Post by the Scribe on Apr 18, 2022 5:59:31 GMT
Voices: Linda Ronstadt's biggest gift
www.usatoday.com/story/news/2014/04/06/voices-linda-ronstadt-parkinsons/7060515/
Marco della CavaUSA TODAY
American musician Linda Ronstadt poses in New York on Sept. 17, 2013, to promote the release of her memoirs, "Simple Dreams."
SAN FRANCISCO — The other day, I went over to Linda Ronstadt's house.
It's a modest affair for such an outsize singing icon, hard on the western flank of this rolling city. Just a few exquisite pieces of art on the walls, a small garden outside and no mementos from a long career in music.
Her adopted daughter, Mary, 23, politely said hello, then made for the door.
And the house was left empty but for the elephant in the room.
As many now know, Ronstadt has Parkinson's disease. I was here to interview the singer on the occasion of her upcoming induction, on Thursday in New York, into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. She won't be able to attend because traveling is too tough.
"It's hard to go to things, because I'm not physically able to thread my way through," she said matter-of-factly. "I went to see (the ballet) Giselle here, and it broke my heart, because I had to leave early. If I'm not lying down, I'm pretty unhappy."
Ronstadt's bluntness instantly told me where I stood. No one likes to dwell on the negative, but clearly this wasn't a woman who was going to avoid reality. In fact, Ronstadt wound up being remarkably candid and even funny about what's happening to her.
"I can't really walk well. The muscles don't get the electronic signals from my brain, not that there's anything wrong with the muscles themselves," she said softly, lying comfortably on an oversize chair and ottoman. "It's just my brain."
The singer said she spends time listening to YouTube clips of treasured flamenco singers, music she adored in childhood, or making a special outing to the nearby Legion of Honor art museum, "which I treat like an extension of my house. But I need a wheelchair for that now."
I immediately flashed on a memory from the mid-'90s, when I went to Richard Pryor's house to interview the comedic genius, who by then was confined to a wheelchair and suffering badly from multiple sclerosis.
My hopes for the interview were high, but they crashed when Pryor wheeled himself away after a few minutes. "Too tired," his assistant told me.
Ronstadt was proving anything but. Animated ("The pure story in his voice was amazing," she said about Frank Sinatra, a onetime duet partner), acerbic (on matters of conservative politics in her native Arizona) and dismissive (of her own work, saying "I'm grateful but astounded" people like her hits), Ronstadt was alive and then some.
She told me she often has friends come visit, and the more musical ones bring an instrument and play. She says she enjoys that, but you can tell there's a wistful note in there. Her fingers won't follow her orders when she plays guitar.
And her voice? "I try to squeak out a little harmony part sometimes, but it's not anything that would blend and sound good," she says.
Given that frustration — imagine a masterful painter not being able to hold a brush steady — I allowed that her attitude was remarkable.
Ronstadt just shrugged, then smiled.
"Well, that's all you can do. Every day is a different day," she said. "Every day I go, 'OK, I can do this today, and I'm glad I can do it and it's not worse.' Because it's going to be."
I went to Linda Ronstadt's house in awe of the voice that rang through my childhood like a joyous party, from Heat Wave to When Will I Be Loved. But I left her house humbled by the person who happened to belt out those classics.
Now, when I put on Ronstadt's ringing Poor, Poor Pitiful Me, I just smile. The woman doesn't know the meaning of those words.
Della Cava covers technology and culture for USA TODAY from San Francisco
www.usatoday.com/story/news/2014/04/06/voices-linda-ronstadt-parkinsons/7060515/
Marco della CavaUSA TODAY
American musician Linda Ronstadt poses in New York on Sept. 17, 2013, to promote the release of her memoirs, "Simple Dreams."
SAN FRANCISCO — The other day, I went over to Linda Ronstadt's house.
It's a modest affair for such an outsize singing icon, hard on the western flank of this rolling city. Just a few exquisite pieces of art on the walls, a small garden outside and no mementos from a long career in music.
Her adopted daughter, Mary, 23, politely said hello, then made for the door.
And the house was left empty but for the elephant in the room.
As many now know, Ronstadt has Parkinson's disease. I was here to interview the singer on the occasion of her upcoming induction, on Thursday in New York, into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. She won't be able to attend because traveling is too tough.
"It's hard to go to things, because I'm not physically able to thread my way through," she said matter-of-factly. "I went to see (the ballet) Giselle here, and it broke my heart, because I had to leave early. If I'm not lying down, I'm pretty unhappy."
Ronstadt's bluntness instantly told me where I stood. No one likes to dwell on the negative, but clearly this wasn't a woman who was going to avoid reality. In fact, Ronstadt wound up being remarkably candid and even funny about what's happening to her.
"I can't really walk well. The muscles don't get the electronic signals from my brain, not that there's anything wrong with the muscles themselves," she said softly, lying comfortably on an oversize chair and ottoman. "It's just my brain."
The singer said she spends time listening to YouTube clips of treasured flamenco singers, music she adored in childhood, or making a special outing to the nearby Legion of Honor art museum, "which I treat like an extension of my house. But I need a wheelchair for that now."
I immediately flashed on a memory from the mid-'90s, when I went to Richard Pryor's house to interview the comedic genius, who by then was confined to a wheelchair and suffering badly from multiple sclerosis.
My hopes for the interview were high, but they crashed when Pryor wheeled himself away after a few minutes. "Too tired," his assistant told me.
Ronstadt was proving anything but. Animated ("The pure story in his voice was amazing," she said about Frank Sinatra, a onetime duet partner), acerbic (on matters of conservative politics in her native Arizona) and dismissive (of her own work, saying "I'm grateful but astounded" people like her hits), Ronstadt was alive and then some.
She told me she often has friends come visit, and the more musical ones bring an instrument and play. She says she enjoys that, but you can tell there's a wistful note in there. Her fingers won't follow her orders when she plays guitar.
And her voice? "I try to squeak out a little harmony part sometimes, but it's not anything that would blend and sound good," she says.
Given that frustration — imagine a masterful painter not being able to hold a brush steady — I allowed that her attitude was remarkable.
Ronstadt just shrugged, then smiled.
"Well, that's all you can do. Every day is a different day," she said. "Every day I go, 'OK, I can do this today, and I'm glad I can do it and it's not worse.' Because it's going to be."
I went to Linda Ronstadt's house in awe of the voice that rang through my childhood like a joyous party, from Heat Wave to When Will I Be Loved. But I left her house humbled by the person who happened to belt out those classics.
Now, when I put on Ronstadt's ringing Poor, Poor Pitiful Me, I just smile. The woman doesn't know the meaning of those words.
Della Cava covers technology and culture for USA TODAY from San Francisco