Sometimes in rock 'n' roll, a well-conceived cover song can best the original. Witness Manfred Mann's version of Bob Dylan's "Quinn the Eskimo (Mighty Quinn)" or the Isley Brothers' take on Stephen Stills' "Love the One You're With."

Granted, "Quinn" was a demo when Mann got hold of it, and the Isley Brothers could make soul out of anything, but it happens. The heavens split, inspiration revisits and somehow the past is rewritten. Check out Johnny Cash's version of Trent Reznor's "Hurt" if you still don't believe.

But for as many times as the rock standard "A Song for You" has been recorded and performed, it's darn near impossible to find anyone able to top writer Leon Russell's original.

Over the years, the song has been covered in versions ranging from the sublime (Donny Hathaway, Ray Charles, Willie Nelson) to the mediocre (Carpenters, Petula Clark, Herbie Hancock with Christina Aguilera), to the just plain bad (Beyoncé, Whitney Houston, Michael Buble). Former Ozzy Osbourne guitarist Zakk Wylde even did a version just last year.

Some have claimed it as one of the most recorded songs in modern pop history. It's easy to hear why so many artists have tried their hand at it. It's a stirring melody, equal parts parlor song, gospel and classic American pop.

For Russell, though, it was never a hit. He never even released it as a single. Nonetheless, it has become one of the most recognized contributions from a man who has made more than his share.

Russell grew up in Tulsa, Okla., and began his professional career there, playing boogie-woogie and stride piano at night while still in school (it was a dry state then, so it was possible for him to work in "bars").

Moving to Los Angeles, he landed a gig on television as the pianist in the television show "Shindig!" In glorious black and white, he pounded out the hits of the day for television audiences nationwide.

During the day, he found regular work with Phil Spector's Wrecking Crew, performing on sessions for some of the biggest hitmakers of the day: the Beach Boys, Byrds, Herb Alpert, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, Dorsey Burnette, Glen Campbell and the like. All this before he was out of his 20s.

As the 1960s ended, he served as bandleader for Delaney & Bonnie's soul revue and for Joe Cocker on his circuslike "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" tour, sitting casually at the piano with his prematurely graying hair under a top hat. That's him on the live version of "The Letter" that still gets radio play now and then.

He played piano, guitar and bass at George Harrison's Concert for Bangladesh, formed Shelter Records with British producer Denny Cordell and ran the label's studio in Tulsa. He played with Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones, B.B. King, Badfinger and Bob Dylan in the 1970s.

As a songwriter, he penned the tunes "Delta Lady," (a hit for Cocker), "Superstar" (Rita Coolidge, Carpenters). "Tight Rope" and "Lady Blue" were hits on his own, if no longer radio staples.

But his trademark tune is one that no other artist has been able to take away from him, though with their attempts they've no doubt covered a few of his mortgage payments.

To open his 1970 solo debut, a gentle glissando trickles down the length of his piano like something out of Duke Ellington. Nothing besides a gentle French horn accompanies his keys.

Then he sings. The words — "I've been so many places in my life and times" — issue from a lonely, rounded drawl. Immediately you know this isn't jazz.

That opening line is a pretty strong sentiment for a man who at the time was not yet 30. But by then Russell had more miles under his wheels than most.

"I know your image of me is what I hope to be/ I treated you unkindly darling but can't you see."

This is not a rhapsody, but a confession — a plea from a voice that understands the clumsiness of his apology but feels compelled to offer it anyway.

"If my words don't come together, listen to the melody because my love is in their hiding."

We never learn what the transgression is, but that's not as important as the weight of the moment.

"And when my life is over, remember when we were together/ We were alone and I was singing this song for you … singing this song for you."

Too many versions have completely missed the mark for one reason: It's easy to oversing. This is not a song of pride or confidence, a platform for emotive vocal acrobatics or gravitas. (Whitney, Christina, I'm looking in your direction.) This is a song to be sung by someone who is ashamed, who laments the errors, who knows forgiveness might not be forthcoming and understands why.

Russell knows this. He knows it when he sings:

"There's no one more important to me/ So darling can't you please see through me."

He can barely hit the last notes in each line. He could have bailed on those notes and sung lower, but then they would have been all polish and no truth.