At 78, Linda Ronstadt Names The Seven Musicians She Hated

Linda Ronstadt possessed one of the most transcendent voices of the 20th century. It was a flawless instrument, capable of soaring over rock anthems, whispering through tender ballads, and navigating the intricate melodies of any genre she chose to conquer. To the public, she was a symbol of effortless talent and sun-drenched Southern California cool. But beneath the serene surface and impeccable artistry, a quiet fortitude was being forged in the fires of disrespect, betrayal, and towering male egos. For years, Ronstadt moved through the music industry with a grace that belied the private battles she fought, maintaining a silent list of grievances against peers who had wronged her. Now, the stories behind these long-held grudges are coming to light, painting a vivid picture of a woman who demanded respect in a world that wasn’t always willing to give it.

This wasn’t about petty squabbles. It was a fight for artistic soul. Ronstadt was a perfectionist, an interpreter of song who saw her role as a sacred trust. She didn’t just sing notes; she inhabited lyrics. This dedication often put her at odds with the casual arrogance and chaotic energy that defined much of the male-dominated rock scene of her era.

One of the earliest and most painful rifts was with Don Henley. Before the Eagles became a global behemoth, Henley was Ronstadt’s drummer and backup singer. She gave him a platform and a steady paycheck. But as the Eagles’ fame skyrocketed, Ronstadt witnessed a profound change. The collaborative spirit vanished, replaced by what she perceived as arrogance. The ultimate insult came when Henley and his bandmates, who had once been her backing musicians, began treating her not as a peer, but as a lesser artist. Their dismissive attitude was a deep cut, a betrayal of the trust and camaraderie she thought they shared. She had nurtured their early careers, only to be cast aside when their star ascended. She never forgave the disrespect.

A far more public and humiliating encounter came at the hands of The Doors’ enigmatic frontman, Jim Morrison. Known for his wild and unpredictable behavior, Morrison once cornered Ronstadt backstage, forcibly kissing her in front of a room full of people. The violation was shocking enough, but he twisted the knife later. During a performance, he publicly mocked her from the stage, turning her humiliation into a spectacle for his own amusement. For Ronstadt, who carried herself with immense professionalism, Morrison’s predatory behavior and subsequent mockery were unforgivable. It was a stark reminder of the toxic masculinity that permeated the rock world, where female artists were often seen as props rather than peers.

The clash with Neil Young was less about personal violation and more about artistic dismissal. Both were activists and titans of the Laurel Canyon scene, but Young publicly questioned her authenticity. He belittled her artistic contributions, suggesting her work was somehow less genuine or meaningful than his own. In an era where “authenticity” was the ultimate currency, Young’s comments were a direct shot at her artistic integrity. For a musician as dedicated and serious as Ronstadt, being painted as a superficial pop act by a respected contemporary was an insult she would quietly carry for years.

Then there was the avant-garde provocateur, Frank Zappa. Ronstadt, ever adventurous, found herself in a studio with him, only to be subjected to a torrent of condescension. Zappa, a musical purist with little patience for mainstream success, openly humiliated her. He dismissed her as a mere “pop singer,” someone who would “water down” what he considered to be “real music.” He treated her not as a collaborator, but as an inferior artist unworthy of sharing his creative space. The encounter left a scar, reinforcing the snobbery that often existed between the experimental fringes and the chart-topping mainstream. Ronstadt’s crime, in Zappa’s eyes, was her success and her ability to connect with a mass audience.

Even within the tight-knit Laurel Canyon community, betrayal festered. David Crosby, a musician she considered a close acquaintance, turned on her publicly. He gave interviews where he disparaged her artistry, calling her music “manufactured.” The criticism came from a place that should have been safe—a community of artists who were supposed to support one another. Crosby’s public critique felt like a stab in the back, a betrayal from within her own circle. It was one thing to be insulted by an outsider, but another entirely to be denigrated by someone she considered part of her musical family.

The new wave era brought a different kind of antagonist in Elvis Costello. A punk rock firebrand known for his acidic wit, Costello took public aim at Ronstadt’s music, contemptuously calling it “background music for brunch.” The insult was designed to sting, framing her meticulously crafted work as bland, safe, and bourgeois. It was a classic punk rock attack on the perceived excesses of the mainstream, but for Ronstadt, it was a gross mischaracterization of her life’s work. She had dedicated herself to honoring the craft of songwriting, and to have it dismissed so flippantly was a profound offense.

Perhaps the most challenging professional relationship was her attempted collaboration with the legendary songwriter Paul Simon. What began with mutual respect devolved into what she described as a “slow-burning nightmare.” Simon, a notorious perfectionist, was controlling and domineering in the studio. He stifled her interpretive instincts, trying to mold her voice to fit his exact, unyielding vision. The creative process became a battle of wills, and for an artist like Ronstadt, whose gift was her unique ability to interpret a song, Simon’s suffocating control was artistically crushing. The collaboration fell apart, leaving behind a residue of frustration and resentment.

Through all these encounters, Linda Ronstadt never lost her dignity. She rarely, if ever, engaged in public feuds. Her revenge was her work. She responded to the insults and betrayals by continuing to create music at the highest level, exploring new genres and refusing to be defined by anyone but herself. Her silent grudges were not born of malice, but of a deep-seated respect for her craft and for herself. They were the private boundaries she drew in a world that constantly tried to overrun them. Her story is a powerful testament to resilience, a quiet masterclass in how to maintain one’s integrity in the face of disrespect. The voice, in the end, was always the only answer she ever needed.