Of all the songs in the world, there is one that belongs to my mother. It’s “Alfie.” Not the Burt Bacharach version, not the Dionne Warwick version, but *hers*—the one from her live album, recorded at the Talk of the Town in London. In my head, it is the definitive article. The way she phrases the line, “What’s it all about, Alfie?” is a masterclass in quiet heartbreak. It is, to my ears, perfect.

So, you can imagine my internal conflict when I found myself sitting next to Mum at a concert in Montreux, watching the legendary Chaka Khan prepare to sing that very same song. I was a sceptic. A traitorous one, but a sceptic nonetheless. How could anyone, even a force of nature like Chaka, approach my mother’s version?

The answer came within two bars.

Chaka started, and a shiver went through me. My arms became a topographical map of goosebumps. This wasn’t a rendition; it was a reinvention. She wasn’t singing Burt Bacharach; she was singing Chaka Khan. Where my mum’s version was a poignant, whispered question to the universe, Chaka’s was a raw, powerful demand for an answer. It was all fire and soul, a performance that turned the song inside out and shook it by its shoulders. It was a different kind of magic, and it was spectacular.

Mum, meanwhile, was getting misty-eyed for a different reason. “Look,” she whispered, jabbing a finger discreetly at the band. “That’s Joerg Reiter on keys. And that’s definitely Dave King at the bass, Nippy Noya on percussion, They’re all *my* old lot!”

I sat there, covered in involuntary poultry-skin, trying to absorb the lesson the universe was blasting at me through a killer sound system: **there is no single “greatest” performance of anything.** There are only different flavours of brilliance that can, if you’re lucky, give you the bumps.

### The Curse of Musical Taxidermy

This, of course, is the moment I officially sound like an old fart. Because this lesson feels increasingly rare. When I hear a “cover” on the radio today, it often sounds like the singer used a gadget to perfectly replicate the phrasing, tone, and even the ad-libs of whoever had the last viral hit with it. It’s like musical taxidermy—technically impressive, a perfect likeness, but the soul is long gone. The point isn’t to bring your own fire to the song; it’s to stuff and mount the original.

But Chaka, and my mum before her, proved that the real magic lies in interpretation. In bringing your own story, your own heartbreak, your own fire to the notes on the page.

### The Post-Game Show

After the concert, still buzzing, we slipped into a near-empty restaurant for a late dinner. And then the real, unplanned magic started. At a large table in the corner was Chaka’s entire family, still riding the high. And they started singing. Not a performance for us, just a family, full of joy, harmonising over their desserts. We were the only other people there, getting a private, post-game show from the Khan family. It was unbelievably cool.

Mum, being Mum, couldn’t resist. When there was a lull, she glided over.

“Ms. Khan,” she said, with that warm, professional smile. “That was a phenomenal performance. Your musicians were incredible.”

Chaka, gracious and beaming, thanked her.

“I actually know they’re incredible,” Mum continued, “because I used to work with most of them.”

Chaka’s eyes lit up with recognition. “No kidding! You’re with that German bandleader, right? The big guy with the… Peter! Peter Herbolzheimer!”

Mum grinned. “The very one.”

Then Chaka’s gaze flicked to me, standing there like a star-struck coat rack. A slow, mischievous smile spread across her face.

“Wait a minute,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger between my mum and me. “Don’t tell me. This is your son… Peter Herbolzheimer?”

The table erupted in laughter. My mum winked, but gently corrected her of the contrary, but informing her that she had also intensively worked with the man himself.

And there it was. The great lesson of the night, delivered first by two titans of song, and then cemented by my mother’s wink: **Learn from the best, but for heaven’s sake, don’t just imitate.**

Find your own “Alfie.” Bring your own fire. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll give someone goosebumps of their own.