Every year about this time, when the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame announces its nominees, Im always poised and posed on the precipice of disappointment, because I understand that life is unfair.
How else can a person explain the loss of a parent or a spouse or a sibling or a child?
Thats the fallback position. Life just sucks.
But you move on, lugging the crappy baggage, wishing things werent bleak but understanding that theres nothing you can do about it.
People plan; God laughs. Isnt that the line?
So when Linda Ronstadts name finally, finally, finally appeared in this years list of finalists, I resisted the urge to celebrate, because I know, I know, I know that shes not going to get in. Why? Because I want her to make it.
Yep. Thats how self-centered I am.
When Notre Dame loses, its because Im a graduate.
When I voted for George McGovern, he got humiliated because I cared and worked for his election,
When John Lennon got gunned down, it was because I loved the Beatles.
And thats just wrong. No one cares that anything means anything to me. Or you. Lifes a drag and then, well, you die.
This isnt to say its all hopeless because without hope, whered we be? Exactly. Wed be in the Tea Party.
Besides, who actually gives a spit about whether or not LL Cool J or the Paul Butterfield Blues Band makes it?
Nobody.
The Rock Hall, located in Cleveland, is a place that most people I know back home have never ever visited. Thats so sad. But that, too, is life. I also know folks who live near Mount Rushmore whove never seen it.
Linda Ronstadt is one of only three of the nominated artists Ive actually seen in concert, the other two being Yes and the Replacements, neither of which has a shot at being elected.
Yes is an interesting band, if youre, um, baked. I spent a nice afternoon once talking with their drummer, Alan White, and he was a kind and quiet man who, when he wasnt pounding the pagan skins on worldwide tours, would have been happy tending to his grounds in some rural English place.
A river, he told me, well, actually more like a stream, runs right through my home. Its quite lovely.
And what can I say about the Mats that hasnt been immortalized by writers far more gifted than I? Paul Westerberg is a sloppy genius, one whos smart and cool and standoffish and funny: a lot like his idol, Alex Chilton.
My wife and I saw the Replacements back in the late Nineties and the place was one of those art Deco palaces, kind of like the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago. Maybe 200 fans were there and Westerberg, wearing crimson bell-bottoms and sipping something, said, Hey, guys ... come on down here, get close to the stage.
Never had seen that before. So I can relate to Yes and the Mats and will be hoping they get in.
But its Linda that I care about. Its a shame that shes not in already.
You know how the argument against her goes. Well, she didnt ever actually write a word of any song that she sang.
To which I reply, Elvis Presley.
That usually shuts the door.
Not that Lindas like the King or anything, but shes always been able to transcend and interpret, to elevate and, well, make a listener believe in almost anything. Including love. And thats what its all about.
When I was a freshman at ND, I didnt know diddley-squat. Seriously, leaving home behind scared me to death. I had no idea how to study, how to make friends, how to get a date, how to deal with anything more complicated than a turntable, a receiver and couple of speakers.
But that was my saving grace.
I knew music. Not all of it, but enough.
The first few weeks of that initial semester in South Bend nearly derailed me because of my innocence and my ignorance and my naiveté. I assumed that everyone else was just as lonely as I was but that was a mistake. In those early days, I mistook fraternity for friendship; I mean, its never easy to admit youre all alone when everyone else seems to be getting along.
But music helped me make little inroads. Which brings us back to Linda Ronstadt.
In the fall of 73, the campus was all buzzed, if youll pardon my intentional pun, about the fact that half of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young was coming to the ACC, our basketball/hockey arena. This was big stuff, having Crosby and Nash playing. But when I saw that Linda Ronstadt was opening for them, I knew most folks were missing the obvious.
Six rows back. Center stage. The place was smoky with that sticky sweet aroma that Id never experienced and there she was, wearing cutoff blue jeans and a yellow blouse tied just above her navel. She was shy and gorgeous and oh so rocking.
Her LPs line my stereo room shelves to this night.
I put her on the short list of influential Women of Rock that includes Dusty Springfield and Aretha Franklin, Patti Smith and Grace Slick, Janis Joplin and Diana Ross, Carole King and Joan Jett.
That night, Linda Ronstadt – right as her career was about to explode – said something Ive never forgotten. I know youre waiting for someone else, she said, but I wanted to thank you for being here with me.
See, rock isnt always kind. Corpses litter the stairway to heaven. Gold records are often sold on eBay. We pitch our vinyl and scrap our turntables. Which is the way its always been.
But a talent like Lindas happens once a generation.
Our generation.
My advice? Dont count on her getting into the Rock Hall. Its just life and its never going to work out the way you want.
To cheer you up, throw on one of Lindas LPs--maybe Heart Like a Wheel--and just let that voice, that gift from above, take you away.
Shes that good.
