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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Cat Power takes on Oasis’ “Wonderwall.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

“Is it weird that I like this better than the original?” asks YouTube user WheatToast0857, his/her comment in relation to a fan-generated video for Cat Power’s cover of “Wonderwall,” the 1995 mega-hit from Oasis. “NO Way. Not weird at all,” replies barryjones335, before defending the preference at length: “I cant stand Oasis because of his [Liam Gallagher's] annoying voice. I don’t get why people like him so much. The lyrics are wonderful and her voice makes the song what it should be [italics mine]. This is beautiful.”

The irony of this conversation is that even Liam and his now-estranged brother Noel, the songwriting genius behind nearly every one of Oasis’ hits over the past two decades, would likely agree that Cat Power’s subdued, wistful cover is better than their original. These days, that might be the only thing they’d agree on. Sure, over the course of 15 years as Oasis, the brothers Gallagher fought nearly every step of the way, but it’s amazing how much disdain artists can have for their own creation after they’ve exhibited it for the (seemingly) billionth time. It’s no wonder, then, that Noel reportedly began re-arranging the live version of “Wonderwall” to better reflect Ryan Adam’s take when it was released in 2003.

No matter how they feel about the song now, the Gallaghers had to have known they were onto something remarkable when “Wonderwall” was recorded in a matter of hours in early 1995. Supposedly written about Liam’s ex-wife Meg Matthews, the song “did the one thing that British rock bands had been unable to do in years: break America,” notes All Music Guide‘s Chris True. And, of course, you don’t have to be a rock critic to remember exactly that. The mid-’90s were dominated by a return of British acts to the mainstream of America’s cultural consciousness. Between Oasis, Radiohead, Blur and, yes, even Bush and the Spice Girls, the Queen’s music was reaching more listeners in the States than at any time since the Rolling Stones and Beatles were crashing America’s party in the ’60s and early ’70s. And considering the sales and charts records Oasis was setting at the time, the Gallaghers were leading the way.

These days, the Adams cover is arguably the most popular take on “Wonderwall,” which has also seen versions by Beastie Boys, the Mike Flowers Pops, modern jazz great Brad Mehldau and even Jay-Z, whose live cover at the beginning of his Glastonbury set in 2008 was most likely meant to mock Oasis rather than honor them. (Noel had been publicly critical of Hova’s selection as the festival headliner in the days leading up the event.) I tend to agree with the anonymous man or woman behind the barryjones335 alias, however: Chan Marshall’s cover makes the song better than it ever could have been on its own, if for no other reason that Liam’s cocksure sneer (which I, unlike the majority of my peers, never really loved) gets displaced by Marshall’s affecting and sultry earnestness. As such, it’s subsequently the best version suited for this debate.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Social Distortion takes on The Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

Though it doesn’t sound particularly antagonistic, the Rolling Stones’ 1966 song “Under My Thumb” undoubtedly confirmed for the world that the young U.K. gents were, indeed, the new bad boys of rock ‘n’ roll. Groomed from the outset by then-manager Andrew Loog Oldham to be a dangerous counterpoint to the bookish Beatles, the Stones had by the early ’60s already begun to perpetuate this image by urinating in public, fathering illegitimate children and the like. Thus, Jagger’s caricature of a controlling male lover in “Under My Thumb” was less surprising than it was affirming, accompanying other Aftermath songs like “Stupid Girl” into sea of feminist rebuke.

Already one of the band’s strongest and most inventive original cuts (Brian Jones’ marimba melody somehow pushed the Stones’ blues-heavy sound forward without compromising their machismo), “Under My Thumb” became further mythologized when it became the score for Meredith Hunter’s death at Altamont in 1969. This event is shown in poignant detail in critically acclaimed documentary Gimme Shelter, which depicted the astral highs and hell-ish lows (forgive the pun; after all, is anywhere lower than hell?) the band endured on its infamous U.S. tour that year. All of this would happen, of course, on the heels of Jones mysteriously dying in his swimming pool mere months earlier. When would the nightmare end?

Whether consciously or not, few bands could channel the Stones’ anti-authoritarianism or disarray better than venerable L.A. punk band Social Distortion. Led by the enigmatic Mike Ness, whose battle with heroin addiction in the ’80s came on the heels of Keith Richards’, Social Distortion married punk-rock ferocity with rock sophistication better than any, if not all, of the litany of acts that have attempted the same fusion then or since. Their cover of “Under My Thumb”— which, for my money, doesn’t sound any better than on 1998′s Live At The Roxy—is a generous and enormously propulsive tribute to the original. Indeed, the song’s raw content finally received the raw treatment it entailed, making a very strong case for the cover over the original in this round.

Cast your vote wisely:

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week James Blake takes on Feist’s “Limit To Your Love.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

Most weeks, I search far and wide for a cover song that’s worth comparing to the original. This week, the content simply dropped in my lap. Earning “Best New Track” from Pitchfork a couple of weeks ago, James Blake’s take on “Limit To Your Love” immediately made waves across the music haunts of the web. Unfortunately, a track produces this effect so often on the Internet these days—everyone’s a critic, ya’ll—that my first reaction was to ignore the cover. Turns out, however, that it’s worth the attention it’s been paid.

Like the rest of her work, Feist’s original has a stark, soulful swagger, prominently featuring her affecting voice and the jazz pomp of a lounge-y piano melody. Underneath, the Canadian singer/songwriter and sometimes Broken Social Scenester adds the warmth of a Rhodes and the tension of rarely moving strings. The beat finds the pocket between the subtle and the present, not written to turn heads but casually referencing the sound of Stax or Spector in the ’60s.

Blake, a U.K. dub producer barely into his 20s, does little to change the song’s overall tenor other than to drive it deeper into a kind of sensual, R&B abyss. The cover’s foundation is patience: A subtle, electronic wobble, deep, tepid bass and an infrequent beat build a delicate skeleton while Blake croons over the borrowed piano line with an expressiveness that Otis Redding would appreciate.

I’d never heard of Blake before the Pitchfork article, but what struck me was the writer’s description of his previous work and how it wasn’t vocal-centric. Listening to the cover, I’d assumed he was, as the article suggests, another Jamie Lidell-esque character, primarily a soul artist with an eclectic bent. I perused his MySpace account this morning and found that this wasn’t the case, however. Turns out, he’s a well-enmeshed member of the U.K.’s dubstep and grime community, and the tracks on his site reflect this far more than they do his jazz-dub take on Feist. Indeed, the Pitchfork writer was right to refer to Blake as “dangerous,” as his talent seems to, um, know no limit.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Lowry takes on Toto’s “Africa.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

I was born five days after Toto’s fourth album, the aptly titled Toto IV, was released in April 1982, so I can’t speak to the record’s cultural impact from first-hand experience, other than to say that songs like “Rosanna” and “Africa” seem to have been wired into my brain from birth. I’ve never owned a copy of the record, and I’ve never listened to the radio much, but the wistful lyrics of “Africa,” in particular, just sort of run horizontally through my brain when the song is audible, as if rendered on a stock ticker. In a way, this act of cultural transference is frightening, not unlike playing the role of a robot taking algorithmic cues from some master musical programmer pulling the strings in a cave behind the Hollywood sign. On the other hand, this experience speaks to the power of the popular song, which serves as a transcendent communion for millions of fellow men and women around the world who can at the very least share a love of an undeniable melody. This, of course, is what “Africa” is all about:

“Over many years, I had been taken by the UNICEF ads with the pictures of Africa and the starving children. I had always wanted to do something to connect with that and bring more attention to the continent. I wanted to go there, too, so I sort of invented a song that put me in Africa. I was hearing the melody in my head and I sat down and played the music in about 10 minutes. And then the chorus came out. I sang the chorus out as you hear it. It was like God channeling it.”
—Toto’s David Paich, speaking to Classic Tracks‘ Robyn Flans.

Toto was formed in 1977 by high-school friends Paich and Jeff Porcaro, two session players in Los Angeles who were already well-known among industry elites by the time the band issued its eponymous debut in 1978 because of its superb contributions to some of the biggest records of the era. The self-titled effort was massively successful, earning the band a “best new artist” Grammy and setting the stage perfectly for the global takeover that occurred with Toto IV. (Toto went experimental on its second and third albums, which reportedly almost cost the band its deal with Columbia due to the relatively low sales numbers of those releases). Indeed, Toto IV garnered six Grammys, including “record of the year” for “Rosanna” and “album of the year,” in addition to going three times platinum. For all of the usual reasons (waning relevance, internal disputes, evolving lineups, Rogaine), Toto never quite achieved that level acclaim again, but unlike many of its peers, the band has been able to sustain itself as a hot live ticket and a respectable recording force for more than 30 years.

Headed by Alex Lowry, the band Lowry hails from Brooklyn and has been plugging away in one form or another since 1999, though its nascent notoriety has just begun to creep in over the last two or three years. The sound of its most recent album, Love Is Dead, could be best characterized as “indie folk,” but its 2008 cover of “Africa” is more of a break-beat, lounge-y, space-rock jam. For me, the latter sound is not only preferable, it also makes for a much more interesting cover than what a heart-on-sleeve, coffee-house vibe could accomplish with such a classic track. Not to deride Lowry’s A+ effort, but there’s really no competition here. In fact, perhaps more than any other week, I searched high-and-low for a great cover of this song, and as far as I can tell, there isn’t one that comes close to rivaling the original. But, hey, when a song is allegedly ordained from above, it’s hard to compete, right?

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Gnarls Barkley takes on Violent Femmes “Gone Daddy Gone.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

It’s rarely the case that a band’s name presages a band’s sound, of course, but the moniker “Violent Femmes” is an exception to the rule. In 1981, the year that bassist Brian Ritchie, drummer Victor DeLorenzo and vocalist/guitarist Gordon Gano formed the band, “femme” was Milwaukee slang for “wimp,” and while the use of that word is obviously satirical and self-deprecating, its alignment with “violent” makes perfect sense. On their self-titled debut, the band created (or, at the very least, enhanced) the jittery, irreverent sound that would later be formalized as “folk punk,” tapping into a teen angst that wasn’t going away despite the demise of the first wave of American punk rock. But, these three didn’t exactly look or sound like Ian MacKaye or Iggy Pop, either (hence the appropriateness of “femme”).

With “Blister In The Sun,” “Kiss Off” and “Gone Daddy Gone,” in particular, Violent Femmes became the unlikely poster boys of disenchantment, purging their young, sex-addled frustrations for an audience that would eventually become worldwide, though for a relatively short period of time. Despite its debut going platinum 10 years after its release, the band never again received that level of acclaim, an all-too-common phenomenon noted humorously in the trivia section of the band’s website: “The Femmes first album has sold millions of copies. Their newest album has sold hundreds of copies.” Regardless, to this day the band has a cult following that recalls that of Daniel Johnston’s or They Might Be Giants’, a throng of eccentric music fans who buy into the idea of the band as much as its music.

As far as I’m concerned, the word “eccentric” has somehow developed a negative connotation, which is unfortunate. I don’t have numbers on me, but I’d wager that most great art is made by those who are eccentric or, in modern terms, “different.” (If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that last one …). In its own way, Gnarls Barkley embodies eccentricity. Cee-Lo Green got his start in influential Southern rap group Goodie Mob before cultivating a hybrid jazz/neo-soul/funk sound that never resonated with listeners the way his more populist hip-hip work did. (He was dropped from Arista just two albums into his solo career.) Brian Burton (a.k.a. Danger Mouse) was a trip-hop producer in Athens, Ga., who would remix local bands like Neutral Milk Hotel before his infamous mashup endeavor, The Grey Album, made him a near-overnight celebrity in the early aughts. And it goes without saying that their collaboration as Gnarls Barkley turned more than a few heads when it debuted in 2006, bridging soul, garage rock and ’60s pop in a collection called St. Elsewhere, which set digital download records all over the world. Between its wild miscellany of influences, multi-costumed stage shows and surprisingly reverent cover of Violent Femmes’ “Gone Daddy Gone,” there are few modern artists on the popular stage who create with such odd and spectacular exuberance. A germane reminder that eccentricity is a good thing.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Lissie takes on Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit Of Happiness.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

According to his mother and former teachers, Scott Mescudi (a.k.a. Kid Cudi) was destined for success. As a youth, he impressed fellow Clevelanders with his unabashed vocal prowess and natural swagger, qualities that always seemed to distinguish him from his peers. But, it wasn’t always clear that Cudi would end up in music: In interviews, he jokes that his high-school friends knew him more as a comedian than anything else, and his first (and only) year at the University of Toledo was spent studying film. Once he relented to his dreams of musical stardom, however, it didn’t take long before nearly everyone knew of his talent and potential, a near-phenomenon accelerated by his ties to Kanye West and, more importantly, a production style that feels tailor-made for the Internet Age.

“Pursuit Of Happiness” accents this aesthetic most prominently, marrying the warm warble of Ratatat’s trademark buzzsaw punch with a narrative that describes Cudi’s mindset as he peers over the rim of success. For its part, Ratatat’s relation to the genre isn’t new—the New York duo remixed two albums’ worth of classic hip-hop tracks prior to working with him—but this was the first time its music had been heard on such a massive scale. Arguably, it’s one of the most interesting backing tracks in hip-hop history, a statement as much as a simple production choice, one that, again, significantly distinguishes Cudi from his peers, whose sampling choices tend to be a bit more obvious. Critical response to his 2009 debut, Man On The Moon: The End Of Day, was mixed, but there’s undoubtedly a groundbreaking quality enmeshed in Cudi’s unorthodox tastes and approach, which philosophically recall that of his iconoclastic mentor in West.

If you’ve read into Lissie’s background at all, you know her choosing to cover Cudi makes almost perfect sense. Both artists were reared in the Midwest (she’s from Rock Island, Ill.) and, as the song suggests, are resting on the cusp of fulfilling their long-held ambitions. Even more than that, the relatively short nature of their career arcs suggest that neither Lissie or Cudi have embraced brown nosing as tactic for success. Both seem to have an underlying punk-rock ethos, an unwillingness to bow down the gods of the industry each desperately wants to engage on a life-altering scale. Indeed, Lissie sounds just as empowered as Cudi when she sings:

“People told me slow my road, I’m screaming out, ‘Fuck that’
Imma do just what I want, lookin’ ahead, no turnin’ back
If I fall, if I die, know I lived it to the fullest
If I fall, if I die, know I lived and missed some bullets”

Even if it wasn’t believable, though, Lissie’s cover is great on sheer musical terms. Her strong, finessed vocals are pitch-perfect, and the organic instrumentation is a resounding counterpoint to Cudi’s electronic original. Between the smooth wash of the delayed guitar, the spot-on, one-man rhythm section and her seductive intensity, Lissie and her band managed to make “Pursuit Of Happiness” very much their own, sparking in me an intrigue to hear her debut, Catching A Tiger, in the process.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Memoryhouse takes on Grizzly Bear’s “Foreground.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

I first learned of Toronto’s Memoryhouse in an early-morning scroll through Pitchfork. Whether the publication’s heady reviews perturb you or not, its writers can’t be faulted for the consistency with which they report on unknown talent, and on the day I read the “Rising” piece on the young duo, newswriter Tom Breihan was firing on all cylinders. Before I’d even heard them, I had a feeling I’d be hooked. Within sentences, I’d discovered that the band name was, indeed, a reference to the album Memoryhouse by the great modern-classical composer Max Richter (one of my favorites), and that somehow Grizzly Bear (also one of my favorites) would come up later in Breihan’s interview with chief songwriter Evan Abeele. My hopes intensified as I also read of Abeele’s love of My Bloody Valentine and his sampling of a Jon Brion composition from Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind on Memoryhouse’s freely released EP, The Years. By the end of the brief interview, I felt as if I had found a kindred spirit in Abeele. And, I still hadn’t heard a second of Memoryhouse’s work.

Then I heard “Lately (Deuxième),” “Sleep Patterns” and “Bonfire,” three of four songs on The Years, and though not immediately drenched in the euphoria I’d prepared myself for, I was (and am) definitely on-board with Memoryhouse’s ambition and aesthetic. The calm, sophisticated hypnotism of the EP entails an underlying seriousness of craft, a deliberateness further affirmed when I interviewed Abeele recently for Consequence Of Sound. Yes, to some extent, it’s tempting to mark him and singer Denise Nouvion as chillwave’s latest torchbearers, but that classification ultimately falls apart when their work sits with you for a few afternoons, each listen making their classic visual, literary and musical influences more present in the process. And, as if I needed more convincing that there’s more to Memoryhouse than a fascination with Kevin Shields, the Pitchfork piece pointed me to Abeele and Nouvion’s elegant cover of “Foreground” by Grizzly Bear, which, for me, nearly tops the original, a feat I didn’t even think possible considering my glowing adoration for the song.

Fundamentally, Memoryhouse’s “Foreground” differs only slightly from the original, its minimal scale likely necessitated by a non-existent recording budget. (The Years was recorded in Abeele’s bedroom.) Instead of a softly played piano, the primary melody is performed on a finger-picked acoustic guitar, while a washy synth replaces Nico Muhly’s stunning string arrangement and Abeele’s background vocal stands in for the Brooklyn Youth Chorus. Oh, and I believe Nouvion sings “jelly bite” instead of “jetty fight” in the third verse, an endearing blunder likely caused by a simple misinterpretation of the live YouTube clip she and Abeele sourced long before Grizzly Bear’s Veckatimest was released. Or perhaps it was a cute joke. Regardless, the cover showcases the duo’s reverence for the power of the original at the same time it expands our conception of how good Memoryhouse might ultimately be. Obviously, I’m excited to find out.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Johnny Cash takes on Nine Inch Nail’s “Hurt.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

Judging from the YouTube comments sections of the videos below, the debate over whose version of “Hurt” reigns supreme—Johnny Cash’s cover or Trent Reznor’s original—remains at fever pitch seven years after the former’s take was released. The tension is certainly plausible: Before Rick Rubin recommended the song to the Man In Black, most country fans had never laid ears on the song, despite how deep it’d resonated with rock fans for nearly a decade prior to 2003. Indeed, until then, even some rock purists assumed Reznor was a talentless weirdo, a myth perpetuated by his purchase of the infamous home in L.A. where the Manson family murders took place in 1969. “Le Pig” aside, many others simply relegated Reznor to the status of that other Manson, Marilyn, assuming his music was gimmicky and feckless. Cash’s “Hurt” altered this perception dramatically, reinvigorating an interest in Reznor that stands today while legitimizing his work for many who’d once falsely measured his worth.

The cover did more than shift perceptions of Reznor, of course. Released just five months prior to Cash’s death, the Mark Romanek-directed video, in particular, served as a sort of epitaph to a musical giant, powerfully aligning the elderly, meditative Cash with the youthful, rebellious one. The spartan audio is penetrating on its own, but the video marked a high point in music video-making rarely achieved in the last decade. The experience is not unlike stepping inside Cash’s mind as he wrestles with the finite nature of his being, pondering a life lived to the fullest, though cognizant of the weight that inevitably bears on all humans as they look back for the last time. No matter your religious preference (or lack thereof), the imagery of Christ in the film and the altered lyrics are worth noting, as Cash was devout in his belief in the power of redemption, especially at the end of his life. But, true to form, the song isn’t a blithe gospel incantation; it’s Cash at his most transparent, reliant on his hope above while honest about the contradictions of temporal existence.

“Hurt,” to me, inhabits that holy space of John Lennon’s “Imagine,” a song that most everyone can find themselves in. Though Reznor’s opus is plainly more personal than communal, it’s depth transcends bias, marking the zeitgeist of Cash’s end-of-life narrative and the surge of musical decentralization, thanks to the iPod. It’s also a conversation between two legends on the nature of art, which has the power to take on a life of its own, uniting dissimilar people in ways simple dialogue often fails to achieve.

Cast your vote wisely:

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Foo Fighters take on Arcade Fire’s “Keep The Car Running.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

Though consensus is often a hard thing to come by in music-criticism circles, it’s a safe bet that Dave Grohl will be generally considered one of the most important figures in the last two decades of rock ‘n’ roll. Depending on the writer’s unique perspective, he or she will either focus on his time drilling the skins during Nirvana’s heyday or his long years shepherding Foo Fighters, one of the most authentic and successful bands of the modern era. There may be a few detractors who assert Them Crooked Vultures or Probot featured his best work, but they will be in the minority. Regardless, central to all of their arguments should be an understanding that, through sheer grit, charm and talent, Grohl has earned every bit of his acclaim. Playing in a band with the iconic Kurt Cobain didn’t hurt his chances of early-’90s success, but one full rotation of Foo Fighters’ eponymous debut likely hushed any doubt that Grohl was a songwriting force in his own right.

It’s important to consider how posterity will behold Grohl because we’re now witnessing another group of inevitable legends make their initial marks on popular culture: Arcade Fire. Whether you adore or can’t stand the Montreal band—or it’s simply the hype surrounding them that invokes your disdain—two sold-out nights at Madison Square Garden last week should be enough proof that their impact matters. They’re arguably the most successful “indie” band of all-time, continuing to operate on their own terms while bridging the gap between mainstream and underground circles, in addition to be lavished with praise by rock luminaries such as Bruce Springsteen, Bono and Davids Byrne and Bowie. Aside what people say about the band, though, the more important point is, like Grohl, Arcade Fire is part of a select group of musicians that defy marketing and consumer trends, enhancing the cream-still-rises maxim in a digital environment that tries its hardest to negate the viability of long-term success for today’s artists. In other words: Young songwriters and bands, just write what you love, and if it’s great, people will notice, no matter who’s doing the taste-making in our ever-evolving media landscape.

Given Grohl’s underground savvy and shared relationship to eventual legend status with Arcade Fire, then, it makes sense that he’d find a way to cover the younger band’s work without coming across as out-of-touch. Afterall, he’d likely be the first to assuage any attempt to write his musical obituary just yet, and he’d be well-justified to do so; though I personally became an inactive Foo fan with In Your Honor, the man’s murderous Them Crooked Vultures work is proof he has no plans on playing Vegas any time soon.

Though so much more palatable than the sound of a thousand Mrazs arriving in recent years, wielding their puerile looks and ready-made Hills‘ songs, it can’t be ignored that Grohl and his talented Foo contemporaries took a turn toward the adult contemporary around the time In Your Honor hit shelves. The band had steadily eased up its hard-rock tendencies since the mid-’90s when its work was more reminiscent of, well, Nirvana and Sunny Day Real Estate, softening its approach to the point where an acoustic tour was deemed a worthy venture in 2006. It was in this style that Foo Fighters approached Arcade Fire’s “Keep The Car Running,” a track from Neon Bible that continues Win Butler’s long-standing obsession with auto imagery. The original, as evidenced below in live form, was simultaneously more orchestral and punk rock, even to the point of Butler shattering some production glass with his ukulele upon the song’s climactic end. Tellingly, the act made me recall the the fuzzy, frenetic assault of the Foo of yore.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Beach House takes on Daniel Johnston’s “Some Things Last A Long Time.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

Regardless how commoditized sentimentality has become in the music industry or how the “starving artist” tag has made a mockery of passion (often times with good reason), the fact remains that most of the world’s great music comes from a place of hurt or anger. Or, in the case of gospel hymns or blues, as a means of survival. Sometimes, these feelings or circumstances are the sole driving force while just as often they’re merely on the periphery, informing the songwriter through transference. By definition, it’s combination of the two modes in the case of Daniel Johnston, whose well-known bipolar disorder has revealed this vicious tension numerous times in public. In his review of Johnston’s 1990 album, the same record that features “Some Things Last A Long Time,” Allmusic writer Stephen Cook notes how Johnston alternates between weeping and leading singalongs on its live cuts, which coincidentally only made it on the disc because his condition at the time hindered his ability to record an album’s worth of new songs.

It’s commendable to me that Johnston’s not known for inviting pity for his troubled state or for using it as a crutch. In fact, where other artists with similar conditions have allowed depression to make them reclusive or have harmed themselves, even to the point of death, he’s seemingly committed to perseverance, soaking in every minute of this life by continuing to perform, to collaborate and to make art. This isn’t meant as judgment—our hearts break every time a Mark Linkous, Elliott Smith or Kurt Cobain depart this earth by their own volition—it’s simply meant to highlight the exceptional, atypical fighter in Johnston, who at 49 years of age still rarely relinquishes his childlike wonder for the mental abyss, which most certainly haunts him.

“Some Things Last A Long Time,” then, becomes that much more gripping. Primarily featuring the worn sound of an old piano and his characteristic, youthful vocal delivery, the song describes the resilience of memory and the depth of love or lost love. It’s profound in its simplicity, painting a portrait in our mind’s eye of happiness found in the things we often hurry past in pursuit of more hollow endeavor—a picture on a wall with colors that feel “bright” and “true” taking precedence over any number of other distractions. Written with another alterna-culture hero, Jad Fair, the song refuses to feel dated; its lyrical and musical simplicity easily protect it from this fate. Ultimately, “Some Things Last A Long Time” feels stumbled over, a powerful work that probably sparked like magic in the two friends on one unassuming afternoon spent fiddling around with a piano and a vocal melody Johnston had woken up humming. At least, that’s how I’d like to picture it.

It seems unlikely that Johnston’s work has had a significant influence on Beach House’s Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally, which made their cover of the song on their Devotion album all the more intriguing. Perhaps the most obvious overlap is Johnston’s previously mentioned simplicity, a trait that has colored the dream pop of their collaboration since the beginning. To be sure, Beach House’s music is definitively immersive—in light of Teen Dream‘s popularity, it seems that everyone knows this by now—but it’s hardly evolved over the course of three albums, which steadfastly feature Legrand’s beautiful alto and glowing keys atop Scally’s single-note-dominant guitar melodies and sparse percussion. Their treatment of “Some Things Last A Long Time” stuck to the script so well that one might not know it wasn’t an original if they’d never heard of Johnston. But, again, this isn’t meant as a slight. Rather, its meditative, synth-driven pulse, ghostly reverb and faint tambourine ensured the song changed, but remained loyal to the vision of both sets of artists.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Grizzly Bear takes on the Crystals’ “He Hit Me (It Felt Like A Kiss).” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

To the less committed listener, the bubblegum pop of the ’50s and early-’60s paints a picture of a post-war America that perpetually had a smile on its face. And, to an extent, this is forgivable; with rare exception, no matter how harrowing the lyrical content of a song might’ve been, most pop music sounded perky and well-coiffed, safe enough for the whole family to tap their toes to. So in 1962, when Carole King and Garry Goffin penned “He Hit Me (It Felt Like A Kiss)” after learning of singer Little Eva’s abuse at the hands of her boyfriend, it must’ve been tough to create a sound that neither betrayed the troubling nature of the content nor the songwriting status quo. Fortunately, the husband-and-wife team was keen enough to contact “it” producer Phil Spector, who arranged the song for the Crystals in a manner that successfully navigated the dark and radio-friendly. As an aside, Spector’s involvement in this particular song now seems eerie considering his 2009 indictment for the murder of actress Lana Clarkson, but let’s stay on track, shall we? Yes, so we’re in the pre-crazed-Spector era, and Mr. Wall Of Sound himself has created yet another girl-group classic in the vein of “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes and “Can’t Help Falling In Love” by the Paris Sisters, undeniably catchy despite its striking sadness.

Though Grizzly Bear initially served as singer Edward Droste’s solo outlet—wherein his slowly churning folk songs featured little more than subtle atmospherics, a guitar and vocals—by 2006, he’d added three additional players and signed with Warp to release breakout record Yellow House. Located just three songs deep, “Knife,” in particular, introduced fans new and old to a deep appreciation for Spector’s trademark aesthetic, only updated with a haunted, less obvious pop structure and more ecelectic composition. The girl-group sound would also creep back up into the work of El Perro Del Mar, Deerhunter and, more recently, the Morning Benders, though I’d contend that Grizzly Bear has been paying homage to this era most promisingly amongst its peers. When you hear (or revisit, for many of you) its austere cover of “He Hit Me,” I trust you’ll agree.

Cast your vote wisely.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week David Bazan takes on Bob Dylan’s “The Man In Me.” MAGNET’s Ryan Burleson pulls the pin. Take cover!

Over the course of their colorful and influential filmmaking careers, Ethan and Joel Coen have arguably left no greater mark on the medium than when The Big Lebowski made Jeff Bridges’ The Dude the most unremarkable character nearly everyone would want to call a friend. Sure, the Coens’ other films have earned them a combined 23 Oscar nominations (since 1991!), but rarely have Fargo, O Brother, Where Art Thou? or No Country For Old Men been invoked in pop culture with the fondness that’s regularly dispensed on His Dudeness’ stoned, accidental vigilantism. Rollicking underneath the opening credits of The Big Lebowski is Bob Dylan’s “The Man In Me,” which originally appeared on Mr. Zimmerman’s 1970 album New Morning. The song serves as a sort of sign of themes to come, as its feel-good folk would reappear upon The Dude’s realization that his rug—you know, the one that really tied the room together—had been stolen. The Coen brothers obviously meant for the song to serve as a centerpiece for the film, and this becomes evermore clear when you consider how Dylan’s lyrics easily parallel the earnest escapism of The Dude.

Though “The Man in Me” has also been covered by the Clash and Say Anything, David Bazan’s take strikes us as the most worthy contender to compete with the original. Bazan, perhaps better known to some as the man responsible for Pedro The Lion, turned in distinctive covers of Radiohead’s “Let Down,” Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” and a host of Christmas songs (check out his annual holiday seven-inch series) before tackling what’s now known as the Lebowski theme song to many. Stripping away the electric keys, female vocals and swagger of Dylan’s trademark delivery, Bazan honored the original’s romanticism while sobering it up slightly, giving it more of a classic, heart-on-his-sleeve feel without taking the sentimentality too far.

The choice is now yours.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Pearl Jam And Robert Pollard take on the Who’s “Baba O’Reilly.” MAGNET’s Edward Fairchild pulls the pin. Take cover!

On Dec. 3, 1979, 11 fans were killed during a Who concert at Cincinnatti’s Riverfront Coliseum. Robert Pollard was in attendance as a fan. Twenty-six years later, on June 24, 2006, Pollard opened for Pearl Jam at the same venue. Coincidentally, the concert would fall almost exactly six years to the day of the tragic accident that occured during a Pearl Jam concert in Roskilde, Denmark, where nine fans died in similar circumstances to the Who show. Given Pollard and Vedder’s virtually unmatched adoration of the Who, the history of the night was undoubtedly on everyone’s minds, with a tearful, heart-wrenching rendition of “Love Boat Captain” (a song Vedder wrote as a tribute for the victims of the Roskilde accident) and Pearl Jam bookending its set with covers of “The Kids Are Alright” and this life-affirming duet of “Baba O’Reilly” with Pollard. If you know where to look in this video, you can spot yours truly up front, pumping my fist. Certainly one of the most emotional concerts I’ve ever seen. Watch the entire arena absolutely erupt when Pollard does his high kick around the 1:40 mark.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Love And Rockets takes on the Temptations’ “Ball Of Confusion.” MAGNET’s Edward Fairchild pulls the pin. Take cover!

After vocalist Peter Murphy left Bauhaus, the band decided to keep going, changing its name (and much of its sound) to Love And Rockets. Changing names and vocalists might be the most challenging thing for a group with an established audience to do, but the band went on to release another seven studio albums. Preempting the current doo-wop revival, Love And Rockets had a small hit in 1985 with this new-wave/post-punk cover of the Temptations’ Motown classic “Ball Of Confusion.” Notice how much more fun the Temptations are having during their performance. Solid evidence that more bands should have choreographed dance moves.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week the Dead Weather takes on Tubeway Army’s “Are ‘Friends’ Electric?” MAGNET’s Edward Fairchild pulls the pin. Take cover!

Gary Numan’s first number-one single in the U.K., “Are ‘Friends’ Electric?” was born from the lucky combination of a lack of musicianship and songwriting ability. In an interview, Numan said, “You couldn’t dance to it, and it didn’t have a singing chorus; instead, it had a spoken part, like two different middle-eights, really. Everything about it was wrong in terms of having a hit single, yet it did what it did. Really, if you think about it, the song came about through my lack of songwriting prowess, because I couldn’t finish two songs, so I stuck them together and created the song. I can’t step away from that and say what a great songwriter I am, because it’s quite the opposite. Someone with a better songwritng ability than me would have made two songs instead of one. I was also lucky with the playing; one day I hit a wrong note, which was slightly flatter, and it suddenly made the track grate a little bit. And I thought, ‘I prefer that actually.’” Jack White’s Dead Weather covered the track for a b-side to its debut single, “Hang You From The Heavens,” last year. The Dead Weather’s second album, Sea Of Cowards, hit stores yesterday.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Crooked Fingers takes on Prince’s “When You Were Mine.” MAGNET’s Edward Fairchild pulls the pin. Take cover!

For the 2002 Reservoir Songs EP, Crooked Fingers recorded a handful of cover tunes, including this song by Prince. The band has recently announced plans for another round, this time featuring songs by Merle Haggard, Moby Grape, the Kinks and others. Reservoir Songs Volume II is currently seeking production support via indie-friendly project-funding site Kickstarter. A pledge of $6 will net you a high-quality digital download of the EP, and higher pledges offer fans the option for limited-edition screen-printed artwork and autographed test pressings. But the real prizes would be for those fans willing to spend $1,000 or more: A grand will get you the album, plus a Crooked Fingers recording of the cover song of your choice to be offered as a digital-download bonus track (some restrictions apply), and a pledge of $2,500 gets you the EP plus a private concert for you and all your friends.

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When is a cover song better than the original? Only you can decide. This week Tripping Daisy takes on Public Image Ltd.’s “Rise.” MAGNET’s Edward Fairchild pulls the pin. Take cover!

Public Image Ltd. is back. After an 18-year hiatus, Johnny Rotten—sorry, John Lydon—has reunited the band and is kicking off an extensive North American tour this week with a show in Los Angeles before performing at the Coachella Festival over the weekend. Look for me at both shows. The band’s biggest hit was “Rise,” which featured Steve Vai on guitar. Here is Tripping Daisy, a band I saw more than a few times in Oklahoma during the ’90s, with its psychedelic spin on the number, from the Time Capsule EP.

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