I’m always a little embarrassed when I find out that one of my favorite songs was actually a remake of an older version of a song. Usually Casey Kasem would set me straight – “Up two notches to number 16, here’s the supergroup the Power Station with a remake of the old T. Rex song, ‘Bang a Gong (Get it On)’” – But until recently, I thought that some of the best songs of the 80s were originals. Boy, was I shocked. See how many surprise you:

• “Better be Good To Me” – Spider (covered by Tina Turner). This is my favorite Tina Turner song. I think with this single, she established herself as a true rock artist for the 1980s. Little did I know at the time that the reason was that it was because the original was done by a true rock band, Spider. And the two versions sound exactly the same.Sigh. Suddenly, Tina Turner is a little less impressive now. Except her legs.Bonus trivia: Spider also wrote a song called “Change,” which was John Waite’s follow-up to “Missing You.”
• “Kitty” – Racey (Recorded as “Mickey” by Toni Basil). Whaaaat? Something as fresh as Toni Basil’s cheery song was not her own? Well, Basil was not a singer, she was a choreographer, so it does make sense that her songs would be someone else’s. But give credit where credit is due; Basil breathes new life into this song, which was originally called “Kitty.”
• “I Love Rock n’ Roll” – The Arrows (Joan Jett). I almost cried when I found out that this one was a cover, but I should have known; Joan Jett’s follow-up, Casey Kasem informed me, was a remake of Tommy James and the Shondell’s “Crimson and Clover.” But “I Love Rock n’ Roll?” That’s iconic, that’s pure 80s, that’s…a cover of a song by a 70s band sporting some nice mullets. (If any of you are shocked to hear that this was not a Britney Spears original, you have bigger problems.)”I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” – The Arrows

“I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” – Joan Jett & the Blackhearts

• “Alone” – I-Ten (Heart). No way. Surely I’ve gone off my rocker now. “Alone”? The perfect power ballad by the wonderful Wilson sisters? Yep. It was even recorded by John Stamos before Heart got their hands on it. If it’s any consolation, their version runs circles around the original. It must suck to realize that someone else did your song better than you did. On the other hand, I-Ten is probably really rich now.Alone – I-Ten

Alone – Heart


• “The Tide is High” – The Paragons (Blondie). Okay, this one makes sense. Blondie’s hit sounds like a laid-back 60s reggae tune, and that’s exactly what it was originally – a song by the Paragons, a, um, 1960s group from Jamaica. Edge goes to Blondie here.
• “We’re All Alone” – Boz Scaggs (Rita Coolidge). I was upset to hear that Coolidge’s two biggest hits – this one and “(Your Love Has Lifted Me) Higher and Higher” – were both covers, but when I heard Boz Scaggs’ version…Well, just hear it for yourself. I never realized that Scaggs sounded like Kermit the Frog. Rita, you are forgiven.
• “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero” – Paper Lace (Bo Donaldson & the Heywoods). My friends across the pond may be shocked to hear that there’s a cover of this song; they know Paper Lace’s version pretty well. I prefer Bo Donaldson’s just because I heard it first, but both sound pretty dated and well, corny.
• “China Girl” – Iggy Pop (David Bowie). As cool as Iggy Pop is supposed to be, David Bowie took “China Girl” and “made it his own,” to borrow an overused and absolutely pointless phrase from everyone on American Idol.
• “Red Red Wine” – Neil Diamond (UB40). UB40 took a tired, dreary number from a tired, dreary artist and gave it some life. The result? The only reggae song I’ve ever liked. I don’t care if it was played to death during the 1980s.

• Honorable Mention: Laura Branigan and Cyndi Lauper. Both artists made a career of taking little-known songs and turning them into hits. For the late Laura Branigan, she borrowed several tunes from Michael Bolton, recording two songs of his that eventually became hits: “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You” and “I Found Someone.” The latter was not a huge hit for Branigan, but Cher picked it up a few years later and turned it into a monster hit. Branigan’s first hit, “Gloria,” was a hit in Italy for Umberto Tozzi.Lauper also relied heavily on other songwriters; her hit “I Drove All Night” was first recorded by Roy Orbison in 1987, but it wasn’t released until 1992 – three years after Lauper released her version. “All Through the Night” was written and first recorded by Jules Shear in 1983, but Lauper made it a hit one year later.  And finally, “Money Changes Everything” was recorded by The Brains in 1980, and released by Lauper in 1984.

For more than 15 years, Justin Currie was Del Amitri, writing most of the band’s more popular songs (“Roll to Me,” “Always the Last to Know”)  and being the front man. So it should come as no surprise that The Great War, his latest solo effort, sounds like a lost Del Amitri album.

Well actually, it should come as a surprise. His first solo album, Rebound, was disappointingly dull and lifeless; missing was the upbeat, melodic songs that made Del Amitri a modest success during the late 1980s and early 1990s. He even admitted on his MySpace page that the album “features eleven thunderously dreary dirges many of which he is currently airing live to pained looking crowds of people in dingy Glasgow basements.”

He has definitely fixed that problem. The opening track, “A Man With Nothing To Do,” is fresh, upbeat and cheerful – vintage Del Amitri. Some may say that’s a bad thing; after all, hasn’t he done that before? Well yes, but he does it so well. Some are masters at harmony, some have mastered the art of chord progression. Currie is a master of melody. His phrases seem to run along effortlessly, and you swear you’ve heard them before but never can seem to put your finger on it.

Currie’s ballads are sublime, tugging at your heartstrings with beautiful music while offering  little solace in the lyrics. The most touching of the album bears the doleful title “You’ll Always Walk Alone,” in which Currie laments, “When you’re swooning at the sinking sun with that special girl you string along…Remember you’ll always walk alone.”

In fact, Currie’s songs always seem to be bittersweet; with titles such as “Anywhere I’m Away From You,” “Can’t Let Go of Her Now,” and “As Long As You Don’t Come Back,” he seems wrecked, even bitter. But the lyrics are lost in the midst of the maddeningly catchy music. It’s only when you listen closely that you hear the despair in some of his songs, and at that point, you don’t care.

Listening to Justin Currie and his The Great War is like getting reacquainted with an old friend. His melodies carry a welcome familiarity that carries you back to his earlier work with Del Amitri. And by the way, that’s a good thing.

At first glance, Peter Doggett’s book You Never Give Me Your Money: The Beatles After the Breakup seems to be more of a summary of the Beatles’ business and legal dealings than it does a history of their post-Beatles relationship. But then you realize that a big part of the years following their disbanding was spent in courtrooms and depositions – a sad, petty end to what was the greatest pop group of all time.

But the book is so much more than that. Despite the fact that the band members went their separate ways, their lives were still intricately intertwined. Doggett shows us that the group came tantalizingly close several times to reforming, but fate always seemed to step in – be it Yoko Ono’s dominance over John, George’s animosity toward Paul, or Paul’s crafty PR moves designed to create leverage in his business dealings.

The research here is tremendous; most of the major points in the Beatles lives post-breakup is here, with a close attention to the group’s confidantes such as press officer Derek Taylor, producers and engineers, and even John and Yoko’s astrologers. Each gives their own unique take on an event, which makes for a well-rounded view.

It’s clear that Doggett is a fan of George Harrison, and in the acknowledgements he confesses this. Harrison gets a glossed over treatment in the book, with just a casual mention of the “My Sweet Lord” controversy that underminded much of his post-Beatles career. But his bias is a welcome change from the usual John vs. Paul battle that most authors take when penning a Beatles biography. George emerges as a bitter man who is constantly haunted by the ghosts of the Beatles – and blames it all on Paul. Ringo is seen in the light of his alcoholism and the “luckiest man in showbiz” moniker, although his revelation that Ringo has an odd propensity to say  ”peace and love” multiple times in the course of a conversation was intriguing.

There always seems to be two sides to Paul and John, and Doggett does an admirable job of presenting the good and bad. But his summary of Paul is spot on:

How could Paul McCartney maintain his own career while his former partner was being canonised? How could he stake his claim to a proper share of the Beatles’ artistic legacy when he was uncomfortably mortal and Lennon was up among the gods? Personal grief was only one of his curses; for the rest of his life McCartney would be battling Yoko Ono for his place in history. There were now three Beatles, and one saint. Perhaps that was McCartney’s cruellest fate; he desired nothing more than to regain Lennon’s love, but now he was condemned to compete with Lennon’s memory for the recognition that, rightfully, should already have been his.

It’s a sad story, really. Each Beatle (with maybe the exception of Ringo) wanted their freedom from what they thought was a stifling existence within the greatest band in the world, but each one failed to live up to their Beatle alter ego and had to continue fighting it – and each other.