JUSTICE FOR LINDA RONSTADT!

The 27th annual induction ceremony of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame held on Saturday. Seventeen entities–individual performers, bands and behind-the-scenes influences–were inducted, raising the total number of inductees to near 300 (I’m a little tentative about my ability to perform addition the Rock and roll way) and the the total number of human beings to over 700.

None of them is named Linda Ronstadt.

Surprised? I sure was. I just assumed that at some point along the line, the best, most accomplished, most amazing interpreter of rock’s greatest composers would have received recognition from the Hall. It just stands to reason; other worthies whose gifts simply do not measure up are there. Bonnie Raitt, say? Jackson Browne? Tom Waits? Their talents are amazing, but Ronstadt’s vocal range and interpretive aptitude are beyond compare. And given that this is a Hall of Fame, after all, it seems that an organization that finds room for anonymous record producers and unnamed Crickets and Miracles just might find space for someone who has amassed 11 Grammy Awards and a score of magazine covers and stacks of gold and platinum records. But bringing up these distinctions seems crass, and vain, as though they might merit her induction when all that it really would take, should take, is to hear her recordings. Linda Ronstadt could–can–just flat out sing: an impeccable performer, a peerless interpreter, with amazing taste. If all she had recorded was her early hit Long, Long Time, and she would be remembered for having sung one of the four or five
best torch songs ever, but she of course has given us so much more. She helped define country rock (and did Silver Threads and Golden Needles ever rock!), establish California rock (Desperado), interpret Motown with great versions of Tracks of My Tears and Heat Wave, reintroduce audiences to Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Doris Troy, The Everly Brothers and The Exciters, showcase songwriters like Warren Zevon (Carmelita, Poor Poor Pitiful Me) J.D. Souther (Prisoner in Disguise), Lowell George (Willin’), Randy Newman (Sail Away), Neil Young (Birds) and The McGarrigle Sisters (Heart Like a Wheel).

It’s true that the Hall of Fame has a bias in favor of artists who wrote their own material, or who at least recorded the best known versions of the material they picked (it’s also true that rock in general has a bias against women.) Taking ownership of material wasn’t really Ronstadt’s game. She has not written a great deal, and it’s not like her version of say, Tracks of My Tears makes you forget that Smokey Robinson and the Miracles made a hit version of it (although her late ballads, the great Cry Like a Windstorm and her duet with Aaron Neville Don’t Know Much will never be identified with anyone else.) But it’s wrong to diminish Ronstadt for this; instead, she should be appreciated for being an incredible curator, a peerless interpreter. If singing perfect songs is an impediment to induction in the Hall of Fame, then indeed, she is guilty.

At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ronstadt will kiss off the Hall of Fame when it finally gets around to come calling (hey, she might already have.) What does she need them for? And really, at this point, her absence says more about the Hall’s blockheadedness than any shortcoming on her part. And if she has a need to review the history of rock, she can listen to her records, where she’ll find British Invasion groups, Motown, Stax, the Brill Building, the Club Troubador, Nashville, the New Wave. She is the Hall of Fame.