Chris Swanson’s Song of the Month: Pip Proud “Hey Gus”

Pip Proud has been called the greatest Australian singer-songwriter of the ’60s. He released two weirdo folk albums for Polydor International in ‘67 and ‘69 before disappearing deep into the bush for three decades. He re-emerged in ‘98, lobbing a grenade toward the few straggling vagabonds slurping kipper snacks under the shadetree: the “Hey Gus“ single.

We were praying at the end of time / Praying for release
And we said “Hey, Gus” / He drove the bus
“Is God really made of love?” / I asked Gus, “Is God really made of love?”

In just the few short minutes, Proud re-establishes his own peculiar worldview; one which he would flesh out over the next few years in a series of new albums released by the esteemed Emperor Jones (whose impeccable roster of outsider songwriters—second only to Drag City’s in the heart of this ditch digging leftist—reigned supreme throughout the ’90s). A label press release from ‘98 nailed his vibe when it said that Proud “wasn’t reinventing the wheel, he was levitating above it, laughing and waving below to all the trappings of the earth.” Proud’s existentialist worldview—of a particularly compassionate variety—is dusted with a mystical luminescence. He’s seeking to know God. And you get the impression he’s been screaming into the abyss for a very long time, seeking acknowledgment of some sort, yet has gone unrecognized. So he turns to the wise Gus. 

He held my hand so limply  / Like a lily of the field / ”Hey, Gus, is God really made of love?”
We are made of violent storms of drought and floods and fires / He had a few teeth missing / Like he was a garlic flower
But he spoke to us / ”Hey, Gus, is God really made of love?” / ”Hey, Gus, is God really made of love?”

Gus is reluctant to go on record. Proud, however, is not easily discouraged. His craggy voice is full of a childlike natural wonder, as if Werner Herzog took a long soak in the bath of time and emerged, toes soft as slugs, preternaturally hopeful and willing to sing.

I ate some dirt and wondered / I wandered / On about a million years sorta crept by me / With all that dirt and desolation
I saw cities rise & fall and all things encompassed and passed into compost / ”Hey, Gus, is God really made of love?”

Spectral guitar sounds take shape above a low jangle and hum. A violin sobs in the bushes. The particular patina of tape hiss contributes to the sense of decay, suggesting an emotional & artistic credibility usually reserved for the audio verite of field recordings. Following in the tradition of the pop devotional, it is decidedly less dewy-eyed than George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” (the high water mark of said tradition). Proud’s questioning takes the shape of a mantra, but is a different sort of prayer than Harrison’s.  Unlearned in the concept of privilege, he feels he’s entitled to an answer.

And now I pray at the end of time / With a fervor that comes more with boredom than fear
I pray for a release with the tenderness of my mother’s breast / ”Hey, Gus, is God really made of love?” I shouted
He turned as he burnt the rubber and he replied / ”Sure he is. Sure he is. Sure he is.”

And, with that, he is satisfied. For now.

Ed. Note: Chris Swanson comes to us from Dead Oceans/Jagjaguwar/Secretly Canadian HQ in Bloomington, Indiana. Dig his previous thought-grenades on Van Morrison, Caroline Crawford, Dion, Mad Season, and Donnie & Joe Emerson.

Filed under: Chris Swanson  Emperor Jones  Pip Proud