Tehatchapi to Tonopah...
driven every kinda rig that's ever
been made
driven the back roads so I wouldn't get
weighed...
- Willin', by Lowell George
(Willin')
Linda Ronstadt included this truck
driving tune on her Heart Like a Wheel album in 1975, a song
performed originally by Little Feat. Driving my bus route a few weeks
ago, I was humming along to the words of this song, not wanting to
torture my passengers with the warbling horror that is my singing
voice. Suddenly I choked up and couldn't hum it any more.
The news had recently broken that my
favorite lady vocalist, the crooner of my youth, had been diagnosed
with Parkinson's disease. The muscles surrounding her vocal chords
have been irreversibly damaged, and she said one day she discovered
could not sing a note. Her velvety, multi-octave, supercharged
instrument is forever silenced. Her interview with Diane Sawyer was
fascinating. Linda displayed a matter-of-fact acceptance of her
forced retirement. Although her sadness was evident when she
discussed it, there was no whining. I admire her gritty attitude and
steely toughness.
I've been playing a lot of Linda's
music lately, from the country-rock albums of the 70s to her
collaborations of 1940s standards with Nelson Riddle. I've Got A
Crush On You, a Sinatra standard, is so seductive it sounds as if
she's crooning it directly to her listeners. For my birthday earlier
this month, my wife gave me Linda's autobiography, Simple Dreams.
It gives a no-frills look at her life without the Hollywood gossip
nonsense that pervades (perverts, maybe?) most of today's “tell
all” tomes of musical stardom. You can tell she is a person of high
class as she low-keys some of rock's most historic moments she was
part of: backup singer with James Taylor on Neil Young's Heart of
Gold; gracefully giving her blessing to the parting of two band
mates who left to form the Eagles; and countless stories behind some
of her greatest songs and the arrangements which made her renditions
of them so special.
(I've Got A Crush On You)
Perhaps it's an unhealthy to love the
music of one artist so completely, but her unique ability to send
shivers down my spine with a single musical note is a talent few
other musicians have. My justification for such unrequited love is
balanced by the fact I have an equal affinity for everything James
Taylor as well. But James still has his craft. Bonnie Raitt
retains her magic, and many other artists I am so very fond of
are still ticking along. However, none of them (sorry, Bonnie)
graced my teenage bedroom walls in poster form. Linda has been with
me since I was eight, when I first heard her sing Long Long Time
and Different Drum with the Stone Poneys, and I've never grown
tired of her. Some bands or artists never evolved, and some just
fizzled away. Linda constantly tested new waters, refusing to be
typecast into any one genre.
We have similar backgrounds in that I,
too, was raised in the Arizona desert with wonderful parents. My
father was also an incredibly gifted musician. Early on I learned how
powerful an instrument the human voice can be. Dad was an extremely
talented tenor soloist and classical guitarist. He twice sang the
tenor solos of Handel's Messiah at Eastern Arizona College in
the early 70s. Dad constantly practiced his vocal exercises; his
soaring tenor going up the scale and down again are forever etched
into my childhood memories. His main focus of interest were the rich
and haunting music of the Appalachian Mountains, railroad and hobo
songs, and Old English folk tunes such as Queen Jane and
Greensleeves.
Like Linda's brother Pete, who later
became Tucson's Chief of Police, I once sang boy soprano in a choir.
I learned early on the power of a properly-tuned, practiced voice.
While I never advanced my musical ability as adolescence warbled my
own instrument, I was keen as to what constitutes a powerful voice.
As a result, nowadays the only thing I can play is the radio or an
iPod.
While I loved the Beatles and other
rock bands of my youth, my vocal tastes also ranged from Nat King
Cole to Ella Fitzgerald, and instrumental geniuses from Louis
Armstrong to Andres Segovia and Herbie Mann. While other kids my age
found one particular type of music and stuck with it, I was enjoying
the craft of many different artists others may have labeled “sissy
music”. Disco disgusted me because it seemed plastic and trendy.
Country intrigued me for its storytelling quality and rugged
individualism. Rock fueled my already-excited libido, while the
velvety-smooth Karen Carpenter soothed teenage angst. Linda, with her
haunting and powerful vocals, her twists and turns in musical styles,
and modest personality, never failed to entrance me. That's not even
mentioning her natural beauty, inside and out.
Linda seemed destined to be a country
star when she burst onto the scene in the 70s. Yet throughout her
career she has explored so many different styles, each of her albums
broadened my cochlear horizons to genres I hadn't bothered to
explore. She could go from country to rock to Sinatra to Mexican to
Broadway to Cajun to folk with an ease I've never seen from another
artist. Her braving the critics' wrath to sing whatever interested
her always impressed me. And each time she experimented with a
different type of music, she nailed it. While my beloved wife
does not like Linda and cringes whenever I express my love for her
wonderful voice, she grudgingly accepts my one-sided, 45-year
long-distance love affair with her.
(Colorado)
Somehow, I do not own every one of
Linda's recordings. I've seen her in concert twice: once at the
Celebrity Theatre in Phoenix in 1976, and once in Tucson in the 80s.
The first show I remember this beautiful woman on a revolving stage,
belting out Lose Again to an ecstatic crowd and giggling shyly
afterward as the crowd erupted in ear-shattering applause. Her “thank
you” sounded like it came from a little girl, not the icon she was
in the process of becoming. In 1975, I first heard the album Don't
Cry Now, a largely country-oriented group of songs. I was
instantly mesmerized, and eager to hear more. Her soulful rendition
of Colorado, written by her longtime pal John David Souther,
is simply amazing. Next came Prisoner in Disguise, which
included my favorite tune of that era, Silver Blue, another of
JD Souther's creations. Her release of Hasten Down the Wind
brought us an even more refined and powerful bluesy rock tempered
with her searing rendition of Willie Nelson's Crazy and
Karla Bonoff's haunting Someone to Lay Down Beside Me. Also found on this album is a song she wrote herself in Spanish, Lo Siento Mi Vida.
Try as I might to sing along, her effortless transition from low to
high notes was impossible to imitate. In addition to Simple
Dreams, where she treated us to Blue Bayou and Ooh Baby
Baby, she included a Warren Zevon tune, Carmelita, which
aptly explores the darker shade of night. Each of her releases
surprised and transfixed me. I could write an article on each album,
but these four probably catapulted her from undeserved near obscurity
to superstar status. In each new release, you could hear the
improvement in her voice. It has always been obvious that she is a
perfectionist, always striving to find exciting canyons for her voice
to soar.
(Lose Again)
I was afforded a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity to meet Count Basie when he brought his orchestra to play
at the community college I attended. As editor of the student
newspaper, I assigned myself the honor of interviewing this musical
icon. However, given my love for music and true understanding of this
man's historical importance in American history, I should have given
the assignment to another reporter. I was mesmerized, entranced, and
too excited to be effective. I had listened to his recordings and
those of his peers from my earliest years. As he exited stage left
after the concert, the Count was met by two beautiful women. They
simultaneously kissed him on either cheek. One placed a fresh cigar
in his mouth and the other lit it as they escorted him backstage
where I was waiting to meet him. He warmly shook my hand and put his
arm around my shoulders as we walked to his dressing room where he
graciously offered me 15 minutes of his time. I was in awe of this
man for his historic contribution to jazz. This made for an awkward
interview. I was simply too starstruck to ask a question. This
tickled his funny bone and he smiled. “We're both just people, you
and me,” he said quietly, trying to soothe my nerves. “So
relax... ask whatever you want.” His generosity helped, but it was
easily the worst interview I ever conducted. Here we were, in the
middle of Podunk, USA at a tiny community college miles from nowhere,
and all I could think of to ask was “So how do you like our
campus?” Good grief! A musical icon at the level of Duke Ellington
and Satchmo, yet that was all I could think of to ask! The
rest of my questions were equally horrible, and as I sat at the
typewriter the next day, I panicked at the lack of a substantial
quote in my notebook. Most of what I had written the night before was
illegible. The results of that wonderful opportunity were weak at
best, and I was treated to a well-deserved smack on the head with a
rolled-up newspaper by my journalism professor.
So given this bit of personal history,
I've often wondered how I would react if I had the chance to meet
Linda. I would like to think I've learned from the Basie incident.
Fantasies of being stoic and not drooling on her, enjoying
fascinating conversation, and having witty and intelligent things to
say are what I would hope for. People who have met Linda, including
my daughter as a child, remember her being loving, sweet and fun to
be around. Of course, meeting her is far from a realistic
possibility. The closest I've come is through my daughter's
recollections and the wonderful gift from my mother-in-law of an
autographed CD of Linda's last solo recording, Hummin' to Myself.
Linda's voice cannot be silenced,
thanks to her many recordings. My clumsy choice of adjectives cannot
begin to do justice to her contributions to my musical memory.
History will rightfully list her as the first Queen of Rock and an
enduring legend. In my heart, just below my wife (who will always
reign supreme where love is concerned), Linda is challenges my father
as my favorite vocalist. My father's hearing is so poor now, he
cannot hear the music well enough to play or sing. Linda's voice is
silenced by a devastating disease. The loss of these wonderful voices
saddens me, but I have recordings of them both. Dad would understand
if she sometimes edges ahead of him, because he's the one who
introduced me to the wonders of the vocal instrument. Thank you Dad,
and thank you Linda, for you both have given me gifts I can enjoy
several lifetimes over.
Vaya con dios.
I loved this post, and was surprised to see no other comments! Your dad was a great singer. Linda too.
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