“It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” is the sound of a proud heart learning to let go—not with bitterness, but with the weary grace of someone who’s finally stopped arguing with goodbye.
If you’re looking for the hard facts right away, here they are: Linda Ronstadt recorded “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” for her breakthrough album Heart Like a Wheel (released November 19, 1974). Her version wasn’t initially pushed as a big, standalone A-side; instead, it rose in the public ear as the B-side of her smash single “When Will I Be Loved,” becoming a genuine double-sided hit in 1975. In the U.S., it reached No. 47 on the Billboard Hot 100, No. 20 on Adult Contemporary, and No. 54 on the Country chart (fall 1975). That “modest” peak—No. 47—can look small on paper, but the way the song has lingered in memory proves that chart positions aren’t always the best measure of emotional weight.
Because the deeper story of “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” begins long before Ronstadt ever sang it. The song was written by Paul Anka specifically for Buddy Holly, recorded in October 1958, and released to the world with an almost unbearable twist of fate: after Holly’s death in February 1959, it became a posthumous hit, reaching No. 13 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 and No. 1 in the U.K. Anka later spoke about donating his songwriter royalties to Holly’s widow—one of those small, humane gestures that makes the history of popular music feel less like an industry and more like a community, shaken by loss.
So when Linda Ronstadt brings the song into her own orbit on Heart Like a Wheel, she’s not merely covering an old favorite—she’s inheriting a piece of American pop’s fragile mythology. And yet, what’s remarkable is how she makes it feel utterly personal, as though the lyric had been waiting for her voice all along. Ronstadt had a rare gift: she could sing with technical poise and still sound like she’d just discovered the emotion mid-line, right there in the studio, as if the words surprised her too.
The meaning of “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” is deceptively simple. On the surface, it’s a breakup song built on a classic defense mechanism: I’ll pretend I’m fine, because admitting I’m not would break me. But the lyric isn’t triumphant—it’s protective. The phrase “it doesn’t matter anymore” is not a victory lap. It’s something you tell yourself in the mirror when the room feels too quiet, when the phone doesn’t ring, when pride and longing keep trading places like strangers on a late train. Ronstadt sings that line with a kind of seasoned restraint—less teenage indignation, more adult understanding. The hurt is still there; it’s just been folded neatly, like a letter you can’t throw away.
Placed inside Heart Like a Wheel—an album that became her first to reach No. 1 on the Billboard 200—the song also gains a larger resonance. This was the era when Ronstadt wasn’t just succeeding; she was reshaping what a mainstream American singer could do with genre. Country, pop, rock, oldies—she treated them not as borders but as neighboring rooms in the same house. “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” sits in that house like a familiar chair: not flashy, not new, but perfectly shaped by time and use.
And perhaps that’s why it endures. Some songs glitter because they chase the moment; this one lasts because it doesn’t. It accepts the blunt truth that love sometimes ends without a clean explanation, and that dignity is often just heartbreak learned in public silence. In Linda Ronstadt’s hands, “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” becomes less a statement than a fragile vow: I will keep going, even if I have to whisper the courage into existence. It isn’t closure—it’s survival with good posture.
