For over fifty years, Donovan’s status as a “serious artist” has been the subject of debate. In the mid-60s, he was considered the English response to Dylan. Dylan rolled his eyes, naturally, and Donovan objected, citing that his Iris Folk roots were not the same as Dylan’s cowboy and carnival flavor of Woody Guthrie. By the later part of the decade, when he was paired with producer Mickey Most, who helped engineer hits for The Animals, Herman’s Hermits, and others, Donovan was coronated as the presumptive king of “Flower Power.” His Folk songs were given some burst of guitar. His birdlike voice was given some weight through studio effects. And all of it was wrapped in a package that was pretty, pretty weird and just electric enough. By the end of the decade, Donovan was the proud owner of a half dozen major hit singles. But, in part due to an international record label dispute over his rights and in part due to a creative restlessness, Donovan had yet to produce a great Long Player.

The 70s did little to resolve the artist’s context. He had become admired, if not beloved, by The Beatles and The Stones. American Folk Rock acts like Crosby, Stills and Nash and Jefferson Airplane considered Donovan canon. However, in breaking with Mickie Most, Donovan’s output became both more sporadic and more erratic. The musical corner that he stood on -- at the intersection of Flower and Power -- came to pass as a bit of a fad while Donovan was distracted with children’s music and a search for new collaborators. Within a few years, that corner was basically abdicated to Cat Stevens, who made a similar strain of Folk music, but made it less weird. Punk was, perhaps, the final nail. In its complete rejection of anything pretty, complex or idealistic, Donovan got swept out alongside Marc Bolan, Yes, and, pretty much anything English or approaching middle age.

The circumstances combined to leave Donovan without a fanbase, without a radio format, without an American record label and without a legacy. He was a relic of a Hippie moment that had not aged well. His 60s music was timely and enduring enough as to occasionally get played on Oldies stations or in programs that documented the era. However, by the mid 80s, Donovan was not considered a serious or important 60s artist. He was the answer to a trivia question. Between 1984 and 1996, Donovan released no new music.

While he was not making music, he continued to do something he had been doing for decades. He meditated. In the 90s, Transcendental Meditation experienced a revival in America as Global tropes were increasingly co-opted by a new “Alternative Culture” and as Hippies turned Yuppies started to get nostalgic in middle age. A good deal of this interest had the feel of “fast fashion” for the creative class. But it was generally earnest and admirable. In entertainment, two of the most visible advocates for T.M. were Leonard Cohen and David Lynch. But an equally famous, if not slightly younger and more bearded, Gen X-er was following in their footsteps. This acolyte was an important record producer. Noted initially for his work in Rap, in 1993 he produced a startlingly simple and loving album that helped the world pay attention to the voice of Johnny Cash once again. This producer and aspiring Zen Buddhist was, of course, Rick Rubin.

Following the success of Cash’s “American Recordings,” Rick Rubin considered which heritage artist warranted similar treatment and reconsideration. He did not need to look far. He suggested Donovan, a kindred spirit, to his friend, Tom Petty. Tom Petty put the two in touch. Donovan agreed to the royal, if sparse, treatment that Rubin promised. Released in the Fall of 1996 on Rubin’s American Recordings label, “Sutras” was Donovan’s first album in twelve years. Though largely forgotten by Boomers and almost entirely unknown by Gen-X, Donovan’s music was ripe for a reintroduction, if not a resuscitation. Rick Rubin seemed the perfect collaborator. All Donovan needed to do was to bring some songs. He brought over one hundred.

In many ways, it is not surprising that a vibrant creative, quiet during all of his forties, would have so much material on hand as he approached fifty. It is also unsurprising that “Sutras” is immaculately recorded. Rubin mixes the vocals so close and leaves them so unvarnished as to hear the singer swallow and lightly brush up against the mic. On “Sutras,” without much overdub or harmonies, you really hear Donovan sing. His voice is rangey. It is not powerful but it is deeply sensitive. His upper register is intact. With over a decade to heal, Donovan’s voice is ready and it is beautiful. More than a singer, Donovan was an able Folk guitarist, as well. He famously taught Lennon and McCartney finger-picking techniques that they used liberally on “The White Album.”  On “Sutras,” the guitar sounds just a tick behind the voice. But it is clear as a bell. You can hear every string that Donovan touches as he picks and clawhammers his way through material that ranges from ornate Folk to more spare and orchestral, almost classical music. A very respectful, small band decorates Donovan’s songs. There is some flute. Some cello. A little bass here. Some piano there. Rubin might allow the slightest hum of distortion if it seems tasteful. A great deal of thought and craft goes into making Donovan’s voice and guitar sound both naked and like the entire meal. Everything else is garnish.

The recording is a strength of “Sutras.” Sadly, the songs are the weakness. While Donovan may well have had more than one hundred songs to select from, it seems that either he chose the fourteen least compelling tracks or that his craft and sense as a writer had suffered while on hiatus. To be clear, there is nothing here that embarasses the artist. There is no cringing. There is no “turn this off” moment. But, in 1996, Donovan “unfiltered” sounds like a long, slow meditation on Irish Folk music through a lens that is somehow gothic and baroque. “Sutras” is an anachronism transported from a romantic, Hippie Folk idiom but it also functions as a score for middle-agers ready for their yoga cool down. “Sutras” is the soundtrack to Shavasana that you could have bought on CD in 1996 at Starbucks. 

There is so much sameness on “Sutras” that it can be hard to parse the winners from the losers. The songs that are Folk meditations and lack a chorus tend to get very sleepy very quickly. “Please Don’t Bend,” “Everlasting Sea,” “The Evernow” and “Universe Am I” all would qualify as patient, restrained, pretty and, ultimately, boring songs. The guitar playing is impressive. The honor that Rubin does to the singer’s voice evokes great love. But, unless you are meditating, there are only so many hook-less, beat-less songs about how we are all one, here and now, forever, in the sea, the sun, the stars, in love, in life and in death that one can sit with and enjoy. In a completely representative lyric, Donovan sings: 

This day as I stand before you all

I hear the Cosmos call

The Universe will shine

Shine ye spinning orbs of light

Shine ye crystal stars so bright

All ye harmonised by love

Set in motion, moved by love

Con-cen-tri-ca-lly cycled

Perfect pa-ra-bo-lic soul

In-de-scri-ba-bly beloved

Universal Heart She said

In the silver sadness of the moon

I read a prophet rune

The Universe will shine

“The Way” is an actual song — albeit a very short one — with drums, bass and strummed guitar. It’s a Zen allegory for children and a perfectly nice song, but it also has oversized benefit on a record that moves at a glacial pace. On “Eldorado,” Donovan takes an Edgar Allen Poe song and places it on top of an Irish Folk bed. The song sounds a good deal like the rest of the album, but works marginally better, in part, because the words are not the singer’s own cosmic mush. On “Deep Peace” and “Evernow,” Donovan lies down on the mat and sounds very comfortable as he asks us to look inside, connect to the moment, connect to the universe and settle into “corpse pose.” As a score to an hour long slow Hatha class, “Sutras” is at least an A-. As a validation of his early hit singles and his place in the 1960s canon, it fails peacefully.

It occurs to me that Donovan succeeded when his collaborators worked against his Folk grain. Mickey Most played with the singer’s delicate voice through echo, effect and mix. Donovan’s greatest songs had huge choruses. “Mellow Yellow” is ostensibly one big chorus. Electric guitars and distortion, played by Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck, were necessary foils to the birdlike singer and his celestial Folk music. Rick Rubin did the opposite. He gave us Donovan unvarnished and unchallenged. Rubin was drinking the same Chai tea “Koolaid” that Donovan lived on when the singer needed an espresso or a shot of something. Rubin excels at finding the essential truth in artists. It’s sincerely a Zen gift. But it turns out that the essential Johnny Cash and the essential Tom Petty are more compelling than Donovan. Though ultimately not a great album, “Sutras” was important in that it revealed who Donovan was at his artistic core and, in doing so, provided some objectivity into the historical framing of him as an artist. He was certainly a talented singer and Folk guitarist. He was also a derivative product of his time and his collaborators. He was an inspiration to others. But, on the whole, I’d place him as a more idealistic and psychedelic Cat Stevens. Though likely not as talented.

There. Settled.

by Matty Wishnow