Sandy Denny Home Recordings

 

 

Sandy Denny

Early Home Recordings

First Vinyl, 2024

 

Every now and then something special comes my way. Readers may know that my favorite female vocalist of all time is Sandy Denny. I recently got my hands on a double CD of Sandy’s Home Recordings that I did not know existed. It comes with a hardcover storybook-sized booklet with essays by Patrick Humphries and Pat Thomas. The latter produced a project of 27 tracks. Many of them are versions of songs she later made famous. If you wonder how a superfan such as I did not know about these, it’s because Denny was never as famous in the States as she was in Britain, an injustice I explain as brain rot for listening to Top 40 radio.

 

I won’t say that Denny’s earliest works were masterpieces. You get it exactly what is promised, things that Sandy recorded at home before she made her mark in the folk world. She was born in 1947 and, like millions of teenagers, was  enamored of Bob Dylan. Humphries quotes Denny as saying “…he was the closest I’ve ever come to worshiping anyone.” It’s hardly surprising that we find  a cover of “It Ain’t Me Babe” among  Denny’s home recordings. Nonetheless, what drew her in to a musical career (rather than one in nursing) was the British folk revival. In the mid-60s Dylan vied with folk songs, many of uncertain origin. Sandy tried her hand on such time-tested gems as “Geordie,” “Let No Man Steal Your Thyme,” and “East Virginia.” At the very end of the disc however, Denny set up her tape recorder and recorded what would become her signature song, “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?”

 

It was her entrée into a career that began in folk clubs and gigs with various bands. She would soon be poached by The Strawbs, and it didn’t take long for the word to get out. She began to write more of her own material as well as covering traditional songs. The Strawbs repertoire became too inconsistent for Denny. She felt increasingly confident about her compositions but not yet about herself. In her words,” I always write [a] song… and make it into something which everyone can actually identify with… I did try to be a bit more down-to-earth about things, but I do find it … difficult because I’m a bit shy of people knowing me.” That would change in a big way. Several of the songs on Disc Two became beloved concert selections. This includes “She Moves Through the Fair,” “Carnival,” “Fotheringay,” “They Don’t Seem to Know You,” and of course, “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?”

 

It's remarkable to hear how much different her 1968 version of “Who Knows” is from the one from the year before. Her first recording effort seems rushed, as if she’s trying to get the words out before she withered. As she gained confidence, she slowed her treatment and it began to approach what the song finally became. In 1968, Sandy went to a tryout for a band that became a legend: Fairport Convention. She was only with Fairport for about 18 months, but she made three amazing records with them, including 1969’s Liege and Leaf. Alongside teen guitar phenomenon Richard Thompson (!), Fairport was among the bands credited with pushing folk-rock to new levels. 

 

The Thomas essay takes us beyond the timeframe of the two discs. In summary, Sandy formed her own short-lived band, Fotheringay with her musician husband Trevor Lucas, birthed a daughter, briefly rejoined Fairport Convention, and tried a solo career that included an attempt to break into the North American market. Neither of the latter two worked out as well as she had hoped. By 1976, Denny was spiraling out of control. Her marriage fell apart, her behavior was erratic, and she abused alcohol and drugs. When visiting her parents Denny fell and hit her head on concrete. Denny complained of headaches, but passed away on April 21, 1978. She was just 31.

 

Most Americans don’t know of Sandy Denny, though almost every music fan has heard her voice. She is the only guest vocalist Led Zeppelin ever used. She sang a duet with Robert Plant on Zep’s IV album. Listen to “The Battle of Evermore,” then by all means purchase Fairport’s Liege and Leaf. You’ll thank me.

 

Rob Weir

 

Note: Rather than provide links to various songs as I usually do, I thought it would be fitting to offer three versions of “Who Knows Where The Time Goes?” They are in order, the 1967 Who Knows....., 1968 Who Knows, and definitive 1969 version from Fairport Convention.

Class, Gender, and Race in the Roaring Twenties at the Rockwell Museum

John Held Jr. "They Went to the Silver Slipper"

JAZZ AGE ILLUSTRATIONS

NORMAN ROCKWELL MUSEUM

STOCKBRIDGE, MA

THROUGH APRIL 5, 2026

 

The “Jazz Age” is synonymous with the “Roaring Twenties.” In the popular mind it was a time of cultural rebellion: short skirts, baggy trousers, raccoon coats, bathtub gin, sexual exploration, votes for women, exuberant dancing, and wild parties. Coming on the heels of World War I, the Jazz Age is often viewed as the death of Victorianism. It even had its own soundtrack: hot jazz.

 

Like many historical labels, the Jazz Age is an oversimplification. Was Victorianism dead? It depends on where you lived. Rural Americans and older ones saw the Jazz Age as a time of immorality, promiscuity, bad music, obscene dancing, and law-breaking. Alcohol had been banned under the18th Amendment (1919), but bootleg and homemade liquor was rampant and enforcement was lax. Some rural Americans embraced the assault on Victorian mores, but on a whole it was rural America that pushed for Prohibition, cheered the persecution of Tennessee teacher John Scopes (1925) for teaching blasphemous theories of human evolution. Unlike today in which just 20 percent of Americans live in rural areas, during the height of the Jazz Age (1920s/30s) 56 percent of Americans lived in places with fewer than 2,500 people. Black Americans invented jazz, but eight of ten African Americans lived the Jim Crow South. Even those living in the urbanized North faced discrimination. Moreover, White Women were only partially liberated. A flapper who got “caught” (pregnant) in the Jazz Age faced shame and a legal system inclined to judge her as immoral rather than demand that fathers support their offspring.

 All of this is to say that Jazz Age flapperdom was largely a Northern, urban phenomenon whose existence was invented, named, and exaggerated by a small number of elites, newspapers, magazines, and advertisers. In over 100 images, Jazz Age Illustrations at the Norman Rockwell Museum explores the period from 1912-42 in all of its excitement, ballyhoo, and excess.

 

Held, "Vacation Time in the Berkshires"

 

Held, "Tattooed Man Goes Collegiate"

 

Gibson, "Have You a Book Innocent Enough for Grandpa and Grandma to Read?" 

 

Among the Jazz Age illustrators, two names often come to the fore: John Held Jr. and Charles Dana Gibson. Held was prolific and, if anything, he is under-represented in the Rockwell exhibition. Gibson made his name a bit earlier. If you’ve heard the phrase “Gibson girl,” he’s the illustrator who depicted working women in high-collared shirtwaists and elegant long flowing skirts. Before the Jazz Age launched, a number of young women entered the workforce. Gibson emphasized their independence and wholesome beauty. His was a subtle form of propaganda as his women were generally of the upper class and actual shop girls worked long hours for little pay. Nonetheless, he wasn’t wrong to notice that it took a degree of wealth to live a bohemian life. Dana is a bit more fun in that he often drew eccentric images–especially of collegiate life– and had an eye for satire.  

 

 

Preston, Miss America pageant 1921, dressing room 

 

Preston, "Without Thinking, Without Caring, He Walked Two Steps Out on the Floor" 

Patterson, "Ballyhoo"

Hosiery Ad

Duer, "Danger Calling"

 

Leyendecker
 

 

Several other illustrators focused on social class, including May Wilson Watkins Preston and Douglas Duer. The latter captured the very essence of a vamp, slinky and salacious in an open-necked green dress that accentuated her bosom. Jazz Age advertisers knew that sex sells. Russell Patterson did a soap add with an obviously naked woman demurely tucked behind an umbrella. Phillips Hosiery advertised its “hole proof” nylons, though most eyes were likely on the thin model in her sheer petticoat looking down at her long legs. Patterson combined suggestive nudity and hosiery for the cover of Ballyhoo of a strike by cabaret women. Joseph Leyendecker illustrated for menswear clothier Kuppenheimer, though ironically, some of his well-clad men blur the line between fashion and conman.    

Jackson

Harlem: Even it was segregated! 

 

African Americans also jumped onto the Jazz Age ballyhoo train.  Jay Jackson at least dressed singer Etta Moten (Porgy and Bess)  in a thin top, though her sexuality is spotlighted more than her considerable acting and singing chops. A map of Harlem nightclub venues makes it seem exciting, though it should be noted that one of them is the famed Cotton Club in which the only Blacks in evidence were the musicians. Only White patrons were admitted to Cotton Club shows.  

 

Lois Jones

I suspect Loïs Mailou Jones was making a backdoor critique when she drew “A Lawyer” as an arrogant-looking child.

 Don’t misinterpret this review as a complaint that I didn’t care for the exhibit. Quite the opposite, though I do mean the suggest that there are different ways of seeing art. The Roaring Twenties are so… well.. ballyhooed that it doesn’t need more from me. But we do learn new things when we change the lenses through which it is viewed.

 

 

Rob Weir

 

Winter Blahs and Musings

When I lived in northern Vermont, winter shocked and amused me. Who knew that antifreeze could freeze? Somehow, in my late-20s and early 30s it seemed romantic when chimney smoke made a right hand bend because it couldn’t cut through the layer of cold air hovering 50 feet above the chimney. I recall cross country skiing and being surprised that I could be sweating in -10 Fahrenheit.

 

I moved to Western Massachusetts before I turned 40 and it felt like Miami. My best friend Dominique and I  used to sit outside of our favorite cafes in winter back then. Our personal best was slurping java and slinging BS when it was + 17 degrees. Now I wonder, at what age do we begin to feel the pain of cold weather. I see young ‘uns  pop into Woodstar Café in shorts or tiny skirts when it’s in the 20s and think, “Are they nuts?” From the comfort of a warm seat inside, of course, where BS is still slung.

 

Winter and I are no longer friends, but I can’t remember when that happened. I’ve become bear-like it my desire to hibernate. When my alarm rings to alert me I am joining friends for coffee at 8:30, I roll over and think, “It can’t possibly be 6:45 already.”  Then I begin to contemplate how cold and dark it is outside, and how much I love my pillow.

 

Winter is good for musing; I’ll give it that. I’ll bet you wonder what I think about on cold day. Maybe you don’t, but I’ll to tell you anyhow. Here’s a sampling from the past week. Such heavy thoughts often inspire a nap.

 

·      How is it that squirrels disappear from my lawn for days when it snows, but show up minutes after I refill the bird feeders?

 

·      How can the worst coffee in the world call itself Seattle’s Best?

 

·      Shouldn’t there be a law against calling something the best, greatest, finest, boldest, or improved? I’ve never once been asked to weigh in on such momentous assertions. Have you? 

 

·      I don’t know why the USA is so resident to switching to the  metric system. Is there an American alive that can’t tell the difference between a one liter and a two liter bottle of Coke? Besides, I much rather say I’m 160.02 cm tall than 63 inches.

 

·      Before Trump decides to take over Greenland, the Orange Tub should consider that Ozempic is made in Denmark.

 

·      I have four guitars and a ukulele. When I shuffle off this mortal coil I’m sure some wag will conclude I collected strings and straps.

 

·      Speaking of mortality, isn’t it bad enough that we have think about it as we get older? Must we put up with other stuff related to aging—like dry skin, rashes, wonky knees, and losing height? Plus, we develop personal quirks.  Mine is that the neural pathways connecting my hands and my brain apparently have been severed. If I pick up something and put it down, I’ve no idea where I deposited it and only the vaguest memory of having handling said object. I recently “lost” my favorite coffee thermos. I located it in the garage where I must have set it down to do something else.

 

·      Oh yeah, there’s memory. I have an idea for a TV show. Ask yourself, “What is the point of a TV show?” If you guessed anything as naïve as quality entertainment, you’re not even in the ballpark. It’s selling commercials, of course.  A show called Senior Jeopardy would rake in profits. You take three oldsters and ask a question. Cut to the Jeopardy thinking music and then to three minutes of commercials. Then, return to the contestants to reveal their answers. First one to three wins. They might have to extend the broadcast to an hour for that to happen, but experience tells me that Americans will happily sit through the same brain cell-slaying commercials forever as longs as they don’t need to get up from the sofa. 

 

 

 

·      My only useful musing involved Mark Carney. Who’s he? The Prime Minister of Canada. He spoke to the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, last week. So did Trump, who gave an embarrassing speech about taking Greenland, crypto currency, and military might. I doubt he understood what Carney said. Here’s the speech: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=mark+carney Gee, I wonder it’s like to be led by someone smart?

 

 

Rob Weir