The 25 best cover songs of all time, ranked

Arriving just as Hüsker Dü achieved cruising altitude, “Eight Miles High” turns the psychedelic classic by the Byrds inside out. Where the original song probed and pondered, gaining momentum through its exploration, the Hüskers slash and thrash as they take a great voyage inward. It’s a visceral trip to the outer limits of the inner psyche.

Bob Seger wrote “Rosalie” in tribute to Rosalie Trombley, the music director of a Windsor, Ontario, radio station that was an early advocate of the Michigan rocker. Thin Lizzy plucked the song from Seger’s Back In 72 record—still criminally unavailable in any digital format—cranked the amplifiers to 11 and wound up with a rampaging cover that serves as a testament to the power of rock and roll.

Dolly Parton wrote “I Will Always Love You” as a farewell to Porter Wagoner, the Nashville star who introduced the country singer to a national audience. Eighteen years after it became a country hit, Whitney Houston sang it as the love theme for The Bodyguard, her breakthrough cinematic role. Houston converted the hushed statement of devotion into a melodramatic showstopper, an epic of perseverance through heartbreak, a recording where the song gets overshadowed by a monumental performance.

In John Fogerty’s hands, “Proud Mary” was a chugging rocker delivering the daydream of a riverboat roaming the Mississippi. When Ike & Tina Turner covered it two years after Creedence Clearwater Revival, they discarded any notion of fantasy. After a lazy preamble, the combo obliterates the song by pushing hard on its rhythms, the ringleader being Tina, not bandleader Ike. Tina devours the song, spitting it out in an unrecognizable form.

Delivered as a meditative mantra by its author Leonard Cohen, then trimmed into something resembling a pop song by John Cale, “Hallelujah” became a standard in the hands of Jeff Buckley. Using Cale’s version as a blueprint, Buckley infused the song with incandescent drama, transforming a quiet lament into a cathartic release. Cale’s version made it onto Shrek, but the countless covers that followed in the 21st Century all were based on Buckley’s interpretation, cementing the idea that “Hallelujah” is a showcase for muscular, emotive singers.

Four albums into his collaboration with Rick Rubin, it wasn’t a shock to hear Johnny Cash cover a modern rock artist—American Recordings, their first record together, featured a Danzig song, and Soundgarden and Beck tunes showed up on the second—yet his version of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” seemed absolutely singular. He treated the song with utmost sincerity, giving the self-laceration of Trent Reznor’s lyrics gravity. The song’s unique nature was cemented by the accompanying video by Mark Romanek, which blended footage of a younger Cash with his current older self. He wasn’t long for this world. Cash died within months of the video’s release, lending “Hurt” the suggestion of a last will and testament from the singer.

The legendary Bobby Fuller Four made Sonny Curtis’ “I Fought The Law” into a rock and roll classic in 1965, but the Clash turned the song into an outlaw anthem with their 1979 cover. Taking the song heavier, louder and faster, the Clash sound like they have police on their back, their energy giving their rendition a thrilling kick.

Popularized in a pivotal scene in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, Urge Overkill’s version of “Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon” zeros in on the louche charm at the heart of Neil Diamond. Stripped of its MOR affectations yet still seemingly bound for a lounge, “Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon” sounds sultry, even passionate in the hands of Urge Overkill, who wisely abandon their trademark irony for something richer, even ambiguous.

“Hanging On The Telephone” was the greatest of the many terrific songs from Los Angeles power pop legends the Nerves. Never bigger than a cult act, the Nerves made influential fans in Blondie, who turned the twitchy, urgent “Hanging On The Telephone” into a super-charged new wave anthem. Bigger and bolder than the original, the Blondie version of “Hanging On The Telephone” made the song into the radio staple it was always meant to be.

One of the most enduring standards of the rock era, “Always On My Mind” was popularized by Elvis Presley in 1972 and became even bigger in the hands of Willie Nelson a decade later. Five years after that, the Pet Shop Boys delivered the boldest interpretation of the song. Steering it away from its inherent schmaltz, they reimagined the song as a high energy dance-pop anthem, assaulting the listener with synths yet retaining the song’s melancholy undercurrent—a reinvention that’s clever, yet beats with a pained heart.

Knocked out at the end of a marathon day-long recording session, the Beatles’ version of “Twist And Shout”—an R&B raver popularized by the Isley Brothers—is one of the Fab Four’s rawest early rockers. A lot of that edge comes from John Lennon’s frayed vocals; he sounds as if he’s been singing at top volume all day which, in a sense, he had. But much of the might derives from the Beatles themselves, who play this party tune with muscle and swing.

Five years after the Beatles took it to the top of the charts, Stevie Wonder delivered a lively, inventive rendition of “We Can Work It Out.” Where the original version felt almost bifurcated, Wonder smoothly ties the verse and bridge with his supple funkiness and unbridled joy. The original seemed like a plea, but Wonder’s cover is infused with faith; as he sings, there’s no doubt that he will be able work whatever problems he may have out.

An obscurity by the Clique—an AM pop band who walked the line between psychedelia and bubblegum—“Superman” was excavated by R.E.M., who tacked it on as a closing track on Life’s Rich Pageant. Beating the cloying melody with a barrage of guitars and drums, R.E.M. treat it like a forgotten garage rock classic and in the process turn “Superman” into precisely that.

In some regards, the Kinks’ original version of “You Really Got Me” is the birth of heavy metal—a two-chord riff delivered with brutal enthusiasm. That’s why Van Halen’s gonzo reinterpretation seemed so perfect: they took the basic elements of the song and blew them up to gargantuan scale, confirming its metallic connections. Van Halen doesn’t sound quite as raucous as the Kinks, yet they do sound rowdy: they’re not playing with noisy abandon, they’re the ringmasters of debauchery.

An instant classic upon its release in 1974, Al Green’s “Take Me To The River” engendered a flurry of covers in the years after its release. Of these, the version by Talking Heads is the most memorable. Slowing the tempo and straightening the beat without losing the funk, Talking Heads secularize Green’s gospel-R&B, a variation that feels strangely ethereal yet has its own sense of alien soul.

Devo perform the unthinkable with the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” reworking the classic rock staple so it’s virtually unrecognizable. Throwing out Keith Richards’ signature riff, the Ohio punk band instead concentrated on rhythm, eschewing the swing of the Stones for nervous energy that builds throughout the performance until the song nearly collapses upon its own tension.

Roger Miller first recorded “Me And Bobby McGee,” Kris Kristofferson’s moving travelogue chronicling the fading hippie era. Miller’s version is excellent—he always knew a good story when he heard it—but the song sounded as if it was written for Janis Joplin, who recorded the tune not long before her 1970 death. Joplin treats the verses with sensitivity, then lets loose on the coda, a stirring conclusion that showcases the artist at her peak.

A tossed-off tune from second wave Britpoppers the Zutons, “Valerie” was reimagined as a neo-Motown raver by singer Amy Winehouse and producer Mark Ronson. Playing “Valerie” with a big, bouncy beat turned the bedsit rocker into an infectious pop tune, but the reason the single is transcendent is how Winehouse finds a sense of longing in the lyric, delivering it as a plaintive plea to a lost friend.

Run-DMC brought Aerosmith into the studio to play on their version of the hard rock band’s 1975 classic, so perhaps this doesn’t quite qualify as a cover in the strictest sense apart from one thing: this version thoroughly reinvents the original. Focusing on Joe Perry’s sleazy riff and Steven Tyler’s jive talk, Run-DMC make “Walk This Way” all about rhythm, a decision that’s not only invigorating but pioneering: this blend of rock and rap birthed a whole new genre.

Harry Nilsson found “Without You” on Badfinger’s No Dice, where it sounded pained and intimate. Nilsson kept the feeling and changed the scale, turning the ballad into something operatic: a surging outpouring of emotion, all coalescing around Nilsson’s soaring vocal. Other singers, notably Mariah Carey, followed Nilsson’s blueprint, turning “Without You” into a technical showcase, but his version made the song feel tortured and heartbroken, one of the saddest songs to ever become an adult contemporary standard.

Aretha Franklin radically revised “Respect,” turning Otis Redding’s demand for domestic regard into a feminist anthem. It’s not just that the lyrics felt substantially different when sung by Franklin. She rewrote the song, taking it away from its gritty Southern soul roots and adding an indelible coda where she spells out the title and indulges in a call and response with her backing vocalists. Each change is so smart, it feels as if the song was composed that way, a feeling reinforced by Franklin’s phenomenal delivery: it simply seems as if the song belongs to her.

Nick Lowe wrote “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding’’ as a sincere plea for world peace, a tender lament from a longhaired troubadour. Elvis Costello, Lowe’s leading acolyte, cut the song in a split single with Nick, then slipped it onto Armed Forces where it became the standard it was intended to be. Faster and louder than the Brinsley Schwarz original, Costello’s rendition zeroed in on the anguish that courses through the song: it’s the rarest of things, a hybrid of punk and hippie folk-rock.

Richard Berry’s Latin-flavored R&B single “Louie Louie” became a sensation in the Pacific Northwest in the late 1950s, eventually making its way to the rest of America in 1963 in a raucous version by the Kingsmen. Not the first rock and roll band to cover the song—and certainly not the last; their version made the song a garage rock standard—the Kingsmen played with a sloppy, raw edge that was virtually unheard of in the early 1960s. This birthed the garage-rock explosion of the 1960s and, in turn, is a pivotal text in punk rock.

Prince didn’t treat his “Nothing Compares 2 U” especially seriously, certainly not when compared to Sinead O’Connor, who delivered the song as if it were a matter of grave importance. He relegated the song to the Family, a group of Prince proteges from the mid-’80s side project that gained no reputation outside of his diehards, which is where O’Connor discovered it. Turning it into a slow, crawling tearjerker, O’Connor found a broken heart residing in the song, making it a ballad for the ages.

A hushed allegory in its original incarnation by Bob Dylan, “All Along The Watchtower” became an apocalyptic howl when covered by Jimi Hendrix. So commonplace is Hendrix’s version that its daring nature has dimmed; what once seemed revolutionary has now turned cliche. Listen to Hendrix’s version back to back with Dylan’s and it once again seems visionary: a rendition that expands upon the looming gloom of the lyric through its wide open vistas.