I’ve been busy and although I know that I risk being the last person to weigh in on this important issue, I need to talk about Madonna, so that is a chance I am willing to take.

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I cultivate an almost cultist devotion to the earlier works of Mrs. Guy Ritchie — an admiration I share with no less a musical luminary than Henry Rollins — so anyone who attempts to cover one of her songs had better have some serious musical mojo. Teenage Fanclub succeeded admirably with their fuzzed out version of Like a Virgin, and Ciconne (Sonic) Youth basically redefined the possiblities of the cover with Into the Groove(y). Thurston Moore moaning ” . . you’ve got to prooovee your love to meee” was the sultriest, scariest thing I heard in all of 1988. I tend to view that track on The Whitey Album and all of Sonic Youth’s subsequent Madonna-related output not as a series of covers or remakes, but as a singular extended homage.

So, you can well imagine my emotional state earlier today when Ivan passed me Kelly Osbourne’s cover of Papa Don’t Preach, the very idea of which fills me with a certain species of dread and trepidation that can best described as reflexive. Contemplating Kelly Osbourne attempting any sort of musical endeavour makes me want to pack myself into a very small box and ship myself, Soviet-defector style, to some small corner of the globe that has not yet blessed itself with electricity. It’s not that I don’t think she’s not a wonderful girl — I’m sure she’s charming enough once you get past the screaming and yelling and cursing — but I question her musical skill. How can a girl whose only previous musical experience is most likely limited to cleaning up after her father be expected to rise above those humble beginnings and produce some sort of worthwhile artistic expression?

And yes, I know who her father is (thanks for asking), but I am prepared to hold up Gunnar and Matthew Nelson as living proof that progeny’s talent apple often falls far from the musical tree. Furthermore, let me add more grist to the mill by also submitting Wilson Phillips and Rockwell to that list. I feared that Kelly’s Papa Don’t Preach would do as much justice to Madonna as I do to Brian Wilson when I sing Caroline, No in the shower.

I could not possibly have been more mistaken. I’m not saying that Kelly is a musical genius, only that her Papa Don’t Preach is an infectious, if straightforward rock cover of a dance hit. Kelly’s Papa is a delicious confection, perfect candy pop in every possible way, but executed with enough sincerity to make it more than just a forgettable guilty pleasure. Oh, and did I mention it rocks! Yes, little Kelly Osbourne brought The Rock, or at least paid some studio musicians to bring The Rock for her, but that’s enough for what it is.

The point is. . . and yes, there is a point buried in here somewhere. . . the point is that this song could have been an unmitigated disaster, a vanity project to fulfill a little girl’s rocknroll dreams. . it is more than that. It’s a surf/punk explosion that hits the mark. Papa Don’t Preach is my song of the week.