"The Queen is Dead" by the Smiths
The British indie rock classic celebrates its 40th anniversary.
This album review marks the 40th anniversary of The Queen is Dead, the record the Smiths made while falling apart, and that somehow turned out to be their best work.
Genre: Indie Rock, Post-Punk, Alternative Rock
Label: Rough Trade Records
Release Date: June 16, 1986
Vibe: 👸🪦
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There’s a misconception about this newsletter I’ve picked up on through my interactions with readers and the Substack community lately, which is, when I choose to review an album, I do so because I adore it and listen to it on repeat. That’s definitely not the case. More than some subscribers may realize, I devote album review space to works other people cherish that a) I haven’t had meaningful interactions with to this point in my life, or b) I’m compelled to give a second chance to. The Queen is Dead, an album that plenty of folks hold up as the paragon of 1980s indie rock excellence, falls into the latter category, and, to coincide with its 40th anniversary, the time was right to press play on this one again. I wasn’t so much turning over every stone I could find searching for greatness, but trying to dissect why it didn’t click with me when I first heard it as a teenager and early-twentysomething.
In general, I don’t dislike the Smiths. They’ve got some bops, both upbeat (see “This Charming Man,” a song that was a mainstay in a specific rock club I used to frequent with my wife when we first started dating … I have no idea if it’s still on the DJ’s shortlist of bangers to hit on a regular basis, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it still is) and dour (see “How Soon is Now,” whose instrumental still rattles through my car’s subwoofers semi-frequently). My primary objection to their hits and deep cuts in equal measure has always been that, to varying degrees, they try my patience. On Meat is Murder, for example, the activism in their lyrics comes across as more self-absorbed than anything else, particularly on cuts like the title track and “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore.” As danceable as some of the more uptempo tracks are, they also don’t really go anywhere melodically, an observation I’d extend to Morrissey’s vocals on most of the album. It’s not bad, just not something I vibe with. That sentiment used to sum up my relationship with The Queen is Dead, too.
But, on a fresh listen, this record started to take on a new life. I had this experience as a college film student with Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. The first time I saw it, I thought it was mostly ridiculous, saving the most egregious for last with the extended sacrificial allegory at Kurtz’s compound. Looking back on that reaction now, it’s a tad superficial or, at the very least, one-dimensional. What it lacks in self-control or self-awareness (neither of which is Coppola’s strength, anyway), it more than makes up for it with astonishing pyrotechnics and atmosphere. The Queen is Dead operates the same way. The grandiosity Morrissey brings to this record, the melodrama the band refuses to temper or apologize for, the dark humor that permeates every corner of the songwriting, it all reads as more than slightly obtuse the first time around. The fifth or sixth time? A stroke of near-genius.
The album is loud, arch, overreaching in spots, and completely uninterested in your objections, a disposition that makes it stick in your gut on repeated spins. Like Coppola’s film, what’s worth knowing is how close none of it came to existing at all. The Smiths recorded this LP in 1985 at RAK Studios in London while they were locked in an ugly standoff with Rough Trade Records over (what else?) money, in part due to the label’s own financial instability. The release was held up for months. On top of all that, Rough Trade founder Geoff Travis and the band were barely speaking (Morrissey threw a few lyrical jabs at Travis, most notably on “Frankly Mr. Shankly”). Guitarist and out-and-out rock legend Johnny Marr described The Queen is Dead sessions as the group’s creative peak, but one that carried a steep physical and psychological toll. His weight supposedly dropped to around 98 pounds as he ran on nervous energy and little else.
One of the underdiscussed aspects of this record’s legacy is how funny it is. Pitch-black comedy in a lot of cases, to be sure, but when you have Morrissey penning every song, it’s unlikely the messaging would be delivered in any other tone. Take the opening title track, which gallops through a gallows satire of the media’s obsession with the British royal family. Andy Rourke’s bassline is incredible, anchoring the storytelling in sly, deep-rooted cynicism. “I find as time goes by, this happiness we had slowly slips away and is replaced by something that is wholly grey and wholly saddening,” Morrissey told NME in 1986. “The very idea of the monarchy and the Queen of England is being reinforced and made to seem more useful than it really is. The whole thing seems like a joke. A hideous joke.” That last notion of a truth so ugly it can only make you laugh seeps into other songs on this album, including “I Know It’s Over” and “Cemetery Gates,” which serves up a wonderfully offbeat sonic contradiction. The jangle-pop guitar work and the buoyant drum pattern from Mike Joyce turn what could’ve been an ultra-bleak walk among the tombstones into something more of a jaunt. It’s as unnerving as it is transfixing.
For my money, the second side of this LP is where it truly earns its greatness. “Bigmouth Strikes Again” is a knowing wink at Morrissey’s proclivity for running his mouth in public, and while I’ve always found the songwriting amusing, I can never be sure how seriously or not he’s taking himself here. “I was only joking when I said I’d like to smash every tooth in your head,” he says early on. “Now I know how Joan of Arc felt/As the flames rose to her Roman nose/And her Walkman started to melt,” he adds later. It’s a surreal visual, picturing Maria Falconetti getting a few final tunes in at the stake. The excellent “The Boy with the Thorn in His Side” is a pot shot at the music industry’s “murderous desire” vis-à-vis their most commercial brands, and “There is a Light That Never Goes Out” is as sacred a text in the UK’s 1980s pop canon as you’re likely to find. Again, here you have an anthem that carries completely different meanings for different generations of fans. Some see it as a depressive excavation, while others have reframed it as a hopeful testament to love. It all depends on how you look through the kaleidoscope’s viewfinder.
The Queen is Dead peaked at No. 2 on the UK Albums Chart, held out of the top spot by Madonna’s True Blue, charted for 35 weeks, and has sold several million copies worldwide. In the US, it peaked at number 70 on the Billboard 200, an outcome that the band partly brought on themselves by refusing to license their music for advertisements and keeping American commercial radio at arm’s length. Arriving in the Summer of 1986, amid an ocean of manicured dance-pop on either side of the Atlantic, this material struck a much different chord, particualrly with critics. It was called by some as “the most realistic portrayal of England” of its era, which is a damning statement in several ways. The British mindset of the mid-to-late-80s was certainly before my time, but the more I immerse myself in the literature, the more shocking the political and cultural twists and turns become. While it was being recorded, this album apparently had the working title “Margaret on the Guillotine,” which should tell you everything you need to know about their collective political leanings.
The Smiths would never build on the momentum they generated with The Queen is Dead. Interpersonal tensions and growing media scrutiny led to the group’s dissolution in 1987, with Strangeways, Here We Come serving as their Let It Be, a more subtle and refined studio effort than maybe anything they’ve ever released, and yet I feel unsatisfied. There should be more to the story, no? As a body of work, their four studio albums leaves so much potential unrealized. When they were at the top of their game, as a unit and individuals, few Brit rock outfits wrote songs that became as universally beloved as theirs. A decent comp from the next decade would be Oasis, who similarly left their fans wanting more after they stopped recording together. Does that make me a hater? Or merely someone who wants to see the best of the Smiths, one final statement that we never had the pleasure of hearing? Reader, meet kaleidoscope.
What Smiths song has stood the test of time for you? Shout it out in the comments.