A young woman’s brave question, sung with prairie steel and late-night tenderness
“Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” found Linda Ronstadt at the threshold—fresh out of the Stone Poneys, stepping into her own voice, daring to sing the most vulnerable question a pop song can hold. Issued by Capitol as her lead solo single on March 2, 1970, it served as an advance taste of her second solo album, Silk Purse. Though the single didn’t break big—peaking at No. 111 on Billboard’s Bubbling Under chart (April 4, 1970) and scraping No. 100 in Australia—it planted the flag for a singer who would soon redefine American pop-country. The parent LP arrived April 13, 1970, reaching No. 103 on the Billboard 200.
The backstory is pure early-’70s crossroads. Ronstadt, hungry to toughen her sound and tell truer stories, decamped to Nashville and cut Silk Purse with producer Elliot Mazer at Cinderella Sound and Woodland studios. Those sessions—lean, warm, and close-miked—fitted her desert-born soprano with honky-tonk timber and barroom air. You can hear the room on this track: brushed drums and chiming guitars under a voice that moves between innocence and nerve. Mazer’s production nods to a Spector-style fullness without drowning the singer; it’s still Linda up front, asking the question the night won’t answer.
For context, Gerry Goffin and Carole King wrote the song a decade earlier for the Shirelles, whose 1960 single became the first girl-group record to hit No. 1 on the U.S. Hot 100. King would eventually reclaim it on Tapestry (1971), adding a quiet ache to the canon. Ronstadt’s 1970 reading sits between those poles—steadier than the teen tremor, more outward-facing than King’s diary whisper—an American crossroads of Brill Building melody and Bakersfield backbone.
If you were watching TV that spring, you might remember Ronstadt on The Johnny Cash Show (March 11, 1970), eyes bright, hair loose, giving the song a live electricity: a Tucson kid holding her own on prime time, asking a grown-up question without blinking. Those appearances mattered; they announced a presence, even before the charts did.
Chart picture at release. The single itself did not enter the Hot 100 proper, but its Bubbling Under #111 showing (Billboard) and Cash Box Top 100 mention (commonly cited at #98) capture its modest radio footprint; in Australia it nicked #100. And then the pivot: a few months later “Long Long Time” from the same album would crack the U.S. Top 25 and earn her first Grammy nod—the moment the industry caught up with what attentive listeners already heard brewing on “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”.
What her version means. Where the Shirelles trembled with youthful wonder and King reflected with weary wisdom, Ronstadt sings like someone standing on the porch at closing time, car keys in hand, trying not to sound scared. She leans into the melody with prairie steel—that clear, slightly nasal attack that would become her hallmark—then softens the ends of phrases as if touching a bruise. The performance dramatizes the lyric’s hinge: love’s rush tonight versus love’s promise tomorrow. Ronstadt doesn’t plead; she steadies herself. The question is still a dare.
Musically, the cut is compact—just over two and a half minutes on most pressings—and carries the album’s blend of country instrumentation and pop structure. Acoustic guitars skitter, electric lines glow at the edges, and the backing voices answer Linda like sympathetic friends in the next booth. Mazer’s mix leaves air between the parts, so every intake of breath feels like part of the story.
For many older listeners, the memory is tactile: the Capitol label spinning, the farmhouse-porch cover of Silk Purse propped against the console, that feeling of hearing a new artist grow up in real time. We didn’t yet know the avalanche of hits to come—“You’re No Good,” “Blue Bayou,” “It’s So Easy,” the Nelson Riddle torch albums, the Mexican heritage triumphs—but the essential Linda is already here: fearless repertoire choices, total melodic control, and emotion rendered without garnish.
And the story behind the song choice explains a lot about her instincts. In 1970, covering a signature Brill Building standard could have felt safe; instead, Ronstadt and Mazer roughened the edges, trading girl-group gloss for road-dust intimacy. In doing so, she reset the song’s frame—from teenage tremor to adult self-possession. It’s still the same midnight question, but it’s asked by a woman who’ll walk away with her dignity intact if the answer is wrong.
So when you return to “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” in Ronstadt’s hands, don’t listen for chart fireworks. Listen for character. Here is a singer learning to marry sweetness and sinew, to carry tenderness without apology. The single only flickered at #111; the singer who made it would soon light up the decade. Sometimes the most consequential steps are the quiet ones—the ones where a voice, still finding its final colors, chooses the truth over the easy shine.