped through his brain. An innocent bystander. Wrong place, wrong time.

In a scene of dark comedy, Max donned women's clothing to elude the police. He got away, trying to digest the horror of the fact that he's gunned down one of his best friends growing up. He knew he had to come home and face what he'd done. He turned himself in. The authorities disposed of him like the worthless trash he had become. They put Max away, and he'd stay inside for 30 years.
If they'd had the death penalty in New Jersey, Maxwell Melvins almost certainly wouldn't be here right now. Rahway. Trenton. Riverfront. Southwood. Bayside. Northern State. Bordentown. All high security prisons. Convicted murderer Maxwell Melvins became intimately acquainted with all of them. Each presented its own grim catalogue of horror stories. Survival became Melvins' mantra. One day at a
time. Same routine, different prison, ever-present threat of danger. A physical or emotional wrecking ball could come from anywhere, at any time. Same shit. Different day. Every day. But Maxwell Melvins didn't rot in jail. He changed. He grew up. He got clean. And he began to
channel his energies to positive ends. Max joined Lifer's Group, an organization founded in 1972 primarily for the support of long-term inmates. One of their outreach programs had also attracted international attention with the Scared Straight documentary, which sought to try and steer young offenders away from a life of crime by terrifying the crap out of them. Here, Melvins found the niche that would define his life inside. In the early 1990's he developed a new Lifer's Group project, utilizing his passion for music. Under his guidance, from inside the walls
of Rahway, Melvins produced two rap albums under the name of Lifer's Group. The rappers and many of the musicians were fellow inmates. The aim was to reach out to kids, in a manner in which they would understand, that prison, and a life of crime, was a one-way ticket to nowhere. Every artist who signed up for the project had to agree to this fundamental purpose. This was no ego trip.

This was music with a message, rap-style. It is impossible to quantify how many young lives changed direction through the tough love
dispensed by the rappers' efforts. But it wasn't just inspirational rap with a point to make. It was high quality music – and it was being made within the walls of a maximum security jail. This was a story in itself. Now the world's media was beating a path to Rahway's door, wanting to know more. And it wasn't just messed up young kids who were hearing the message. The Lifer's Group rappers were attracting attention from the music business too. And in April 1992, a letter arrived in Max's cell informing him that they were nominated for a Grammy, in a category alongside Billy Joel, Peter Gabriel, Madonna and Sinead O'Connor. Four of the biggest selling artists of the decade,
alongside a bunch of convicts. A storyline Hollywood would surely have turned down flat. Max has his invite but he had to decline – the State of New Jersey had other plans for him that night. So on the evening of the awards, the media came to him. News crews set up outside the jail, while Barbara Walters and the 20/20 team filmed Max and his crew inside. The rappers didn't win – Madonna beat them to the prize – but they still made history. No prisoners had ever been nominated for a Grammy. And probably never will again. Max was the driving force behind one of the most extraordinary tales in modern music history. The project over, Max's life returned to the mundane. He became eligible for parole. He said he wasn't ready. Not a unique response, but still very unusual. Max had developed self-awareness and
self-confidence over the decades. He knew he still had changes to make to his lifestyle. Everything had to be right.

When his time did come, he presented his case to the parole board with honesty and clarity. They didn't like what they heard. They wanted more groveling and scraping, more hand-wringing and tears of remorse. Max gave them the truth, straight down the line. About his crime, about himself, and why he was finally ready to take the next step in his life. Instead of granting him parole, the hearing board elected to tack another 10 years onto his original sentence. They enjoyed wielding the power they undoubtedly possessed. Melvins understood at a
deep level this was both wrong and unfair, and in another unprecedented move, he took the State of New Jersey to court over the issue. And he won his case. Maxwell Melvins earned his parole. Now free and living quietly in a New Jersey suburb, Melvins has still found life dealing him hard blows. Rear-ended in a car crash, he was in a bad way physically for some time. But now mentally tough and assured, there is no drifting back. He has focus now. He knows what he is trying to do. He's got a mission to inform and explain. His message is clear. He wants young people to understand the dangers of a life of drugs, guns and crime. And to take another path. Prison is not cool, exciting or glamorous. It is tedious, repetitive, violent and potentially lethal. It's an option with no positives. Maxwell Melvins is still in contact with the family of the young man he shot and killed during that drug-induced evening of madness. They have known him since he was a child. They know it was unintentional. They have forgiven him. They share a bond that in some way, the victim is still living on through the life of his utterly transformed assailant. But forgiveness is a luxury Maxwell Melvins denies himself. A pioneer in many ways; a successful executive producer of rap music with his own office inside one of the toughest jails in America; an advocate for helping young people make the right choices in their lives; a former inmate who understands the needs of long-term prisoners from the perspective of someone who has spent much of his adult life behind bars. Nobody has a story quite like it. The Maxwell Melvins of today is in many ways an inspiration. But he will not accept praise. He refuses to be called a role model. He is not a hero. He is not inspirational. He thinks of the young man he killed back in July 1980, one of his closest childhood friends, every day of his life. And no matter how much he has developed and matured as a man, he will never forgive himself for what he did. Even now, that's still a step too far. It always will be.

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