Joan Baez, the legendary queen of protest folk, has long been celebrated for her grace, powerful voice, and unwavering commitment to social justice.

But behind her poised public image lies a story marked by deep wounds and betrayals from some of the most iconic figures in music history.

In a rare and candid revelation, Baez named the five musicians she hates most—five names that unlock chapters of heartbreak, silence, and unresolved conflict.

These aren’t just personal grudges; they are stories of shattered trust and the complexities of artistic and political alliances.

 

The first name Joan Baez dared to speak aloud was Bob Dylan, a man whose relationship with her began with love and collaboration but ended in painful silence.

In the early 1960s, Baez and Dylan were the heartbeat of the folk movement—musical soulmates and protest partners who shared stages and ideals.

Baez opened doors for Dylan, bringing him to audiences when he was still unknown, believing in his poetic genius like scripture.

 

However, as Dylan’s fame skyrocketed, he grew distant.

By 1965, he stopped calling, excluded Baez from his world tour, and publicly distanced himself.

His infamous electric performance at the Newport Folk Festival symbolized not only a shift in music but also the unraveling of their bond.

Dylan dismissed Baez’s politics and mocked her causes, leaving her heartbroken and betrayed.

For Baez, Dylan became a monument to the painful reality that even revolutionaries could sell out and poets could turn cold.

 

Next on Baez’s list was David Crosby, a fellow Laurel Canyon musician whose velvet voice masked a razor-sharp ego.

Crosby’s politics were loud, but so was his arrogance.

Their relationship soured notably during a televised anti-war event in 1970 when Crosby publicly called Baez out as more performance than principle, undermining her dedication to political prisoners.

 

This public insult, broadcast to millions, left Baez seething with anger.

To her, Crosby embodied hypocrisy—a man who preached peace while wielding his ego as a weapon.

Their feud never exploded into open conflict but cooled everything between them.

Baez avoided interviews, panels, and collaborations if Crosby was involved, unwilling to tolerate hollow activism disguised as rebellion.

 

Not all betrayals came from musicians.

Jerry Rubin, a fiery revolutionary and activist, earned Baez’s disdain for turning her beliefs into a punchline.

Rubin was known for his loud rhetoric and headline-grabbing antics during the late 1960s, which initially impressed Baez.

However, during a major 1969 anti-war rally in Chicago, Rubin publicly disparaged performers like Baez, accusing them of hiding behind their music while “real rebels” took to the streets.

His words stung deeply, reducing Baez’s compassion and activism to mere theatrics.

Despite the crowd’s laughter, Baez remained composed and performed, but she vowed never to share a stage with Rubin again.

For her, courage without kindness was cruelty in disguise.

 

In the studio, Baez faced a different kind of betrayal—one marked by control and condescension.

Paul Simon, a fellow music legend, was the source of this wound.

Their attempted collaboration in 1978 quickly dissolved into tension.

Simon controlled the sessions with clipped precision, interrupted Baez mid-note, and even suggested changing lyrics she had written after personal loss.

 

What should have been a meeting of artistic minds turned into a silent war.

Baez left the studio feeling small and invisible, an experience she never expected after a career standing alongside civil rights leaders and political giants.

Simon’s cold brilliance built walls instead of bridges, and Baez made sure their paths rarely crossed again.

 

Perhaps the most chilling silence came from another woman—Joni Mitchell, a fellow folk icon and peer.

Publicly, they were expected to be comrades, sisters in protest, but privately, their relationship was marked by frost and distance.

 

Their first backstage meeting in 1968 was a quiet disaster.

Mitchell dismissed Baez’s voice as “churchy” and lacking soul, a cutting critique that Baez recorded in her private journal as “frost in a silk dress.

” Their interactions thereafter were marked by mutual erasure—declining invitations, avoiding tributes, and exchanging polite smiles only for cameras.

 

This invisible feud became folklore among fans, a painful reminder that even shared causes and similar talents don’t guarantee friendship.

Baez respected Mitchell’s songwriting but could not tolerate the condescension that shadowed her every word.

These five names—Bob Dylan, David Crosby, Jerry Rubin, Paul Simon, and Joni Mitchell—may never appear in Joan Baez’s set lists, but they have shaped the woman behind the legend.

Baez has never been one to scream or lash out publicly.

Instead, her silence has always spoken volumes.

 

When she finally chose to name these names, it wasn’t for revenge or spectacle.

It was a long-awaited exhale, a quiet acknowledgment that some bridges are better left un-crossed.

Baez didn’t burn bridges; she simply stopped pretending they were still standing.

 

Her grace in the face of betrayal is a testament to her strength.

She settled her scores not with guitars but with poise and dignity.

Her refusal to sing duets with these figures was not born of fear but of principle.

Joan Baez’s story reminds us that behind the music and activism lies a human being shaped by relationships—both uplifting and painful.

The wounds inflicted by those she once trusted have left scars, but they have also fortified her resolve.

 

In a world often marked by public feuds and loud confrontations, Baez’s quiet defiance stands out.

She remains unshaken, unbending, and unmistakably Joan—a woman who has weathered storms with dignity and whose legacy transcends the notes she sings.

 

Her revelations offer a rare glimpse into the complexities of artistic collaboration and political solidarity, reminding us that even icons are vulnerable to betrayal.

Yet, it is how they respond that defines their true strength.

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