My recent theory is that if the late soulman/scribe Donny Hathaway had been white he would be as (cult) famous as Cosmic American Gram Parsons; mentioned within the same breath as the prematurely departed mystic Nick Drake. Twenty years since Hathaway leapt to his death from the 15th floor of Manhattan's Essex House hotel, he's neither.

And yet, that Voice. That sweet mountain honey of a tenor caresses like a lullaby. A voice simultaneously neo-natal and ancient. Eternal even. To convey sunshine to the blind, just play his records.