Top 5 Musicians Carole King Hated the Most!

Carole King, the songwriting icon whose music has comforted millions, built a career rooted in honesty, melody, and emotional truth.

Her songs gave voice to heartbreak, healing, and hope—yet behind the soft edges of her lyrics, King navigated an industry that was often far from kind.

While she rarely spoke publicly about personal grievances, those close to her knew that not every collaboration ended in harmony.

Some encounters left her wounded. Others, disillusioned. Here are five musicians who—through arrogance, condescension, or outright cruelty—earned a permanent place on Carole King’s private blacklist.

In the early 1970s, Bob Dylan and Carole King found themselves on the same festival lineup.

Fans expected a mutual appreciation between two of the most defining voices of their generation. But what unfolded backstage left King shaken.

Approaching Dylan with admiration and humility, she was met with a cold brush-off. “You’re the one who writes for moms, right?” he reportedly said with a smirk.

The phrase stung—dismissing not only her audience but the emotional weight of her music.

When she tried to exit the awkward exchange, Dylan grabbed her arm. Not violently, but firmly enough to make her flinch. A crew member intervened.

Dylan let go. No apology followed. From that day on, Carole King never spoke of him publicly.

But privately, she tuned out his music, avoided his name in conversation, and shut the door on what might’ve been a meeting of minds.

It was the kind of moment that doesn’t define a legacy—but it can fracture a heart.

Ten years later, in 1983, Carole King flew to Los Angeles for what she thought would be an exciting collaboration with Elton John.

A duet for a charity project turned quickly into a creative disaster. Within minutes of rehearsal, King found herself overwhelmed by John’s dominating presence.

He changed her chord progressions, interrupted her verses, and rolled his eyes at her more introspective style.

When he flippantly said, “Darling, you’ve had your moment—now let me have mine,” King quietly packed her things and left the studio.

She never returned. Though John praised her publicly years later, even calling her an inspiration at the Kennedy Center Honors and a Hyde Park tribute, King never collaborated with him again.

Their teams kept them apart at events, and when their vocals posthumously appeared on the same tribute album in 2024, they didn’t share a track.

A coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe a silent acknowledgment that their moment had come—and gone—in a single, stormy afternoon.

In 1979, Carole King entered the studio with Don Henley, co-founder of the Eagles, for what was supposed to be a creative summit between rock royalty.

What unfolded was a clash of values and vision. King wanted soul. Henley demanded polish. She sang from feeling; he asked for cleaner takes.

When she finally told him he was sanding down the soul of the song, Henley snapped back: “You’re just too sensitive.

Maybe that’s your whole problem.” With that, she closed her lyric book and walked out. She never came back.

When asked about her absence weeks later, Henley made it worse with a mocking jab about working with someone who “bursts into tears every time you ask for a second take.” For the next four decades, King refused to appear alongside him.

At a 2016 London festival, they were billed on back-to-back nights. King rescheduled her soundcheck to avoid him.

When asked if she’d watched his set, she simply said, “No need. I’ve heard it before.” There was no anger in her voice—just the resignation of a woman who’d been dismissed once too often.

In the early 1990s, Carole King approached Eric Clapton with a quiet offer: a duet of “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” at a benefit concert. It could’ve been magic—her voice, his guitar, two musical legends in quiet communion. Clapton didn’t even look up.

“Not my thing,” he said, and turned away. The phrase was short, flat, and final. Not angry. Not cruel. Just indifferent. And in some ways, that stung more.

King had long admired his work. She once called him her “dream guitarist,” praising his subtlety and restraint.

But in that moment, the respect was not returned. Years later, they both participated in the Glenn Campbell “Ghost on the Canvas” duets project.

Though both names appeared on the same album, they were never paired.

Industry insiders said it was no accident. King never commented publicly, but her interviews in later years became more pointed about how often women in music are treated as sentimental rather than serious.

“There are times when the silence says everything,” she said in one particularly cryptic interview. That silence? It still echoes.

But perhaps no moment haunted her more than her brief collaboration with Phil Spector. In 1962, King co-wrote “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss)” with her then-husband Jerry Goffin.

The lyrics were inspired by a chilling real-life story: their babysitter, singer Eva Boyd, returned home bruised, yet claimed her boyfriend’s violence was a sign of love. King composed the music. Spector produced it. The result was disturbing.

Radio stations refused to play it. The Crystals, who sang it, were reportedly horrified. King herself came to deeply regret the song. In her memoir, she wrote: “I kind of wish I hadn’t had any part of writing that.” But the damage was done.

Spector, later convicted of second-degree murder in 2009, was a figure King came to view with unease.

Their creative paths diverged as she embraced intimacy and vulnerability, while he veered into theatricality, control, and eventually darkness.

She never publicly spoke ill of him—but she never praised him again, either. Just silence.

Carole King’s legacy isn’t defined by the moments of rejection, the failed collaborations, or the men who made her feel small. It’s defined by the music she created in spite of them.

Songs like “It’s Too Late,” “So Far Away,” and “You’ve Got a Friend” aren’t just ballads—they’re blueprints for emotional resilience. But even legends have breaking points.

Behind the piano, behind the voice, was a woman who saw through condescension, endured dismissal, and still chose to sing. And in the end, that choice—that resilience—is what makes her legacy unshakable.