The 500 - #218 - The Queen Is Dead - The Smiths

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #218
Album Title: The Queen Is Dead
Artist: The Smiths
Genre: Indie Pop, Jangle Pop, Post Punk
Recorded: Three Studios in England (London, Surrey, Manchester)

Released:  June, 1986 
My age at release: 20
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, moving up 105 places to position 113
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Frankly Mr. Shankly

In my mid-teens, I experienced an existential crisis that redefined me and how I saw the world. A specific moment is difficult to pin down, but I can identify some key events that served as the impetus.

• The death of my grandfather, "Pop". He was the first of my grandparents to pass and we had built a strong relationship throughout my childhood.
• A high school course on The History of Art from Prehistoric Man to the Romantic Age, which was taught by Mr. Rick Woods -- who remains one of my favourite educators. "Woodsy" organized a class trip to Italy attended by 30-plus students, including me, during the March Break of 1982 -- a mind-blowing experience.
• I also found "my tribe" -- that group of friends with whom you connect perfectly and who accept you for who you are. I detailed this in my Jethro Tull blog-post in December, 2021.
• Finally, reading Douglas Adams’ novels, particularly The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy series, bent my perspective toward the ridiculous and the philosophic concepts of nihilism and cosmic insignificance -- a path toward the tenets espoused by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Camus, and reinforced by the absurdity of the Monty Python’s Flying Circus films and television episodes I had grown up loving and was now old enough to understand.

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Change is tough. It is particularly hard when that change pushes against the values, beliefs and traditions of your family. Consequently, I knew it broke my mother's heart when I announced that I no longer believed in God. Prior to age 17 I was devout, attending St. Anne's Anglican Church in Byron with her weekly. I was also a "server", helping the vicar (Canon Pinkney) with the Sunday Communion Service, and a proud member of S.T.A.Y. -- The St. Anne's Anglican Youth group. Granted, the ratio of males to females in that group was about 1:10 – so, there was certainly an additional hormonal agenda behind that membership.

St. Anne's Anglican Church in Byron (London), Ontario.

In retrospect, I could have been kinder and more gentle with my declaration of atheism. Sadly, like many teenagers, I delivered the news with sledgehammer subtlety. Truth be told, I was really transitioning to agnosticism. I appreciated the "historical evidence" of Jesus and had not abandoned the positivity of his teachings. However, I could not be convinced that mankind could fully understand the complexity of the universe and distill the truth about it all. Additionally, I could not reconcile the paradox created by multiple faiths; each by virtue of their own doctrines and claim of exclusivity in the god(s) department. At best, only one of the 4,000 recognized faiths on our planet could be right. That's not taking into account the vastness of our universe and the chances of intelligent life on other planets.

My monarchist mother's heart was further battered as I learned more about history and became vocally critical of the British Royal Family. I had, until high school, been a product of an education system that celebrated everything colonial and downplayed (or outright eschewed) the impact colonialism had on indigenous populations.

Which brings me to this week's record, The Queen Is Dead, a 1986 masterpiece from Manchester quartet The Smiths, the title song parodying the media’s fascination with the British Royals. For those of you who have followed me on this journey through The 500, you will know that I became a reluctant convert to the post-punk sound of (lead singer) Steven Morrisey and his backup band comprising Johnny Marr (guitar), Andy Roarke (bass) and Mike Joyce (drums).

The Smiths are (l-r) Roarke, Morrisey, Marr and Joyce.

In January 2019, when I wrote about their self-titled debut record (#473 on The 500) I began my post with the words: "I hate The Smiths."  By May, 2021, when my pal Steve Monaghan was a guest blogger for album #369, Louder Than Bombs, I was starting to soften my stance. By the time I got to #296, Meat Is Murder, in October, 2022, I had been won over by the sound of the backing band, particularly the guitar work of Marr. However, the vocals from Morrissey just didn’t land for me.

Morrissey (2005)

This week, that changed. I was missing out on a critical piece of information that has been staring me in the face the whole time. Not only is Morrissey well read -- a trait I had recognized in his earlier lyrics -- he is also funny. In fact, the more I dug into the lyrics of the album's title track, The Queen Is Dead, and the nine songs that follow it, the more I recognized a kindred spirit. Morrissey seems to be a bit of an absurdist and nihilist who, despite the fame and wealth he had achieved, recognizes the cosmic insignificance of it all.

A quote from the animated series Rick and Morty, which
also revels in the absurd comedy of nihilism.

Looking back, I should have been a Smith's fan in my teens. Morrissey's clever wit would have fit in better with my juvenile temperament and childish grasp on history and philosophy. As I near 60, I still grapple with the same existential issues. However, I have learned to shut my mouth more often -- recognizing that I don't really have the corner on any truths when it comes to complex issues like faith, the monarchy or colonialism. I simply look to learn more.

As I write, I have a commitment to accompany my 84-year-old mom to the Anglican cathedral tonight. The new rector, Kevin George, is to be installed as Dean of Huron and my mother is excited I am sharing this spiritual event with her. I am delighted to attend – it's a small bit of penance for the know-it-all teenage prat who lived under her roof in the '80s. We survived my existential crisis and all. At least I didn't bring a record titled The Queen Is Dead into her house.