As the accompanying music reminded us, it's the time of the season for looking back in languor at the psychedelic daze that descended on America's West Coast in 1967. It was an era when one was enjoined, if going to San Francisco, to "be sure to wear flowers in your hair". "Feed your head," added the Jefferson Airplane, ensconced in their Haight-Ashbury rabbit-hole.

This Anarchy Arias consists of 13 operatic covers of British punk rock classics from the late Seventies and early Eighties, and it’s almost all skin-crawlingly horrific. Clearly, then, this review is going to be a predictable reaction, from a writer who rates the original versions moaning about how their ultimate mainstream co-option robs them of bite, fury and authenticity. Why, for instance, couldn’t I take a step back and listen from a broader perspective, observing the post-modern nuance, the skill involved and the “sense of fun”?

The fact is, smirkers completely numbed by this century’s quest to achieve meaninglessness via irony might enjoy it but, for anyone familiar with the songs and their wider cultural cache, it’s a bombastic torrent of ear-bilge. It’s feasible one of these songs could be used effectively as juxtaposition in a feature film, and that the more light-hearted tunes, such as Plastic Bertrand’s “Ca Plane Pour Moi” and The Member’s “Sound of the Suburbs” suffer far less, since they were only a giggle to begin with. As for the rest…

The Anarchy Arias involves Sex Pistol Glen Matlock and opens with “Pretty Vacant”, whose pompous massed choruses set the tone. Punk has been effectively covered many ways, many times – such as the brilliant Gallic easy-listening of Nouvelle Vague’s first album – but part of the grotesqueness of The Anarchy Arias is the way lead baritone Stephen Gadd renders the words. A factor in punk’s power was its visceral, mangled enunciation whereas Gadd’s crisp, jaunty rendition of lines such as “Forget it, brother, you can go it alone” (from “London Calling”) vaporise all potency and meaning. “No More Heroes”, indeed, turns The Stranglers' spray-gun ire into a simpering fart suitable for entertaining the Bullingdon Club over dinner.

“Teenage Kicks” is no longer teenage. It’s a middle-aged man having a gloating wank over someone he hated long ago. X-Ray Spex’ allegorical rage on “Oh Bondage Up Yours!” becomes a joyless TV evening sucking off Simon Cowell to entertain Britain’s Got Talent. And, as for what they’ve done to The Ruts’ peerless “Babylon’s Burning” – it’s quite simply the sound of dreams dying. And so on. In short, one of the worst albums ever made.

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Overleaf: Anarchy Arias' terrifying version of The Stranglers "No More Heroes" perfomed on The One Show

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After watching the grim Crimson, it’s impossible not to feel grubby and perplexed. Grubby, as this is a catering-size example of squalid exploitation cinema. Perplexed, as its plot is senseless, the charisma-free acting so inept that the cast may as well be talking in a bus queue, and the technical aspects of the film-making thoroughly lacking: continuity errors abound and microphones are in shot. It also lacks any sense of drama and pace, and is over-talky. Yet, as it rolls towards its ludicrous conclusion, Crimson exerts a horrid fascination.