“Cry Like a Rainstorm” is not simply a song—it is a release valve. In it, Linda Ronstadt gives sorrow its full atmosphere, allowing emotion to gather, darken, and finally break open. If the album title Cry Like a Rainstorm, Howl Like the Wind sounds expansive and cinematic, this particular track feels intimate and close—less wide-angle drama, more close-up confession.
Released on October 2, 1989, and produced by longtime collaborator Peter Asher, the album marked a powerful return to mainstream pop form for Ronstadt. It would go on to peak at No. 7 on the Billboard 200—no small achievement in a musical landscape that was rapidly shifting toward slicker production styles and younger voices. But Cry Like a Rainstorm didn’t storm the charts overnight. It debuted modestly at No. 72 before gradually climbing. The ascent mirrored the album’s emotional arc: steady, deliberate, and quietly confident.
Interestingly, “Cry Like a Rainstorm” itself was not positioned as the project’s primary commercial single. That spotlight fell on the soaring duets with Aaron Neville—“Don’t Know Much” and “All My Life”—both of which would earn Grammy recognition at the 32nd and 33rd Grammy Awards respectively. Those songs shimmered with romantic polish and radio-friendly appeal. But “Cry Like a Rainstorm” is something else entirely. It is the emotional center of gravity—less adorned, more elemental.
A Song Rescued from Another Decade
“Cry Like a Rainstorm” was written by Eric Kaz, who first recorded it in the early 1970s. That origin story adds a layer of poignancy. When Ronstadt chose to revisit the song nearly two decades later, she wasn’t just covering a track—she was reclaiming a lingering sentiment from another era and reshaping it with the wisdom of experience.
Kaz’s writing carries a kind of vulnerable directness. The lyrics do not hide behind metaphor for long; they move straight toward emotional exposure. And Ronstadt, at this stage in her career, understood something essential: that maturity allows pain to be expressed not as chaos, but as clarity.
By 1989, she was no longer the fiery country-rock belter of the 1970s. She had already journeyed through operetta, standards, and traditional Mexican music. Each stylistic detour deepened her interpretive instincts. When she sings “Cry Like a Rainstorm,” she is not simply performing sadness—she is curating it, measuring its weight, letting it swell without tipping into melodrama.
Power in Restraint
Ronstadt has always been celebrated for vocal power. In her earlier hits, she could slice through electric guitars with fierce precision. But what defines “Cry Like a Rainstorm” is restraint.
There is a subtle difference between composure and healing, and Ronstadt understands it. Her phrasing carries the quiet recognition that sometimes the strongest act is allowing oneself to unravel. The title itself offers permission: don’t drizzle your tears politely—let them fall in sheets. Let the sky open. Let the pressure break.
The performance unfolds with deliberate pacing. She does not rush the chorus; she leans into it. Her voice expands but never loses control. There is steel beneath the softness, an understanding that dignity and vulnerability are not opposites—they coexist.
That’s what makes the track resonate decades later. It doesn’t dramatize heartbreak as spectacle. It frames sorrow as weather: something that passes through, something that cleans the air.
The Sound of Shared Sorrow
One of the album’s defining sonic elements is its lush, layered production. Recorded at Skywalker Ranch in Marin County, California, the sessions embraced a fuller orchestral palette than much of Ronstadt’s earlier pop work. Strings swell without overwhelming. Keyboards shimmer. Silence is used strategically.
But perhaps the most evocative addition is the presence of the Oakland Interfaith Gospel Choir, under the direction of Terrance Kelly. A gospel choir does more than decorate a track—it transforms it.
When those background voices enter, the song shifts from private lament to communal experience. What begins as an individual confession becomes a shared understanding. The choir doesn’t overpower Ronstadt; it frames her, lifts her, surrounds her. The effect is almost architectural. Her voice stands at the center, and the choir builds emotional walls around it.
In gospel tradition, sorrow and redemption are inseparable. Tears lead to renewal. By incorporating that texture, the song subtly suggests that crying is not collapse—it is cleansing.
A Quiet Sibling Among Giants
Because the album is so closely associated with its duets—especially the Grammy-winning collaborations with Aaron Neville—“Cry Like a Rainstorm” can sometimes feel like the overlooked sibling. It didn’t dominate radio playlists. It didn’t headline award shows.
But it may well be the emotional thesis statement of the entire record.
The duets sparkle with romantic yearning. They celebrate connection. “Cry Like a Rainstorm,” by contrast, stands alone. There is no call-and-response here, no vocal interplay. It is solitary, reflective, inward.
And that solitude is powerful.
If “Don’t Know Much” is about two people finding each other, “Cry Like a Rainstorm” is about finding yourself again after something breaks. It lingers in that uncomfortable pause between loss and recovery—the moment when tears finally come, and relief follows.
1989: A Year of Shifting Soundscapes
It’s important to remember the musical climate of 1989. Pop radio was leaning toward polished production, synth-heavy arrangements, and a younger wave of artists redefining mainstream sound. For a veteran singer whose roots traced back to the late 1960s, returning to the Top 10 required more than nostalgia—it required relevance.
Ronstadt achieved that without abandoning authenticity. Instead of chasing trends, she leaned into timelessness. The album’s production feels expansive but not gimmicky. The emotional themes are universal rather than topical.
“Cry Like a Rainstorm” exemplifies that strategy. There are no trendy hooks or flashy effects. Its strength lies in emotional honesty.
And that honesty, ironically, made it modern.
The Meaning Beneath the Title
At its core, “Cry Like a Rainstorm” is about permission.
Permission to grieve fully.
Permission to feel without apology.
Permission to let intensity exist without shame.
We often romanticize resilience as stoicism—dry eyes, steady posture, forward motion. But Ronstadt suggests another version of strength: collapse, release, and renewal.
Rainstorms do not apologize for their force. They arrive, they pour, they clear. And afterward, the air feels different—lighter, breathable.
That is the emotional architecture of this song.
Ronstadt does not glamorize suffering. She doesn’t wallow. She shapes sorrow into something finite. There is a beginning, a crescendo, and a quiet after. By the final notes, the storm has passed—not erased, but completed.
Why It Still Matters
Decades after its release, “Cry Like a Rainstorm” feels timeless because it addresses something elemental. In an era increasingly obsessed with curated perfection, its embrace of emotional vulnerability feels almost radical.
The song reminds listeners that tears are not weakness—they are weather. They serve a function. They cleanse, clarify, and eventually give way to calm.
For fans who grew up with Ronstadt’s earlier hits, this track represented maturity. For newer listeners discovering her catalog, it offers proof that vocal brilliance is not merely about range or volume—it is about emotional truth.
Linda Ronstadt’s career is filled with towering performances. But sometimes her most enduring strength lies not in how loudly she sings, but in how honestly she allows silence to exist around her voice.
“Cry Like a Rainstorm” is not the album’s flashiest moment. It doesn’t demand attention. Instead, it waits. It unfolds slowly. And in that patience, it reveals its depth.
When the final note fades, you’re left with that unmistakable sensation after honest tears—the air feels cooler, the sky clearer, the heart slightly lighter.
And that may be the song’s quiet triumph.