Back in 1983, when I was trying to establish myself at the Wall Street Journal, I scheduled an interview with her to discuss “What’s New,” her album of pop standards. I was at ease with the assignment – I knew the material via Sinatra and Nelson Riddle, who had written the orchestrations for her project; and I knew and admired her work as a vocalist and interpreter of contemporary songs. We met in, in of all places, Neil Simon’s apartment overlooking Central Park. She was cheerful, passionate about Riddle and the Great American Songbook, and proud of the album – rightfully so: She absolutely pulled it off, shifting with seeming ease into a different, demanding musical form. I enjoyed the chat very much, I recall. Interview over, she walked me to the door. As I stepped into the hallway, the apartment door shut with a loud bang. A little wind tunnel had grabbed it out of her hand. She rushed out to apologize, in case I thought she had slammed the door on me. It was an unguarded moment on her part and a glimpse into her kind heart. When I wrote about her in subsequent years, the person I saw at that fleeting moment, and not the major star she had become, was always on my mind.
My Linda Ronstadt Story
