To be Knighted by the Royal Court!

I don’t know if you are aware, dear reader, but I have been nominated to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year. This is an incredible honor: as one of the main innovators of popular music, it was only a matter of time before my name would be etched into that magical pyramid that sits ashore the Great Lake of Erie.

I must admit, I am a bit bemused as to why it has taken this long for my accomplishments to have been recognized in this way. Were they not aware that I contributed the line “Sky of blue, sea of green” to the song “Yellow Submarine”? This contribution turned what was originally a silly children’s song into a powerful and lasting statement on race relations in the United States.

Even more upsetting is the prior inductions of many artists who, at best, are undeserving of the honor, or at worst, are a force of evil in the world. Primarily I am thinking of the psychotic Brian Wilson, seen here attempting to play an invisible piano.

High praise has been bestowed on this Beach Boy, but it has been unwarranted. The early surf music of the band was merely feel-good ear-candy with no important messages or lyrics of whimsy. Brian Wilson had the ignorance to try and compete with the Beatles, but with the band under my guidance and tutelage this was a futile task for him. He claimed that he drew inspiration from the Fabulous Four, and that in turn his music was giving them the push they needed to take the boundaries of pop music to a new level.

But did he teach the Beatles how to fingerpick? Did he accompany us on our trip to India, where we meditated in bliss to the wise incantations that I had taught to the Maharishi? While we were drawing inspiration from the vibes of the Orient, Brian Wilson was hibernating in a bathtub and drinking all his meals through a straw. His mental breakdown delights me!

It also terrifies me, because many believe that it’s the failings of Brian Wilson’s delusional brain, these very breakdowns that give him his so called creative genius. For whatever reason, it is believed that mental failings are a source and sign of the greatest of artistic merit. I am not an adherent of such a belief; rather, the weakest of minds are unstable and dangerous, and though Brian Wilson has claimed recovery from his past, it must be noted that a relapse is inevitable. And then what evil may be wrought from his maniacal mind? He may be one mental breakdown away from creating a six hour orchestral pop album that will kill us all.

I’ve written many times to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame with my concerns, but my warnings have gone unheard. Perhaps they could not decipher the cryptograph included in my letter. Regardless, if I am inducted, I shall use the ceremony as a platform to warn of this looming danger. I also hope to perform my song “Hurdy Gurdy Man” with Jeff Beck, if he is available.

Until then, please allow me to thank the peasants of Cleveland with the honorable nomination they have bestowed upon me. Hail the Pharaoh of the Cuyahoga River!

Happy Birthday to the Sixties!

Hello dear reader. It is I, the innovative one, the enchanted one, Donovan! I have started this blog because I would like for you to join me in celebrating the events and accomplishments of the 1960s. Everyday of this current decade is the 50th birthday of a day in the 1960s, and this blog shall be the gift and song to each of those days, in addition to some links that will serve as the ice cream and cake.

I also hope to highlight and share with you my own contributions to the Sixties. Though I always obliged when asked of my role as a major force in 1960s culture, I was never one to put myself out in front of the scene. I just think that’s such a drag when someone does that! Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys was notorious for that. Unfortunately, this means that my contributions to the Sixties have become obscured and uncredited.

So first and foremost my readers, you should know that I, in fact, invented the Sixties. Sure, other artists and important figures played roles in shaping the events of the decade (with me typically as there source of inspiration), but the Sixties originated from me. The malaise and tedium of the 1950s had come to an end, and a new time had commenced, though I was one of the rare few to recognize this. Nobody knew what to call the new decade until I had the foresight to start calling it the Sixties. It wasn’t until 1963 when I said, “Hey, we’re really into the Sixties now, aren’t we? We’re well on our way,” that people began to recognize that this hip cat called Donovan was on to something. I suppose I could have said it earlier, but I recognized that people just weren’t ready to here that yet. Even by ‘63 it wasn’t totally the Sixties yet. It wasn’t until after the Summer of Love, which I also invented, in 1967 that I was able to fully confirm that it was indeed the Sixties. “Hey, we’re really into the Sixties now, aren’t we?” I had said. By 1969, it became clear that the Sixties were ending. That summer I suggested that we throw a big party on a farm outside Woodstock, NY, because I had sensed that this time was at its end. On January 1, 1970, I stopped calling the decade we were in the Sixties, and the rest of society followed suit. We knew then that the Sixties were over.

But the dreams live on! And I refuse to be held back from celebrating the decade that provided me with my only relevance. Granted, not everything that came from the 1960s, such as the unwise undertakings of Brian Wilson, was for the best, and certainly we will occasionally address those. But those aren’t the parts that I take credit for. So let’s let the legacy of the Sixties continue to shine on, with me, Donovan, and the beacon-holder. Hail Atlantis!

The Sunshine Superman... the Hurdy Gurdy Man... Mellow Yellow McGitchee... under any misnomer you may have heard, deep down I remain the enchanted one, Donovan! Join me as I celebrate the 50th anniversary of the 1960s, the decade that I singlehandedly created in a mystical cauldron of cultural inspiration.