When I was young, I only liked the Eagles because I knew they had been Linda Ronstadt’s backing vocalists – and I loved Linda Ronstadt. I wanted to be her and therefore learned by heart the lyrics of every song she covered. In my teenage bedroom, I spent hours singing along to her records, dreamy and delusional, telling myself that I was absolutely within her vocal range. Bored and adolescent, I longed to be far away Northern Ireland and its grey skies, from Margaret Thatcher, from politics and parades, from flags and fighting – far away from a country that has “no prairies to slice a big sun at evening.” I wanted to be an American girl. I wanted to hang out in a place called California with long-haired rockers who sometimes sounded a little more country than I thought I liked. I wanted to drive down an American highway on a sunny day with the top down and the radio up. For miles.

I loved everything about Linda Ronstadt and wanted to appear as confident, to stride onstage in a mini-skirt, one hand on my hip, the other shakin’ a tambourine. I wanted to belt out Poor, Poor Pitiful Me  with the kind of authority that after all these years alludes me still –  “Well I met a man out in Hollywood/Now I ain’t naming names.”  I would never have imagined the woman behind that heartsome voice could know vulnerability or inadequacy. I know better now. Moving through the world to the beat of a different drum is not always easy.

Linda Ronstadt covered every genre – Motown, soul, country, folk, rock – exposing me to the dozens of American musicians who would score the soundtrack of my life. Buddy Holly. Roy Orbison. Smokey Robinson. Jackson Browne. Lowell George. Neil Young. Warren Zevon. Bob Seger. The Flying Burrito Brothers.  The Eagles. The Eagles. Glenn Frey and Don Henley – The Eagles.  That’s right. The Eagles were her backing vocalists. Linda Ronstadt was living my dream, making harmonies – sweet harmonies – with long-haired rockers:

I got tougher being on the road with the Eagles. I walked differently, I became more foulmouthed.  I swore so much I sounded like a truck driver. But that’s the way it was. I was the only girl on the road so the boys always kind of took charge. They were working for me, and yet it always seemed like I was working for them.

In 1971, she had hired Glenn Frey and a singing drummer, Don Henley, to be her back-up vocalists, and when they later decided to form their own band, she helped them. In 2014, when Linda Ronstadt was finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but unable to attend due to illness,  it was her long-time friend, her former back-up singer, Glenn Frey, who paid tribute to her. He made a point of saying that it was a long time coming, and he reminded everyone of what she would later reveal in  Simple Dreams: A Musical Memoir about why she sang:

people sing for many of the same reasons the birds sing. They sing for a mate, to claim their territory, or simply to give voice to the delight of being alive in the midst of a beautiful day.

Glenn Frey knew this delight.  He knew why people sing. He knew how to give voice to our heartaches and hangovers, to lying eyes and life in the fast lane, to Desperados, and to James Dean. He knew how to sing to the girl who might slow down in a flat bed Ford  just to take a look at him, in Winslow, Arizona, where I drove one day in 1987. I was 24 years old without a care in the world and a tank full of gas.  It was 110 degrees, and I was hot and bothered wearing a shirt tied at the waist and cut-off denim shorts. I was Linda Ronstadt, and I had the radio on.

The sky was on fire when I pulled over to the side of the road. It didn’t matter that it was late in the afternoon. It was close enough to a tequila sunrise. I turned up the music, got out of my car, and I stood on the corner. Of Winslow Arizona. I was an American Girl.

For that moment, I am forever in your debt, Glenn Frey.  But, I never saw him perform in concert, somehow missing the Eagles every time they rolled into town even after they reunited – when hell froze over.  And then Glenn Frey died, and I remember thinking this meant the Eagles had died too. But last week, I found out that their “Greatest Hits” album overtook Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” to claim the top spot on the list of best-selling albums in the United States,  and that they are touring sold-out stadiums all over the country.  How could that be? I wanted to find out. In retrospect, I wish I’d wanted to find out earlier than two hours before they took to the stage in Phoenix, but better late than never.  It was just plain wrong to be settling into a night of binge-watching on Netflix knowing that the Eagles were playing just a few miles away from my boyfriend’s condo.  The Eagles were playing – without Glenn Frey – but still. The Eagles were playing, and we didn’t have tickets. Linda Ronstadt’s back-up singers were playing in Phoenix –  and we didn’t have tickets. Unacceptable. 

Now I’m not going to tell you what we paid for those tickets. I’m still surprised that two were available on a dubious website just 90 minutes before the Eagles stepped on stage with a flawless performance of “Seven Bridges Road.” But I will tell you I’m very glad we did.

In place of Glenn Frey were Vince Gill and a young man in a red plaid shirt and jeans, his long hair pulled back under sunglasses, looking as though he had just grabbed his guitar from a flat-bed Ford. Then he announced that he was going to “sing one that my dad used to sing, if that’s okay.” Sentimental? Yes. But also pitch perfect, reminding me of the first time I saw the E Street Band without Clarence Clemons, when Springsteen introduced the big man’s nephew on saxophone.

With thousands of people singing along and waving illuminated smart phones, Deacon Frey, sang lead on “Peaceful, Easy Feeling” the resemblance to his father unsettling and magical.  And, as the final chord rang throughout the arena, a black and white image of his smiling father, Glenn Frey, appeared on the screen behind him – a reminder of his legacy, not that we needed it.

A little bit country, a little bit rock ‘n’ roll, Don Henley, Joe Walsh, Timothy B. Schmit,  Steuart Smith, Deacon Frey, and Vince Gill, shimmered through a set that as it unfurled, affirmed  for everyone in that arena that life’s been good and that we can forget about the news for a couple of hours. As Henley pointed out, “It’ll all be there in the morning.”