On Monday, Dolly Parton announced that she was taking herself out of the running for induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Rather than participate in the annual hero-worship rigamarole, Parton RSVPed with a firm no thanks. “Even though I am extremely flattered and grateful to be nominated for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, I don’t feel that I have earned that right,” she wrote in a statement. “I really do not want votes to be split because of me, so I must respectfully bow out.”
The move surprised Parton’s fans, but it isn’t the first time she’s dodged a coveted honor. She twice declined the Presidential Medal of Freedom from the Trump administration, and she’s said she likely wouldn’t accept one from the Biden administration either, to avoid the appearance of a political affiliation. Her self-recusal from Rock Hall consideration may hint at parallel concerns about choosing sides, and raises questions about her own enduring relevance versus that of the institution. And while it would be easy to read her response as just another example of her widespread benevolence, what it underscores most of all is that only Dolly defines Dolly.
Parton has always battled other people’s assumptions about her: a dumb blonde, a floozy who can’t write her own songs or play guitar with her acrylic nails. Her ability to flip these put-downs with a laugh and a smile has always been one of her strong suits. She’s carefully avoided calling herself a feminist, but that hasn’t kept her from demolishing sexist assumptions throughout her career. (A 1977 interview with Barbara Walters—where the journalist chided Parton’s looks, pressed her about being a “hillbilly,” and asked invasive questions about her body—has often circulated as an egregious example.) And though her public persona is gracious and upbeat, Parton has meticulously maintained it. She’s managed to avoid polarizing controversies for nearly 60 years, allowing her to expand her fan base across multiple generations and millions of people without alienating too many of them. Her appeal to all sides is, if nothing else, shrewd business.
In her Rock Hall statement, Parton also claimed that she hadn’t yet made a sufficiently rock’n’roll album to have earned her place there. (Though I’d argue a song like “Baby I’m Burnin’” captures the spirit of rock music, even if she hasn’t put out an AC/DC-style scorcher.) Her assertion doesn’t seem like a case of imposter syndrome—it’s Dolly Parton—but rather a rejection of an outside label that Parton feels doesn’t fit quite right. Her influence has permeated rock and pop spheres for nearly as long as she’s been writing songs. Linda Ronstadt, Rock Hall class of 2014, cited Parton as an influence and inspiration in her early years; Whitney Houston, class of 2020, made her greatest recording with Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” More recently, Dolly devotees have spanned the gamut, from Waxahatchee to Lil Nas X, with no shortage of excellent covers. Her influence lives on in the winking irreverence of Kacey Musgraves, the colorful rebellion of Kesha, and the entire generation of singers who treat “Jolene” like a standard.
The Rock Hall has attempted courting a younger audience, too, inducting Gen-X staples like Green Day, Nine Inch Nails, and Radiohead while expanding its tentative embrace of hip-hop with Jay-Z, Tupac, and N.W.A. In recognizing the wider influence and newer interpretations of rock music, the Rock Hall seems to have stretched in a positive direction. But despite the strong historical overlap of rock and country music, the latter is barely represented in the Rock Hall, beyond the obligatory inclusion of Johnny Cash. The institution has been roundly criticized for not recognizing many women at all, no matter the genre. Parton has never been nominated in her 30 years of eligibility, so why has the Rock Hall decided that now she’s worth their time?
