For over 150 years, the 50cm thick bluestone walls of Pentridge Prison have witnessed it all. On one side was the sleepy suburb of Coburg in Melbourne, Australia, while on the other, some of the country’s most infamous criminals, including Mark Read (a gangster known as Chopper, who had a cellmate cut off his ears) and Ned Kelly (the country’s most famous outlaw of the 19th century) fought for power and survival, enduring solitary confinement and frequent riots.
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Since the prison closed in 1997, the premises have become a luxury hotel complex and a multi-screen cinema, as well as a craft beer bar and expensive wine cellars in the cells where prisoners slept. But this summer, a perfectly preserved piece of the place’s history was rediscovered: the prison’s archive collection.
The 1,600 records were broadcast on 3PD, a closed-circuit radio station that officially began operating in 1956. The station’s only programming was a music request program broadcast exclusively to the inmate population, with the songs broadcast through a metal plate attached to the wall that served as a rudimentary loudspeaker in each cell.
The collection includes common AC/DC records, but also collectible rarities, like a promotional collection from Australian hard rock band Krokus and even a few 78 rpm records from the 1920s. The most notable records bear the marks of the prison itself: a Bob Dylan album that was censored to remove the song “Desolation Row” and a Johnny Cash record that was doctored with the phrase “I hate this place.”
“They got just about everything that was available,” said Glen Broome, who served time there in the 1980s.
According to him, Italian prisoners “arrived and, one way or another, received albums in Italian donated to the prison.” The music played was from “the entire spectrum.”
On a show that aired nightly from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m., Broome was the witty sidekick of his co-host, Peter Walker, who resided in a cell connected by a short hallway to a room filled with radio equipment and vinyl records donated by local radio stations and the families of Pentridge inmates.
The duo played an eclectic mix of music and read correspondence during breaks. Often these messages included a request to play a specific song on a birthday or other anniversary, or to anticipate the outcome of an impending trial. In letters, the prisoners’ families reserved one song for a guilty verdict and another for a more favorable outcome.
“Never underestimate a prisoner’s imagination, because he has nothing better to do than think,” said Jethro Heller, who served his sentence working in the prison post office.
The requests often included coded information that reached prisoners via radio waves:
For days, even weeks, these archives could constitute the prisoners’ only correspondence with the outside world.
“It’s more than just a record collection,” Heller said. — It’s a time capsule.
The origins of the station date back to March 1937, when two local newspapers reported that the results of professional cricket matches were being discussed among prisoners, who followed the radio broadcast live from their cells. The report notes that “five radio sets were found” after individual parts were smuggled into cakes and then “assembled by prisoners.” In 1940 prison authorities authorized the installation of the equipment and 16 years later Pentridge introduced the 3PD to coincide with the Melbourne Olympics. The police station quickly became an integral part of prison routine.
In 1966, John Killick, then aged 24, arrived in Pentridge. More than half a century later, he still remembers the two records his brother sent him on his behalf: “Wanted Man” by Frankie Laine and “There Goes My Everything” by Engelbert Humperdinck.
For Killick, who had previously served in other prisons, the opportunity to request these beloved songs was a revelation. He also remembered Tom Jones’ “Green, Green Grass of Home” – whose narrator dreams of returning to his childhood sweetheart, only to wake up to find himself in prison on the last day of his life, awaiting execution – echoing in the cells of Pentridge on the day Ronald Ryan became the last man in Australian history to face capital punishment.
— It became the biggest hit here — Killick said. — We played all the time.
The Chiavaroli family, who bought the prison in 1999 with the ambition – which ultimately did not materialize – to transform the premises into an Italian-style villa, left the archives untouched for almost three decades. Earlier this year, the family decided to get rid of the collection and invited a local record store to take a look.
“We were actually the second record store to come to the area,” said Joshua Smith of Footscray Records, who took over the lot. — A competitor arrived first and offered very little money.
Although the family didn’t know exactly what it was, they suspected the item was worth more than the 500 Australian dollars (currently around R$1,900) initially offered. Smith keeps the amount paid secret, but estimates some documents in the collection alone are worth A$500.
After releasing the new acquisition online this year, Smith and his team were inundated with interest from journalists, private collectors and even a renowned publisher. But before making big plans for the collection’s future, Smith hopes to first understand its past.
Three months after the purchase, he continues to work hard cataloging the records and has issued an open call to former inmates who could shed light on the collection’s history.
“For an outsider, it’s like a riddle,” he says.
And for Killick, there is hope of finding his seven-inch Engelbert Humperdinck compact, more than half a century later.
— When they do the catalog, I’ll know if my records are there — he said — And maybe I’ll even buy them.
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