FEATURE:
Bigmouth Strikes Again
The Smiths' The Queen Is Dead at Forty
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ALTHOUGH this is not…
IN THIS PHOTO: The Smiths in 1986/PHOTO CREDIT: Stephen Wright/Redferns
my favourite album from The Smith (that would be their final album, Strangeways, Here We Come), The Queen Is Dead is seen by many as their best. The band, Johnny Marr, Morrissey, Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce, released a masterpiece. On 16th June, 1986, The Smiths put out their third studio album, The Queen Is Dead. 1985’s Meat Is Murder did well and has some great songs, though The Queen Is Dead elevated the band and was a real step up. It spent twenty-two weeks on the UK Albums Chart, peaking at number two. One of the greatest albums of all time, there are some features I will bring in ahead of its fortieth anniversary. Containing There Is a Light That Never Goes Out, The Queen Is Dead, I Know It’s Over, Cemetry Gates and The Boy with the Thorn in His Side, it is a timeless album from a band at their peak. The lyrics of Morrissey and Johnny Marr’s compositions perfectly fused. Before getting to something more positive, it is worth sourcing this from The Quietus that was published in 2021. Marking thirty-five years of The Queen Is Dead, Simon Price writes how there are classic tracks on the album, though a few weak ones too. Though, you could definitely say that about their other albums. Strangeways, Here We Come has a run of several songs at the end which are quite poor. Meat Is Murder is spotty in places. Are those less-than-genius moments to be overlooked, or do they make The Queen Is Dead what it is ? A flawed classic perhaps:
“The making of the album, at Jacob Studios in Farnham, was by all accounts a troubled time. It had been delayed by unforeseen factors which included bassist Andy Rourke’s heroin addiction and a legal dispute with the band’s label Rough Trade.
Nevertheless, it starts phenomenally well. ‘The Queen Is Dead’, well over six minutes long (though the original unedited take was seven or eight), carries the sense of a State Of The Nation address, but it evokes William Blake’s nation of dark satanic mills rather than some Wordsworthian daffodil idyll. A snatch of Cicely Courtneidge’s recording of First World War music hall number ‘Take Me Back To Dear Old Blighty’ from Bryan Forbes’ 1962 film The L-Shaped Room conjures a reverie of nostalgic patriotism before a squeal of feedback from Johnny Marr’s guitar and Mike Joyce’s you’re-gonna-get-your-fucking-head-kicked-in drums, sampled, looped and pushed high in the mix by Stephen Street, pummel us screaming into the dystopian present.
The name of the album – actually taken from Hubert Selby Jr’s much-banned novel Last Exit To Brooklyn, where it is used in the effeminate homosexual sense, but employed with deliberate ambiguity here – had already incurred the wrath of The Sun, who branded Morrissey a sicko. (He originally considered Margaret On The Guillotine, but ended up saving that for a track on his first solo album.) And that was before anyone had heard him advocating regicide in the first verse of the title track: “Her Very Lowness with her head in a sling/ I’m truly sorry but it sounds like a wonderful thing…” A staunch Republican who had already expressed a wish to “drop my trousers to the Queen” on the previous album’s ‘Nowhere Fast’, he was raising his game by daydreaming of having her executed.
Morrissey’s lyric is scattershot, unfocussed and rambling, but burning with rage as he contemplates vignettes of contemporary life such as “some nine-year-old tough who peddles drugs, I swear to god, I swear I never even knew what drugs were!” (his voice breaking into an adolescent yodel on the word ‘were’). But the dominant narrative consists of imagined conversations with the monarch, echoing the recent break-in to Buckingham Palace by Michael Fagin, and with her heir, cajoling him to publicly out himself as a transvestite. Meanwhile, Marr channels the more fucked-up end of the Sixties (MC5, VU), his wah-wah guitars conjuring the psychedelia not of flowers and trees but of black smoke and city grime (and matched perfectly by Derek Jarman’s accompanying film). “Life is very long when you’re lonely”, Morrissey repeats as Rourke’s bass comes to the fore in its closing conflagrations. It was the heaviest, most physical piece of music The Smiths – often wrongly derided as effete weaklings – had recorded (‘How Soon Is Now’ included), and one which, even with 30 years’ familiarity, still has the power to stun you in your tracks.
‘The Boy With The Thorn In His Side’ is one of The Smiths’ lightest, most flyaway moments, but a real beauty of a pop song with an irresistibly infectious easy charm. The boy of its title is, once again, a third person who is actually a poorly disguised first person: it is Morrissey himself who, despite his hatefulness, harbours “a murderous desire for love”. A feeling of social exclusion is a common thread throughout Morrissey’s lyrics, but on this occasion he keenly wishes to be involved: “And when you want to live, how do you start? Where do you go? Who do you need to know?”
Things were going so well, with just that ‘Shankly’ monstrosity to skip over, when another howler heaves into view. An otherwise perfectly acceptable, if somewhat slight, rockabilly number ‘Vicar In A Tutu’ is, as the title makes plain, a flimsy tale of clergical cross-dressing in which Morrissey expects the listener to chuckle indulgently to the alliteration ‘monkish monsignor’ and the rhyming of ‘canister’ with ‘banister’”.
I will come to a review for The Queen Is Dead. Before that, Classic Album Sundays spent some time with the 1986-released gem. I agree that not everything on the album is great, yet the strongest moments – and there are many of them – outweigh that. There is no denying the brilliance and legacy of The Queen Is Dead:
“Morrissey struggled with people of power in many ways, mostly because he desired to hold a position of high influence himself. When the singles leading up to The Queen Is Dead, ‘Shakespeare’s Sister’, ‘That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore’, and ‘The Boy With the Thorn In His Side’ failed to chart, he took it to the music press to make his opinions known. The singer’s pretty-boy face frequently appeared on magazine covers with extravagant headlines and costumes mocking himself as a sell-out or fraud in the eyes of mainstream media. In interviews, he accused radio DJs as fascists and Rough Trade for not caring and underselling their work. He felt nobody was listening to what he had to say about the world, and these loudmouthed statements were meant to grab the attention of his doubters to think again. Even though these statements were outlandish in many ways, it proved The Smiths were different and more human than these popular systems.
Contrary to the public’s distaste for these risky statements, bad press turned into great press for the band. The Queen Is Dead is the band’s most prolific musical statement both instrumentally and lyrically, especially for Morrissey and Johnny Marr as a team. They diverted from what was comfortable, transformed their styles to be more accommodating and confident, and ultimately reached a larger audience. The band picks apart society from the perspective of a self-aware human and native of Great Britain and accommodates it within their music without forgetting their roots with every song.
The Queen Is Dead starts with perhaps its most profound statement with the album’s self-titled song, thanks to Morrissey’s hilarious but bleak lyrics. In 1986, animosity arose between north and south Britain, and Margaret Thatcher had implemented many changes to the nation’s government. Morrissey saw her actions as negative contributions to the country’s environment, art, and leading industries, like manufacturing, and he was infuriated by her manipulation of the country’s livelihood. The songs introduction of ‘Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty’ references The L-Shaped Shaped and states a wish to be taken back to a better Britain, one not led by Thatcher.
When his voices enters the mix, Morrissey cracks jokes of Prince Charles’ weakness to his mother (such as appearing on the Daily Mail wearing his mother’s bridal veil), being a very distant descendant of a past royal, and wishes to “go for a walk where it’s quiet and dry and talk about precious things” with The Queen. His imaginative wit would eventually lead him to kill The Queen, but he feels alone in his celebration of it — why doesn’t anyone else see the fulfillment of his rage? Statements like these makes the album’s previous working title, Margaret on the Guillotine, appropriate.
This mix of humor and seriousness makes for a interesting thought experiment. When you listen to the album and focus on the lyrics, it’s hard not to explore an emotional spectrum of reactions. With songs like ‘Frankly, Mr. Shankly’ and ‘Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others’, it is hard not to laugh. Your heart may burn after listening to ‘I Know It’s Over’ imaging Morrissey being buried alive. For the first time, he hands out blatant insults towards the government, music industry, and society and stands by them, which is something you might not have expected from someone who is consistency heartbroken. The Queen Is Dead may stand as Morrissey’s greatest lyrical venture of his career.
Johnny Marr stretches his instrumental muscle most on The Queen Is Dead. He took advantage of the studio to twist an assortment of wah-generated guitar feedback with producer Steven Street to build his parts for ‘The Queen is Dead’ and blended guitar tracks with multiple tunings to compose ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again’. He introduced the acoustic guitar to many of its songs, giving the album great texture and driving rhythm. He builds many of the melodies with his mastered chucking guitar-picking method but creates his most memorable moment with ‘Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others’, with an angelic riff that never gets old.
The Queen Is Dead made The Smiths’ dreams come true — to become a legendary rock band that is still an integral part of the conversation of modern music. They broke their own comfortable barriers to make grand statements about music and the world around them, and in return, they were passionately embraced and still are today. Morrissey may always be on a search for love, but when he feels the soil falling on his head, he can smile knowing that he and his band were heard”.
I want to head back to 2016 for the final feature. Annie Zaleski writing for Salon about an album, thirty years after its release, still shone bright. She wrote in detail about the lyrical genius of Morrissey. Coming into his own as a singer too. Johnny Marr’s compositions are guitar work at their most varied, inspiring and strong. Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce at their peak. The Smiths built on Meat Is Murder and broadened their palette and horizon:
“The trick is, he improved upon the stridency of “Meat is Murder”—a record with a graphic condemnation of animal slaughter and a thinly veiled account of school abuse, among other things—by embracing more sophisticated commentary. Frequently, this was tethered to the byproducts of fame. “I Know It’s Over” is self-flagellating and frustrated by a nagging perception of low self-worth (“‘That’s why you’re on your own tonight/With your triumphs and your charms'”), while “Bigmouth Strikes Again” is equally angst-ridden over things that shouldn’t have been said. “Frankly, Mr. Shankly,” meanwhile, drips with condescension and sarcasm—”Oh, I didn’t realise that you wrote poetry/I didn’t realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly”—which supports the rumor it referred to Rough Trade label founder Geoff Travis, with whom the band was feuding. By toning down the hyperbole—and upping the incisiveness and nuance—Morrissey was more effective at getting his point across.
Yet he was smart enough to realize that the downsides of fame are only interesting to a small segment of the population, which is why much of “The Queen Is Dead” had a personalized (and politicized) slant. Instead of wallowing, he crafts a mythology around himself—or the character he’s playing on the album—bit by bit: He fashions himself a permanent outsider on “Cemetry Gates” (“Keats and Yeats are on your side/While Wilde is on mine”), identifies with the Shakespearean romantic trope of death-from-love (“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out”) and tackles the one-two punch of persecution and feeling misunderstood (“The Boy With The Thorn In His Side”). Plus, “The Queen Is Dead” has its levity: “Vicar In A Tutu” reads like a Shel Silverstein poem (despite the serious subject matter: a man of the cloth who favors dance wear), while the title track features a wry gag about lack of musical talent.
The song “The Queen Is Dead” ranks up there with the Smiths’ finest moments. On the surface, it’s a song conflating criticism of the royal family with expressions of abject loneliness and despair. Dig a little deeper, and it’s an elegy for England itself, and all the ways the country’s ingrained power structures—church, pubs, state—destroy individuals. This assertion is supported by Tony Fletcher’s meticulous Smiths bio, “A Light That Never Goes Out,” which notes that in the mid-’80s, England was facing “catastrophic levels” of unemployment, unions losing power, and a society where “minimum-wage labor replace[d] former job security for those who could even find the work.” In addition, “multiculturalism, sexual permissiveness, gay rights, and progressive education were all under attack,” while “locally elected left-wing councils were being abolished, spending on the welfare state reduced, [and] government-owned industries privatized.” In conclusion, “‘The Queen Is Dead’ made almost no reference to any of this, and yet it somehow acknowledged all of it, and that was no small achievement.” What Morrissey didn’t say, in other words, made the song a triumph.
Still, it’s a mistake to think that Morrissey was the only one steering this record to greatness. In fact, “The Queen Is Dead” is the most cohesive musical statement put forth by the Smiths’ instrumentalists: guitarist Johnny Marr, bassist Andy Rourke and drummer Mike Joyce, as well as studio compatriot/engineer Stephen Street. (Remarkably, this happened although Rourke was dealing with a heroin addiction that ended up causing him to get kicked out of the band for a spell after the album was done.) “The Queen Is Dead” feels slightly phase-shifted from then-trends (cf. well-wrought pop with a manicured ’60s influence) and unapologetically nostalgic. For example, the strings and flute on “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out,” courtesy of an Emulator sample keyboard, are delightfully syrupy.
Morrissey too comes into his own as a vocalist. Although “Cemetry Gates” contains vestiges of his youthful yelp, he settles into a dynamic, adult singing approach: a Rat Pack croon steeped in conspiratorial desperation, anguished gnashing of teeth and impertinent bite. Above all, “The Queen Is Dead” possesses exquisite sonic balance, where no one part or person (yes, even Morrissey) dominates. Rourke’s cowboy-loping bass lurking below “Never Had No One Ever” and the burbling backbone of “Cemetry Gates” fit like a glove, while Joyce proves himself a versatile drummer adept at cheeky swing (“Frankly Mr. Shankly”) and rockabilly (“Vicar In A Tutu”), as well as torchy ballads (“I Know It’s Over”). And after the guitar turbulence of “Meat Is Murder,” Marr finds his comfort zone by carving out sturdy-but-delicate riffs—as heard on the galloping strums of “Bigmouth Strikes Again,” the oceanic, ornate “Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others” and especially the wistful “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side”—edged with a chiming, lighter touch. It’s a style he’d refine and perfect in the subsequent years and with other artists”.
I am going to end with one review from Pitchfork. In 2017, they reviewed the album, as a boxed set edition was released. Awarding it a perfect ten, they wrote how The Queen Is Dead “still stands as an enduring testament to England in the ’80s, the complex relationship between performer and fan, and the ecstasy of emptiness”. I am not sure if is relevant, but this is the first big anniversary of the album since our Queen died. She died in 2022. It gives the album’s title new weight and potency:
“From Prince’s “Controversy” to Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do,” it’s always perilous when pop stars start to address their own position as public figures. Where “The Queen Is Dead” is the sort of Big Statement a band makes when it acquires a sense of its own importance, “The Boy With the Thorn in His Side” is one of a group of full-blown meta-songs on the album. Morrissey appeals to the sympathy of his disciples by lamenting the far larger number of indifferent doubters out there: “How can they hear me say those words still they don’t believe me?” There is a hint of reveling in the martyr posture in “Bigmouth Strikes Again” too, what with its references to Joan of Arc going up in flames. It doubles as both a relationship song and a commentary on Morrissey as the controversialist forever getting in trouble for his caustic quips and sweeping statements.
“Frankly, Mr. Shankly” is petty as meta goes: At the time, nobody but a handful of music industry insiders could have known that it’s a mean-spirited swipe at Rough Trade’s Geoff Travis. What’s more interesting now is Morrissey’s admission of his insatiable lust for attention—“Fame fame fatal fame/It can play hideous tricks on the brain”—but nonetheless he’d “rather be famous than righteous or holy.” Couched in a jaunty music-hall bounce, the song also serves as a preemptive justification of the Smiths’ decision to break with Rough Trade for the biggest major label around, EMI.
The cleverest of the meta-pop Smiths songs of this period, though, can be found on this reissue’s second disc of B-sides and demos. Originally the flipside to “Boy With the Thorn,” “Rubber Ring” gets its name from the life-preservers you find on ships. Although his songs once saved their lives, Morrissey anticipates his fans abandoning him as they grow out of the maladjustment and amorous ineptitude in which he will remain perpetually trapped. The empty young lives will fill up with all the normal sorts of happiness, he predicts, and the Smiths records will be filed away and forgotten. “Do you love me like you used to?” Morrissey beseeches, as if he’s actually in a real romance with each and every one of his fans, acutely aware of the perversity and impossibility at work in pop’s psycho-dynamics of identification and projection.
Two other loose categories could be formed out of the songs on The Queen Is Dead: Beside the meta, there’s the merry and the melancholy. Despite the morbid (and misspelled) title, “Cemetry Gates” is sprightly and carefree. Even though they’re strolling among the gravestones quoting poetry at each other to show how intensely they feel the sorrow of mortality, the life-force is strong in these precocious youngsters. As so often with Morrissey, the frissons come with the tiny quirks of unusual word-choice or phrasing—the little jolt of the way he pronounces “plagiarize” with an incorrect hard “g,” for instance. Featuring the album’s second instance of cross-dressing, “Vicar in a Tutu” is a slight delight with just a casual twist of subversiveness in a passing reference to the priest’s kinky antics being “as natural as rain”: This freak is just as God made him. Almost cosmic in its insubstantiality, “Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others” seemed at the time an anticlimactic ending to such an Important Album. Now I think the understatement is just right, rather than the obvious curtain-closer, “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out”—the glide and glisten of Marr’s playing on “Some Girls” is that never-fading light.
And then there’s the life-and-death serious stuff. Both songs of unrequited love, “I Know It’s Over” and “There Is a Light” make a pair: The first spins majesty out of misery, the second transcends it with a sublime and nakedly religious vision of hope-in-vain as an end in itself. The writing in “I Know It’s Over” is a tour de force, from the opening image of the empty—sexless, loveless—bed as a grave, through the suicidal inversions of “The sea wants to take me/The knife wants to slit me,” onto the self-lacerations of “If you’re so funny, then why are you on your own tonight?” and finally the unexpected and amazing grace of “It’s so easy to hate/It takes strength to be gentle and kind.” Not a strong or sure singer by conventional standards, Morrissey gives his all-time greatest vocal performance, something ear-witness Johnny Marr described as “one of the highlights of my life.”
As for “There Is a Light”—if you don’t tear up at the chorus, you belong to a different species. The scenario involves another doomed affair, a love (and a life—Morrissey’s) that never really started. But here Morrissey hovers in an ecstatic suspension of yearning that becomes its own satisfaction, an emptiness that becomes a plenitude. The greatest of his many songs about not belonging anywhere or to anyone, it so very nearly tumbles into comedy (and there are those who’ve laughed) with the melodramatic excess of its image of the double-decker bus and the romantic entwining-in-death of the not-quite-lovers. But the trembling sincerity of “the pleasure, the privilege is mine” keeps it on the right side of the gravity/levity divide in the Smiths songbook.
Marginally more robust and shiny than the last time it was remastered, this new Queen comes with a couple of extra discs and a DVD that contains a promo directed by British filmmaker Derek Jarman. The demos contain differences that will interest the diehards. “Never Had No One Ever,” the album’s one real dud, is enhanced by an unlikely trumpet solo and some strange moaning from Moz. Elsewhere, you hear the singer trying out different word-choices and phrasings: The demo of “I Know It’s Over” lacks the “oh, mother” address and its bed is “icy” not “empty.” For those who like that sort of thing, there’s a live album, recorded in Boston in August 1986. Having seen them twice in their quasi-imperial prime, I never thought the Smiths were that potent as a live band: The delicate flower of Marr’s playing fared better in the studio, Morrissey’s voice strained to compete with amplified music, and the electricity came mostly from the audience’s ardour.
Being a Smiths fan during the band’s actual lifetime felt like an aesthetic protest vote signaling your alienation from both the ’80s pop mainstream and the political culture it reflected. As that context drops away with the passage of the decades, what endures is the peal of exile in Morrissey’s voice, a timeless plaint of longing and not-belonging. Without Morrissey’s tart wit and strange mind, Marr can be merely pretty, as shown by the instrumental B-sides of this era. Equally, without Marr’s beauty, Morrissey can be unbearable (as much of his post-Smiths career bears out). But when Morrissey’s sighs are caressed by Marr’s serene, synthesized strings on “There Is a Light,” or when the singer’s wordless falsetto flutters amid the guitarist’s golden cascades in “Boy with the Thorn,” there’s something miraculous about the way their textures mesh. It’s a great musical tragedy that barely a year after releasing The Queen Is Dead, this odd couple went their separate ways, for reasons that still feel not fully explained. These boys were made for each other—and surely deep down they still know it”.
I will end it there. As The Queen Is Dead was released on 16th June, 1986, there will be fortieth anniversary features shared soon enough. The final album where they seemed connected and in harmony, there would be splits and fractures by the time Strangeways, Here We Come arrived in 1987. I confess that not everything works on The Queen Is Dead (Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others is a stain on their career; it is a song that you could never put on an album now and get away with it), it features some of the greatest songs ever written and recorded. After forty years. The Smiths’ masterpiece still elicits tis incredible power and beauty. An album that I…
WILL never tire of.
