Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu goes by the name “Gurrumul” — which is also the name of his recent debut CD. This is a name you are going to know. The first Australian Aboriginal singer to go mainstream, he did so by selling more downloads on iTunes in the first ten minutes on offer than Pink and Prince combined. One of his first solo shows was opening for Elton John, at Elton’s invitation, at a sold-out Sydney Opera House. All without promotion and maybe half a dozen radio playlistings. Heck, I want him to star in my next film.

Did I mention he was born blind, 39 years ago? In his English-language autobiographical song, he leads with this information: “I was born blind, don’t know why. God loves me so.”

You can see him on Sunday at Latitude Festival in Southwold, Suffolk and on July 21 at Queen Elizabeth Hall, London. These are rare appearances, as it’s unnatural for an Aboriginal to stray from his homeland for too long.

In his songs you’ll hear his story — sung in Yolngu dialects as well as a smattering of English. His story is the story of his land, his ancestors, his kinship lineage — which is as ornate as the “begats” in Genesis. His melodic voice is pure, soothing and as penetrating as birdsong. Like listening to classical arias well done, you won’t give a toss that you don’t understand the languages.

And if you get a chance to read the translations, you’ll be knocked out by the poetry and ululating names: “The country Galupa is disappearing, and my mind is crying . . . Stay there — in the mind of my aunty, in the mind of my brother. Oh, rock, put down its feet.”

You can read about this unlikeliest of superstars, an acoustic balladeer with gospel, reggae and roots influences and a double bass and strings back-up, but Gurrumul doesn’t give interviews. Ever. Aboriginal diva? Don’t worry. Gurrumul is immune by nature to exploitation and the tantrums that follow. Any answers that Gurrumul would have for the press are in his songs. He’s not interested in self-promotion — doesn’t even have a concept of it. For Gurrumul, he may be a solo artist but he’s never alone — his relations are silent participants in all his activities. And in the aboriginal cosmology, he’s related to just about everyone and everything.

“He knows who he is,” says his spokesman and adopted (white) brother Michael Hohnen. “He knows he has a skin name [affiliation], a place name; he knows he is ‘Saltwater Crocodile’ and ‘Fire’ and his surname is ‘Rock’. That’s a lot of knowing — he’s a confident and happy person.”

Hohnen is a well-known musician himself, in the classical world and as a member of the Aussie band the Killjoys. He takes seriously his responsibility of producing his friend Gurrumul’s recordings while protecting his integrity. Hohnen is always with him on stage, accompanying him on double bass. You feel it could be him who Gurrumul is referencing when he sings: “Hold my hand.”

Hohnen discovered him while researching aboriginal sounds on behalf of Charles Darwin University. “I realised that his is a voice that needs to be heard. He is the identified ‘singer’ in his kinship circle. The brief for me as a producer was not to translate his songs into English, but rather to share that feeling engendered by that sound of his. It transcends cultural definitions. Just don’t ask him to understand or care about chart positioning.”

For Gurrumul, the world is his walkabout right now. He’s charming, funny, unpretentious, dignified and so vocally pure that it’s trance-inducing. A multi-instrumentalist, he prefers an acoustic guitar, played upside down. He performs for up to 12,000 as trustingly and simply as at a family campfire. Threaded throughout is a nostalgic tone that is his particular gift. The longing and sadness in his voice give you an experience not unlike being Irish at a gorgeous rendition of Danny Boy. His performance carries not the slightest hint of coercion or entreaty.

José Feliciano, Maria Callas, Jimi Hendrix, Django Reinhardt, Leadbelly, Chet Baker, Enya, Odetta, Hildegarde, Edith Piaf: he shares something with all of them. He’s different. And generous with that difference, with a deceptive simplicity of presentation.

If original means unique, what is aboriginal? For Gurrumul, his starting point is in the Northern Territory of Australia, in northeast Arnhemland, in the Gumatj clan of Elcho Island, with their elaborate kinship configurations and origin stories transmitted verbally and in song, dance and ceremony for 5,000 years. And before that, 40,000 years ago, in the undulations of Wititj the rainbow python, in whose folds all life was born. Gurrumul’s sounds vibrate with the creator energy of the Dreamtime. At first he sounds like classical guitar, then folk, or gospel, or plainsong . . . See what I mean? A resonance containing worlds without hype.

The world can’t stop him. Why would it want to? He is the wind, is a flag torn from the masthead by the wind (as one of his haunting songs, Galiku, relates), and is moving, breezing effortlessly across the world. A “bridge person” — gliding, shredding, without moving a muscle. Gurrumul sits on stage quietly contained, singing seemingly simple songs in a pure tenor. But the energy builds.

www.gurrumul.com

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