Linda Ronstadt spent decades as one of the most influential and versatile voices in American music. Her career shattered genre boundaries, selling millions of records and inspiring generations of artists. But behind the platinum albums and sold-out tours, Ronstadt’s journey was marked by private pain, professional betrayals, and a steely resilience that kept her silent about some of the industry’s darkest moments—until now.

At 78, Ronstadt has finally broken her silence, naming seven musicians she never forgave and revealing the raw, often painful reasons why. The revelations are as surprising as they are heartbreaking, painting a picture of an artist who gave everything to her craft and often received little but criticism, condescension, and exclusion in return.

The story begins in 1982, a peak moment for Ronstadt. Fresh off the success of “Mad Love” and “What’s New,” she was at the top of her game, moving effortlessly from rock to pop to jazz standards. Paul Simon, meanwhile, was constructing the intensely personal album “Hearts and Bones,” following the end of his marriage to Carrie Fisher. When Simon invited Ronstadt to collaborate on a duet, it seemed like a match made in musical heaven—two legends, both at the height of their powers, coming together in the studio.

But what should have been a creative triumph quickly soured. Simon’s notorious perfectionism took over, directing Ronstadt in excruciating detail, correcting her phrasing and timing by milliseconds, and even altering lyrics on the fly without her input. What stung wasn’t just the criticism—it was the lack of respect. According to those present, Simon went so far as to suggest that Ronstadt should “leave the interpretation to the songwriter.” The final blow came after a particularly vulnerable take, when Simon dismissed her performance as “too much sugar” and told her to “try to sound like you actually mean it.” Ronstadt didn’t argue. She simply thanked the engineer and walked out, leaving behind what could have been an iconic collaboration. The track was shelved, and neither artist ever spoke publicly about the incident. For Ronstadt, it was less about the words and more about being made to feel unwelcome in a creative space she had earned. From that day on, she quietly vowed never to work with anyone who didn’t see her as an equal.

Not all wounds came in the studio. In 1979, Ronstadt was headlining a major music festival in Cleveland, riding high on the back of her platinum albums “Simple Dreams” and “Living in the USA.” Backstage, the mood soured thanks to a young, sharp-tongued British singer named Elvis Costello. Known for his punk snarl and acerbic interviews, Costello dismissed Ronstadt’s performance as “background music for brunch” in front of a group of journalists. The comment, designed to sting, spread like wildfire. When Ronstadt calmly confronted him, Costello didn’t back down—instead, he doubled down, telling her, “If you can’t handle honesty, don’t perform.” Ronstadt never responded publicly, but the slight lingered. It was more than a personal insult; it was emblematic of a broader pattern in the late ‘70s punk and new wave scenes, where women in mainstream pop and rock were often dismissed as inauthentic. Ronstadt quietly distanced herself from Costello and his circle, declining events and interviews that might put them in the same room. Decades later, Costello would express regret for some of his youthful barbs, but he never apologized directly. For Ronstadt, the silence between them spoke volumes.

The betrayals weren’t limited to rivals or outsiders. Some of the deepest wounds came from those Ronstadt once considered friends and peers. In the 1970s, Laurel Canyon was a bohemian paradise, a creative haven for musicians like Ronstadt and David Crosby. They shared stages, harmonies, and late-night sessions that felt like family. But in 1978, that bond shattered. During a group recording session, Ronstadt requested a key change to better suit her voice—a simple, professional ask. Crosby refused, telling her to “learn to adapt.” The exchange escalated, and days later, Crosby publicly called Ronstadt “manufactured” in a Rolling Stone interview, implying her success was the product of studio polish rather than talent. The comments were devastating, coming from someone who knew how hard she fought for every creative decision. Ronstadt responded not with words, but with distance—removing Crosby from her world, banning his name from her studio, and erasing his music from her setlists. Privately, she described him as a cautionary tale, proof that even the most gifted could be corroded by ego and excess.

Frank Zappa’s genius was legendary, but so was his cruelty. In 1974, Ronstadt entered Zappa’s studio, eager to explore new creative ground. Instead, she found herself micromanaged and mocked. When she offered a suggestion about her vocal delivery, Zappa laughed her off in front of the entire room, quipping, “This is what happens when you hand real music to a pop singer.” Ronstadt didn’t argue or cry; she simply left, and the session was abandoned. Zappa would later joke that she couldn’t handle “serious music,” but those present saw it differently—they saw a woman treated as disposable in a space that should have been about collaboration. After that, Ronstadt insisted on mutual respect in the studio, making it clear that creativity was about trust, not hierarchy.

Sometimes, the pain was public. In 1976, Ronstadt agreed to perform at a high-profile benefit for farm workers’ rights, sharing the stage with artists she admired—including Neil Young. Backstage, Young criticized her song choices as “too commercial” and even blocked her from performing one of her planned songs. After the concert, he told reporters, “Some people just aren’t built for protest.” He didn’t name her, but he didn’t have to. For Ronstadt, who had spent her career proving she was more than just a pretty voice, the comment was a betrayal that cut deeper than any review. She never shared a stage with Young again, privately describing him as “loud in message, cruel in execution.”

Not all betrayals were professional. In the late summer of 1968, a young Ronstadt attended a party at the legendary Whisky a Go Go in Los Angeles. Jim Morrison, already deep into his rock star excess, pulled her on stage mid-performance and tried to kiss her in front of the crowd. Ronstadt pulled away and left the stage, but the humiliation didn’t end there. Months later, Morrison called her “sweet but spineless” in a radio interview, suggesting she lacked fire. For Ronstadt, it was another reminder of how easily vulnerability could be twisted into ridicule by those in power.

Perhaps the deepest cut of all came from someone whose career she helped launch. Before the Eagles became legends, Don Henley was just a drummer looking for a break. Ronstadt hired him and Glenn Frey for her touring band, mentoring them in the studio and on stage. She encouraged their ambitions and even introduced them to record executives. But as the Eagles soared, Henley’s gratitude faded. Backstage at the Universal Amphitheatre in 1975, he told guests that Ronstadt should “stick to covers and let real songwriters speak.” Worse, he began using her name to secure backstage passes at events she wasn’t attending. When Ronstadt found out, she quietly revoked his credentials and cut him off. Industry friends admired her professionalism, but behind the scenes, she was devastated—not by Henley’s fame, but by his failure to acknowledge how he got there.

Through all these betrayals, Ronstadt never lashed out publicly. She chose silence, professionalism, and dignity, even when the wounds were fresh. Now, as she reflects on a lifetime in music, her stories reveal not just the challenges she faced, but the strength it took to keep moving forward. For fans, the revelations are both shocking and deeply human—a reminder that even the brightest stars carry shadows. Ronstadt’s legacy endures not just because of her voice, but because of her resilience, her refusal to be diminished, and her unwavering commitment to her own artistic truth. In an industry that often rewards spectacle over substance, Linda Ronstadt’s story is a testament to the quiet power of integrity.