Melissa Etheridge has a respectable following in the UK, but in her native United States she is regarded as one of the greats of her generation, a blue-collar troubadour hewn from the grit and gravel of the American heartland. And despite her two Grammys and an Oscar win, she has never forgotten her humble roots in Leavenworth, Kansas. Nor has she lost sight of the fact that, while she has soared high, a percentage of her community has spiralled into poverty and addiction – many of them are behind bars.
A burning desire to give something back is one of the motivations behind Paramount+’s two-part Melissa Etheridge: I’m Not Broken, a heartfelt but sometimes off-puttingly glossy documentary about a concert Etheridge staged at a women’s prison in Topeka, the capital of her home state. The problem isn’t with Etheridge, who presents a hugely vulnerable and empathetic figure. It’s that the gig itself is shot in a such a highly stylised fashion that makes you feel as though you’re watching the BBC’s Glastonbury coverage (albeit with 70 per cent extra sunshine) rather than a seeing the dark side of the American justice system first hand.
Etheridge grew up worshipping Johnny Cash, who performed at a prison in her home town of Leavenworth (that famous Folsom gig wasn’t his only prison rodeo). In her early career, she followed his path and played several penitentiaries. But the idea for this Topeka concert was sparked after several inmates wrote to Etheridge, sharing their struggles.
The first episode introduces us to Leigh, who was in a toxic relationship with her drug dealer boyfriend and is now serving 15 years for possession of banned substances with intent to supply. Just like Etheridge, she dreamed of making it as a musician, but when her father told her it was impossible, she lost her way.
Another inmate, Cierra, became pregnant in her late teens, dropped out of education and began drinking heavily. Drunk behind the wheel, she knocked down and killed a 19-year-old and is in the middle of a three-and-a-half-year sentence for involuntary manslaughter.
“The fact I am responsible for taking someone’s life – it makes me want to be different,” she says. Meeting the women had a profound effect on Etheridge, who believed that they should not be defined by their mistakes. “Guilt or shame…that’s like drinking poison,” she said. “I want to inspire”.
But the series suffers from stuttering pacing. There are constant cuts back and forth between the performance at Topeka Correctional Facility and interviews with Etheridge and the inmates. One minute, we’re listening to a prisoner bare their soul, then we’re back on that festival stage as Etheridge negotiates another Springsteen-esque chugger. If you’re not a hardcore fan of her music, it can make things feel drawn out.
That said, Etheridge’s perspectives on the American justice system are insightful. She feels strongly that many of the women behind bars on drug charges at Topeka are victims of circumstance and simply unfortunate to live in the wrong part of America. She contrasts their predicament with her arrest for possession of a marijuana vape pen in 2017 when crossing over from Canada to North Dakota (which had recently legalised medical cannabis). She was let off but it could have been much worse for Etheridge had the drugs bust happened in Kansas. “They found the stuff and turned it over to the sheriff,” she says. “In another part of the country, it’s five, 10 years in prison. That doesn’t make any sense.”
I’m Not Broken touches briefly on the fatal opioid overdose of her 21-year-old son Beckett, who died in 2020. She has refused to be defined by the pain she felt over the death of her child and so her grief is far from the main focus of the docuseries. “It serves no one to be devastated,” Etheridge says of the loss of Beckett. “You can’t get sick enough to make a sick person well.”
She has since poured her energy into advocating for medicinal cannabis to be legalised in Kansas – a campaign that has run up against the state’s conservatism regarding drugs. Just this year, Republican politicians blocked another attempt to have the matter debated in the state senate. “It’s hard to change those hearts and minds,” she says, though she remains determind. “I believe reaching out is the only way to move forward.”
The Topeka concert finishes with Etheridge performing a new track written for the women at the prison. It’s called “A Burning Woman” and is a brave cry of defiance and solidarity with the inmates. It’s a shame that the film does not share more of the darkness and unflinching honesty that pulsates through every note of the song.
Streaming on Paramount+.