Linda Ronstadt Finally Names the 7 Musicians She Secretly HATES – And It’s a Rock ‘n’ Roll Bloodbath You Didn’t See Coming

Picture this: it’s 1979 backstage at the Troubadour in Los Angeles.

A young assistant rushes to tell the promoters that Linda Ronstadt has just stormed out of the green room—again.

The reason? She spotted someone else’s name on the schedule.

Not hers. Not the Eagles. His.

Linda Ronstadt wasn’t having it.

For decades she kept the reasons behind her fury to herself, cloaked in tight-lipped grace and carefully diplomatic interviews.

But now, after years of silence, Linda has finally lifted the curtain on the musicians she secretly despised.

And the list? It’s not what you expect.

Linda Ronstadt’s career was legendary—she helped launch the Eagles, shaped the sound of a generation, and sang her heart out on some of rock’s most iconic stages.

But behind the scenes, the Laurel Canyon music scene was a cauldron of rivalry, scandal, and venomous egos—and Linda was right in the middle of it.

Don Henley, the Eagles’ drummer and backup singer, started out as a collaborator in the early ’70s when Linda was already a rising star.

Their early partnership was warm and promising—until it wasn’t.

As the Eagles soared to superstardom, Henley’s ego exploded.

Picture a band that once opened for Linda now acting like they owned the Sunset Strip.

The breaking point came backstage at the Universal Amphitheater in 1975 when Henley made a crude comment about Linda’s musical choices, suggesting she stick to covers and leave the “real songwriting” to the pros.

Linda didn’t just storm out—she revoked Henley’s access to her tour dates.

Behind the scenes, whispers spread of snide remarks and growing resentment.

Henley, now full of swagger and cocaine-fueled arrogance, reportedly called her “too precious for rock and roll.”

Linda privately branded him a climber who’d lost his soul.

But it wasn’t just Henley.

Jim Morrison, the wild frontman of The Doors, was another thorn in Linda’s side.

They crossed paths in 1968 during the Doors’ peak, when Linda was still carving her place in a male-dominated rock world.

Their first meeting was electric—Morrison, drunk on absinthe and rebellion, pulled Linda on stage at a private afterparty near the Whiskey a Go-Go.

But instead of applause, chaos ensued.

Morrison tried to kiss her mid-performance and collapsed into her microphone stand.

The moment wasn’t captured in photos, but it echoed in whispers and rumors.

Morrison later mocked Linda in interviews, calling her “sweet but spineless.”

Behind her composed smile, Linda nursed the burn for years.

She described Morrison as a “brilliant wreck” who poisoned everything around him—a symbol of the male excess she fought against her entire career.

Then came ideological clashes.

Linda and Neil Young, both known for standing up against injustice, found themselves at odds during a 1976 benefit concert for farm workers.

Young refused to allow any “pop-leaning” songs on the setlist, dismissing Linda’s repertoire as too commercial.

He pushed his way to center stage, condescending and dismissive.

The night ended with Linda leaving in tears.

Young reportedly told the press she “wasn’t built for protest.”

For Linda, whose activism was deeply rooted in her Mexican heritage, the insult was a betrayal.

From that day on, she refused every offer to appear alongside Young.

He would occasionally mention her in interviews, always with backhanded compliments, reminding the world of their ideological rift.

Linda called him the embodiment of “faux moralism”—loud in message but cruel in execution.

Some of the most brutal confrontations happened in the recording studio.

In 1974, Linda met Frank Zappa, intrigued by his avant-garde style.

But what began as a creative dialogue quickly turned into artistic warfare.

Zappa openly criticized her voice as “too sanitized” and accused her of trying to turn his music into a radio jingle.

During a rehearsal, he stopped the band midsong and snapped, “This is what happens when you hand real music to a pop singer.”

Humiliated and furious, Linda stormed out.

Privately, she described Zappa as brilliant but brutal.

Not all wounds came from strangers.

David Crosby, once a close friend and collaborator, became a cautionary tale of fame, drugs, and unchecked ego.

During a 1978 recording session, Crosby refused to let Linda adjust the vocal key, insisting she adapt to his pitch.

A public shouting match ensued.

Crosby later called her career “manufactured” in Rolling Stone.

Linda cut all ties and forbade her band from mentioning his name.

Then came the punk wave of the late ’70s, and with it, new challenges.

At a 1979 festival in Cleveland, Linda clashed with Elvis Costello.

Costello mocked her set as “background music for brunch” in front of journalists.

Backstage, tensions exploded.

Costello, drunk, hurled insults and walked off.

Linda saw him as emblematic of a new, cold cruelty in music.

Even collaborations that seemed perfect on paper dissolved in real time.

In 1982, Linda and Paul Simon attempted a duet.

Known for his perfectionism, Simon constantly interrupted her, rewrote lyrics without consent, and talked down to her.

The session ended icy and unfinished.

Linda vowed never to work with him again.

For years, Linda chose diplomacy.

While rock spun in scandal and drama, she stayed above the noise—graceful, focused, and silent.

But the truth was always there, resting in her silences and in the shows she refused to do.

Now, by revealing these stories, Linda isn’t settling old scores.

She’s showing a generation of artists—especially women—that standing firm isn’t weakness, it’s legacy.

Her career wasn’t just shaped by talent but by endurance through conflict, quiet resistance to toxic egos, and refusal to be defined by male-dominated power structures.

The real story isn’t just who Linda Ronstadt hated—it’s how she survived them all.