The other night, I had the pleasure of attending a Donovan concert in Toronto.
His voice isn’t what it used to be, but he’s such a good storyteller, and his songs practically sing themselves anyway, so it was all good.
What was especially heartwarming is that not everyone in the audience had white hair. I was amazed at how many people under 30 were there – and they weren’t casual listeners. They knew him. They were fans.
Donovan himself described his music’s timeless appeal as hopeful melancholy. He confronts that madness of our species, and shares his sadness at our willful self-destructiveness, but he celebrates the wonders of the world around us with an enduring spirit of hopefulness.
He is the hurdy gurdy man, singing songs of love.