As I worked through her albums - Heart Like a Wheel, Prisoner in Disguise, Hasten Down the Wind - I began to learn about many of the great songwriters of the day: Roy Orbison, Neil Young, the McGarrigle Sisters, Warren Zevon, Karla Bonoff, Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton. Linda wasn’t a singer/songwriter like most of her peers, she was a singer who sang songs she loved. Even once I discovered the theater and began to have community and intimates I knew in the flesh, Linda’s voice - her spirit - accompanied me as I embarked on adventures of my own, as I attempted the magic of adolescence. Those times back in Lancaster with Linda Ronstadt on the stereo, singing about being hurt or lost, sharing her longing for another place, the gorgeous yearning of her voice slipping, potion-like, into my ears, she became my familiar. In olden times, a familiar was known to accompany a witch attempting to conduct magic.Īrtists make great familiars, particularly musicians, and more particularly, singers. Intimacy, from late Latin intimatus, past participle of intimare ‘impress, make familiar.’Ī familiar is a creature or spirit that accompanies you on a journey. The bounty of Linda Ronstadt albums provided something I hope every one of us has had at one point or another: That feeling of intimacy when you find your musician. I loved their song “Strange Magic” and would listen to it over and over until I wore down the grooves. Up until that time I had a small selection of 45s - Captain and Tenille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together”, “Seasons in the Sun” by Terry Jacks, Cher’s “Half Breed” - the only album I recall owning was ELO’s Face the Music. I took the parcel inside and opened it to find ten records, the entire collection of Linda Ronstadt’s solo albums. And there was a record player on top of the dresser. But after sharing a bedroom with my brother Frank for years, I finally had my own room. Not what I would have selected for myself, neither the furniture nor the sheets. The sheets and comforters were by Vera, blue and green and patterned with abstract sailboats. The room was now filled with my recently deceased Great Aunt Ruby’s blond and gold bedroom set - two twin beds, a large dresser and a mirror. The year before I had moved into the downstairs bedroom which before then had been a sort of den. “I’m calling about the Linda Ronstadt records.”Ī week later a heavy, square parcel arrived at my suburban home. I ran to the living room phone, grabbed the handset and dialed.
First caller would win the Linda Ronstadt album collection, including her most recent, Mad Love, with three Elvis Costello covers. One Saturday I was hanging out in my bedroom listening to KFI radio they were having a call-in contest. I lived in a small town in the Mojave Desert, surrounded by football players and pick-up trucks.
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