“Gough” by The Whitlams is a deeply personal and politically charged tribute to Edward Gough Whitlam, the iconic and controversial 21st Prime Minister of Australia. The song’s core meaning is a nostalgic celebration of Whitlam’s progressive era (1972-1975), seen through the eyes of an admirer who equates Whitlam’s leadership with cultural flourishing and national hope. It frames his dismissal in 1975 not just as a political event, but as a moment of national betrayal, mythologizing Whitlam as a martyr akin to the bushranger Ned Kelly.
Released on their 1993 debut EP Introducing, this track establishes early Tim Freedman’s penchant for weaving specific Australian historical and cultural references into personal narratives, creating a song that is both a political statement and an intimate reflection.
Verse 1: Inherited Ideals and Early Admiration
The song begins by introducing both its subject, Gough Whitlam, and a “little boy”—likely representing Freedman himself or a generation influenced by Whitlam—who aspired to be like him (“tarred with the same brush”). The description evokes Whitlam’s well-known characteristics: intellectualism (“learnt Latin”) and dignified bearing (“held his head up high”).
The line “hated the Liberals tho’ he didn’t know why” perfectly captures the often inherited, deeply ingrained nature of political tribalism in Australia, particularly during the polarized Whitlam years. It suggests a gut feeling, an assumed allegiance passed down or absorbed from the environment. The aside, “There were reasons – how long have you got?” acknowledges the complex political history but dismisses a lengthy explanation, implying the reasons are self-evident to those who shared the sentiment, reinforcing the song’s partisan perspective.
Verse 2: Placing History in Personal Context
This verse firmly roots the admiration in a specific time and place. The mention of “Anthony Hayes” seems like a specific shout-out, perhaps placing the song’s narrative within a live performance context or a shared memory. Connecting both Whitlam and Hayes to the “same local Canberra school” grounds the larger-than-life figure of Whitlam in a relatable, local setting.
The introduction of “Stevie” (Stevie Plunder, the late original Whitlams guitarist) being “nine in 1972” is poignantly specific. 1972 was the year Whitlam’s Labor government swept to power with the famous “It’s Time” slogan, ending 23 years of conservative rule. Placing Stevie, a key figure in the band’s own history and tragedy, as a child during this moment of national change adds layers of personal nostalgia and perhaps represents the youthful optimism associated with the Whitlam era, now viewed through the lens of later loss.
The Imagined Intimacy: Dinner with Gough and Margaret
The lines inviting Gough and his formidable wife Margaret over for dinner (“play chess and drink claret”) represent the height of the narrator’s admiration. It’s a fantasy of personal connection, moving beyond mere political support to a desire for intellectual companionship. The activities chosen—chess and claret—reinforce the sophisticated, cultured image associated with Whitlam. Contrasting this imagined high-society evening with the narrator’s “little street” emphasizes the perceived gap between the great leader and the ordinary admirer, yet also the depth of the admirer’s personal connection to the idea of Whitlam.
The Dismissal: Betrayal on November 11th
The song pivots dramatically to the defining event of Whitlam’s career: his dismissal by Governor-General Sir John Kerr on November 11, 1975. Freedman elevates this political crisis to the level of national myth by linking it to two other significant November 11th events: Armistice Day (end of WWI) and the execution of iconic Australian bushranger Ned Kelly (1880).
Framing Whitlam’s dismissal alongside Kelly’s death (“A bushranger was slaughtered and Gough was betrayed”) casts Whitlam as a martyr, a heroic figure cut down by treacherous forces (“the Governor General”). This comparison taps into a deep vein of Australian folklore and anti-authoritarian sentiment.
The Chorus/Chant: Grief, Blame, and Reverence
The repeated chant section solidifies the Dismissal as a moment of collective trauma for Whitlam’s supporters (“a big day for all of us”). It explicitly blames Malcolm Fraser, the Liberal leader who replaced Whitlam (“Shame Fraser shame,” a real protest chant from the time), and expresses profound grief (“and we all cried”).
The repeated, reverent chanting of Whitlam’s full name, “Edward Gough Whitlam,” transforms the song from a simple narrative into an outright ode, almost a secular hymn to a revered figure.
The Golden Age: “Days of Wine and Roses”
The final verse encapsulates the narrator’s view of the Whitlam years (1972-1975) as a brief golden age – “Days of wine and roses.” The line “All the artists flew in and all the arseholes flew out in ’72” is a blunt, partisan, and likely exaggerated celebration of the cultural shift perceived under Whitlam’s government, which significantly increased arts funding. It reflects the perspective of the artistic community, seeing Whitlam’s election as a liberation from a perceived era of conservative philistinism.
Conclusion: A Personal and Political Elegy
“Gough” is far more than just a political song; it’s a personal elegy for a leader and an era perceived as uniquely hopeful and culturally vibrant. Tim Freedman uses specific biographical details, historical events, and even personal band history to paint a portrait of Gough Whitlam as a towering figure whose potential was tragically cut short. The song mythologizes the Dismissal as a national betrayal, cementing Whitlam’s status as a martyr in the eyes of his supporters and capturing the enduring emotional and political resonance of his brief, transformative time in power. It’s a snapshot of admiration bordering on reverence, filtered through a specific, left-leaning, artistic Australian perspective.