My eyes still well up almost 50 years after I first heard Linda Ronstadt (Stone Poneys) sing the 1967 stinging anthem of rejection, “Different Drum.”
“You and I travel to the beat of a different drum …”
It is my Proustian moment—À la Recherche du Temps Perdu.
“So, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I knock it
It’s just that I am not in the market
For a boy who wants to love only me …”
Of the countless songs about unrequited love that I wallowed in as an oft love-sick, rejected teenager, these lyrics (written by former Monkee Mike Nesmith) said it all, driven home by Ronstadt’s voice filled with self-assured finality. Although I heard and lived those lines too often in my pubescent years, it made me fall in unabashed masochistic love with the singer … not the song.
Which is the reason my memories have been churned with a recent spate of Ronstadt fan pages on Facebook—and why every post that catches my eye is marked with a heart emoji.
It is also why I eagerly anticipate the Netflix documentary scheduled for March 2025: Linda Ronstadt: A Voice for the Ages. I would have preferred a less cliche title … but I’ll watch it over and over no matter what it’s called.
The reason I bring this up: a post-Proustian moment when Ronstadt and I stood two feet away from one another for a long minute. She was combing her hair. I was speechless. She said “hi.” I returned the greeting. That’s it! But the memory lingers like the scent of fresh cut lilacs.
It was November 1970. I was the AD and designer of the poster and adverts for a Rock magazine–produced concert at the New York Academy of Music, starring Tim Buckley, Van Morrison and Ms. Ronstadt. It was one of a half-dozen events that we produced (we ran three sold-out Oldies shows there) and our first contemporary rock gig.
The Academy of Music, a storied 2,000-seat music hall turned grand movie theater (my grandmother would take me there for matinees), transformed into a rock palace and later became the Palladium Ballroom and nightclub. Eventually, it was bought by NYU, torn down and replaced by a dormitory and Trader Joe’s (such is progress, such are property values).
As I noted, this was our first real rock concert, featuring three amazing headliners and their respective bands. We advertised it in all the weeklies—Village Voice, East Village Other, The Rat, Rock—and expected the same overwhelming ticket sales as our Oldies extravaganzas. We had stupidly not reckoned that the other New York rock palaces were also booking big acts for that same weekend. The Fillmore East, Electric Circus and Capitol Theater in Rye, NY, all had major acts from the Rolling Stones to Procol Harum to Moby Grape. I think Jimi Hendrix was in town, as well.
There was more talent than demand. We averaged a paltry 500 tickets each night for a 2000+ seat theater. This brilliant financial failure was, however, the stuff of good storytelling. Each performer gave their all despite the disappointing crowd size. However, I didn’t even notice all the empty seats. The Academy of Music had a deep orchestra pit from the good ole days that went unused and was where I watched each of the four shows alone. At 1 a.m., after the last show on Saturday night, I was hanging out in the lobby. It turned into a lucky chance to be close to the lovely Ms. Ronstadt.
When Linda—forgive me, Ms. Ronstadt—stopped in front of one of the lobby’s 10-foot tall mirrors to comb her flowing black hair and bangs, I felt the fates had given me the opportunity I had been waiting for. I was just about to tell her I was the concert’s graphic designer and love all her albums. I waited for the right moment … after her combing was done. Then all of a sudden, seeing me staring at her in the mirror, she said “hi.” I was tongue-tied but manage to say “hi” back. Then I watched as she walked under the pale yellow marquee lights into a waiting car. The moment of a fantasy fulfilled was over in an instant. I returned to the room where our concert producer was catatonic, shocked by the indignity of the weekend’s receipts. All of a sudden he looked up at me and growled, “This was a disaster! Why are YOU grinning?!”
“Linda Ronstadt just she said ‘hi’ to me,” I said.
The post The Daily Heller: The Night I Said Hi to Linda Ronstadt appeared first on PRINT Magazine.