Sandy Denny: Who Knows Where The Time Goes (Island)

WHEN SHE DIED I was still preoccupied with the politics of holey jeans and why the Ramones were the perfect emblem of the beast Modern Times. My older chums, whose acne was three years closer to absolution than mine, suddenly got all reverent about the memory of this old hippy: I would catch them sneakily dusting off their ancient, dog-eared Fairport Convention records and ignoring my protestations with absent eyes. "Gnngh blrreagh," I would gasp, with all the incredulous sincerity of a part-time punk, "this is folk-rock."