The cover version has always been a strange Marmite moment for music fans. Tending to come down on either one side of the fence or the other, your average aficionado loves or hates them in principle, and refuses to deviate from their opinion.

I have to confess, I’m a sucker for a good CV, as long as they obey a few obvious rules. Number one, they need to deviate as widely as possible from the original. This is why St Etienne’s version of Neil Young’s ‘Only Love Can Break Your Heart’ is sublime, and everything on Robbie Williams; ‘Sing While Your Swinging’ is tosh of the first water. Rule number two; there are some songs that should never be attempted, as the original nailed it so completely that there’s no further room. Exhibit #1, Mick Hucknall’s take on Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’. Actually, I could write a whole book on why every attempt to try and equal the heights so effortlessly scaled by Ella should be erased from the memory of mankind, but now is neither the time or the place. So…

I mentioned I was reviewing this show to a friend, and how it was an interesting concept, a prime example of the kind of format you would never get on terrestrial UK radio. His response?

‘What if you hate cover versions?’

If you subscribe to that side of the argument, then I apologise for wasting your time so far. Because you’re really not going to like ‘Coverville’ at all.

The format is simple. Every show takes a different artist, and plays a load of covers of their tracks, both known and obscure. The presenter, Brian Ibbott, puts the podcast together three times a week from his home in Colorado. It broadcasts on KYCY 1550AM in San Francisco. Although at first a bit gratingly nerdy, obvious love of the music and a warm, relaxed and engaging style wins the listener over. His determination to cram every last morsel of information into each link is a little wearing at times, but it’s so much better than the usual info-desert that makes up most radio presenters’ blather.

But it’s the music that’s the point of these podcasts. Whether it’s looking at an artist like The Kinks, or occasionally giving a whole album the treatment – as in recent shows where Ibbott takes ‘Abbey Road’ and ‘London Calling’, and plays a cover of each track in the sequence of the original record – it’s the change in the reading of the songs that makes the show work.

A few weeks ago, we came to the conclusion that history’s most perfect pop song was Todd Rundgren’s ‘I Saw The Light’. To be fair, I suppose I should acknowledge that you didn’t have much say in the outcome, I just decided on your behalf.

Today, in a similar spirit of one-handed democracy, ‘we’ are going to contemplate the greatest pop performance of all time. For although Todd turns in a cheery offering, as he reminds us that he ran out before, but he won’t do it anymore, he doesn’t make us go gooey inside, and make us want to marry him and father his children, unlike the heart-sappingly delicious woman who, by a clear margin, produced the greatest vocal ever heard in popular music history.

As with every and any walk of life, music has a heirarchy. Some folks are senior, top of the heap types. Others, low down boot polishers. But how do you tell who is who, which is which? Simple. Look closely and many artists display their rank for all to see:

1. The Captain & Tenille

2. Colonel Abrams

3. Lieutenant Pigeon

4. Sergeant Pepper

5. Major Parkinson

6. Captain Sensible

7. General Lafayette

8. Marshall Hain

9. Sergeant Petter

10. Private Angus

11. Trooper

12. Lord Sutch

13. Cadet

14. Commander Cody

15. Marshall Crenshaw

16. Professor Longhair

17. Chief Kamachi

18. Electric President

19. General Saint

20. Admiral Bailey

In this piece, London's Simmering, a few weeks ago, I did give fair warning that we would simply have to return to Praed Mews in Paddington, mid 1970s London, and the then emerging world of pop/rock booking agencies. The agency for whom I worked, (before I decamped to Chrysalis, and then Charisma) had been taken over by a couple of record producers from Pye, and as they tried to build up a stable of credible acts, we had to contend with the previous proprietor’s list of talent, most of whom, in career terms, had seen better days. The agency had been running since the 1940s and prior to the take-over, had built its reputation upon supplying music hall acts in the golden post-war era. At first the ‘golden era’ artists were little more than a nuisance to us young (I was eighteen), full-of-ourselves bookers, as we sought to find college gigs for Sassafras and Keith Christmas, but eventually, it became part of the daily routine to find Miki & Griff, or Los Aquanitos (a pair of comedy acrobats - two words not often combined these days) puffing their way up the stairs to check, usually in vain, if any work had come in for them.

These older acts were generally from an age before the widespread use of telephones and so it had become their habit to drop in, rather than phone in. In some cases, I think it gave them somewhere to go after lunch. One of the more agreeable aspects of the take-over meant that we inherited the part of the business that looked after acts coming over from America, to tour the UK. So whilst one of the Doobie Brothers was in asking where they could find a music store to buy new guitar strings, or Tower of Power’s horn section arrived to drop off their passports, they more often than not shared office space with Terry Hall (No - not that one!) and Lenny The Lion, or Frank Strong (who had “You Can Never Go Wrong With A Smile And A Song” printed on his 10”x8” promotional photos). This usually led to some bewildering, yet fascinating conversations, as a member of Graham Central Station swapped tour stories with Yootha Joyce. Burnt into my memory from those days is my favourite ex music hall act, Hilda and Her Performing Poodles (all ten of them). Hilda would come in and visit us, at least once each week, usually with a handful of poodles simpering along for the pleasure. By this time, Hilda must have been in her seventies, and most of her poodles were probably of similar vintage in dog years. We never had any bookings for her.

Hilda was very kind hearted, yet persistent that I should come along and see her act, so eventually, I agreed that I would turn up at one of her ‘concerts’ at what, in those days, used to be called old folks’ homes. For moral support, I took along Wilf, UFO’s legendary roadie, and a passing member of Ducks Deluxe. I doubt they have forgiven me to this day.

Nothing prepared us for the spectacle of that lunchtime matinee. Hilda wore a pink tutu, and so did each of her ten poodles. During what felt like a lifetime, but was probably thirty minutes, Hilda coaxed her reluctant pooches to jump over various obstacles and leap through hoops, which were placed at a less than death-defying three inches off the ground. “Allez-oop” she would cry repeatedly (and I do mean repeatedly) each and every time a poodle could be arsed to stumble through the pink-ribboned hoops. The audience of about fifteen elderly residents were becoming rather weary at the obligation to give a round of applause at each ‘allez-oop’. They had the appearance of a group of people who were of the one thought - that they were missing Crown Court and Out of Town with Jack Hargreaves for this. Happily for all parties we reached the big finale. Hilda’s disinclined poodles formed a circle around her, and each had their front paws on the hind of the poodle in front. They began to ‘dance’ in this sort of ‘circle of doom’ formation. Whether they had decided amongst themselves to put on a special show, or whether it was the wrong time of the season, I’m not sure, but this front paws on the hind of the poodle in front business, led to some rather vigorous friskiness and attempts at romance between several of the canine participants.

As Hilda hustled her charges out of the room, incontinence then became a factor. Not for the residents, but for the now over-excited poodles, some of whom clearly felt that peeing against chair legs was to be their encore. After a considerable fuss, Hilda led her poodles into her Mini Clubman Estate. I imagine it unlikely that she received a repeat booking. I thought it was time I moved to Chrysalis.

1. There’s a Whole Lalo Schifrin Going On - Lalo Schifrin

2. A Salt with a Deadly Pepper – Salt ‘N Pepa

3. You Can Tune a Piano But You Can’t Tuna Fish – REO Speedwagon

4. Black & Dekker – Desmond Dekker

5. Tripping the Live Fantastic – Paul McCartney

6. Allman & Woman – Cher & Greg Allman

7. Sex Cymbal – Sheila E

8. Deep Sea Skiving – Bananarama

9. Orbisongs – Roy Orbison

10. Fishcoteque – Jazz Butcher

11. Piece of Mind – Iron Maiden

12. Subs Standard – UK Subs

13. Eat Me In St Louis – It Bites

14. Nursery Cryme – Genesis

15. Aladdin Sane – David Bowie

It’s 1976.

"This is a chord, this is another, and this is a third. Now form a band." With such a mission statement a thousand punk bands were born. Don’t worry if you can’t play, or in the case of Sid Vicious you can’t even hold the instrument properly, never mind play it. It’s the spirit of the age that matters. It’s the message.

In Devon, Tim Smith, in the best of punk spirit, wanted his girlfriend in his band. Gaye Advert knew one chord. It was enough.

Paul Simonon found learning the guitar was too difficult so Mick Jones gave him bass duties in the embryonic Clash. Simonon looked good, and the others wanted their mate in the band.

So far, so good. We’re changing the world through music and that ‘three chord’ mantra.

Whoa! Let’s roll back just five years to 1971, and through our magic hindsight machine, let’s join Paul McCartney as he considers life after being Fab through the previous decade.

Paul had found, and married, his soul mate, Linda. He asserted that he wanted her to be involved in his musical activities and particularly didn’t want to apart from her when he toured his new band ‘Wings’. So Linda learned a few rudimentary chords, and began adding a bit to the keyboards, and chipped in with backing vocals.

The music press went mad. Linda wasn’t a ‘proper muso’. It was a travesty that the legendary Paul McCartney should be dragged down to this low common denominator by the amateur presence of his wife. Beatles fans fired off incandescent letters to the papers. Paul has sold out!

Now reach for your Macca Greatest Hits, or turn to Spotify, or Rhapsody, and listen to ‘Back Seat Of My Car’, ‘Listen To What The Man Said’ & ‘Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey’ from Paul’s golden age. There’s Linda contributing gorgeous backing vocals, and clearly giving Paul the impetus, and the sheer happiness and confidence, to produce some of the finest songs of the twentieth century.

Paul & Linda McCartney were the first punks. They should be adored for it.

1. Never, ever, let it run for more than three minutes. Two minutes and fifteen seconds is ideal.

2. Remember – verse, chorus, verse, chorus, middle eight, chorus, fade.

3. Employ a jingly jangly guitar.

4. In the real world, nobody refers to a woman’s ‘charms’, so find another rhyme for “take me in your arms”.

5. Chapman and Chinn.

6. If your record company wants to bring in Tony Visconti to remix your song, remember they know the business. Welcome him into your lives. However, if the record company wants to bring in Woody Woodmansey to remix your record, remember they don’t know the business. Run for the hills.

7. On first hearing your song, the listener should not be sure if the singer is a girl or boy.

8. A brief sax solo is always a welcome companion.

9. Consider including a line about a radio personality. Start rumours about which broadcasters inspire you. Tell the Daily Mail you wrote the song about Chris Evans. Tell The Guardian it’s about Lauren Laverne.

10. No bagpipes.