Lionel Richie’s Reign Over Romantic Ballads

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I am naturally hesitant about the celebrity memoir genre. Some of these books rely too heavily on the fame of the author, with little care for what’s on the pages inside. Some promise scandalous insights into a existence that has been observed and judged from afar but never truly understood. I might not be the intended reader even for the best of these works: I have always been more comfortable keeping a respectful distance from the artists I admire, only knowing enough to appreciate the works they produce.

However, Lionel Richie’s autobiography, “Truly,” completely charmed me. It differs from many other books in this category by being truly open, poignant, and often very amusing. As would be expected, it centers on his vast musical journey, which started in 1968 when he became a member of the Commodores as both a singer and saxophone player, lending his skills in writing, singing, and performance to infectious tunes such as “Brick House” and soulful tracks like “Easy Like Sunday Morning.” After departing from the band in 1982, Richie launched his début, self-titled solo project, which sparked a chain of extraordinary achievement throughout the eighties. Above all, he’s a master composer of heartfelt songs, and, in his writing, he speaks candidly about the relationships that fueled them—including the ones that ended in heartbreak. Richie, now seventy-six, seems to have come to terms with his missteps; he does not hesitate to examine them, and allows the reader to witness his self-evaluations. Throughout, there is a firm determination to not excuse himself, but also a sense of kindness toward his younger self. For The New Yorker Radio Hour, I engaged in a conversation with Richie about artistic skill, recollection, and an old Commodores shirt that I came across many years prior. Our dialogue has been condensed and edited for clarity.

I am a collector of vintage music T-shirts—it’s been a lifelong pursuit—and I believe I located an individual who may have been employed by the Commodores’ road crew, because they offered me this collection of items from the ’81 tour. I obtained this ’81 tour crew shirt, which reads, “They make it rock, we make it roll.”

No way. That is incredible. Oh, my goodness. Wow!

In the book, you mention that [the Commodores song] “Zoom” reflects the vision of an optimist who viewed the world with idealism. This piqued my interest in the early origins of your songwriting, even before you fully understood its essence, or before your piano sessions with your grandmother.

It’s fascinating, because one never knows—individuals are inclined to define you, and one tends to follow the narrative they create about you. . . . They would describe me as someone who “struggled to concentrate.” It would be diagnosed as A.D.H.D. now. But in those days . . . the reaction was often, “Lionel, cease tapping on the desk. Lionel, would you consider focusing with the rest of the class?”

I often pondered, “Why is it difficult to focus on the instructor in class? Why can’t I focus during religious services?” My mind was constantly wandering, transported to another world. As time progressed, I began to pay greater attention to this other dimension. And as I matured—especially as I approached my involvement with the Commodores—I started connecting with others, meeting brilliant minds and talented writers. I noticed something as I sat and observed them: Why do they fidget while we converse? Why does their head sway as we talk? They experienced a similar predicament. Was this a flaw, or was it a form of creativity? I had to learn, or rather “discover”—if I could alter the book’s title to something more grounded, it would be “How I Discovered Lionel Richie.” It emerged from these moments of self-reflection, worrying, “Why can’t I be like everyone else?” I wasn’t concerned about the reason, but rather excited by the possibilities that awaited in the realm I was tuning into. You, being a poet, understand. As you begin to listen to that inner voice, and have faith in its guidance, your sense of self becomes fortified.

Indeed.

“Zoom” allowed me to articulate my personal mission statement.

You remark early on that the healing process began once you started writing songs. I was wondering if, as you created this book, you discovered fresh healing methods, or uncovered wounds you were unaware of healing.

You’ve hit on something critical. I commenced this literary endeavor with a collection of fascinating stories, intending to keep it light and superficial. But I was unaware that it would evolve into a journey through not just highs but also valleys. The narrative centers on these lows. After each pinnacle, there was an inevitable return to the depths. Every plunge into the valley was agonizing, as I was forced to confront aspects of my past I wanted to keep buried. However, it was through grappling with my vulnerabilities that the essence of my being was truly shaped. I was not the star athlete, the campus heartthrob, or a smooth ladies’ man. In reality, I was excruciatingly shy, to the point of discomfort—and it was that insecurity that I had to confront. It was through that transparency that the book was made relatable. The key to a successful record is that it resonates with listeners who approach me and say, “Lionel, I’ve had a similar experience.”

The book displays tremendous vulnerability, and you seem to be at ease with your contradictions from an early period. You write about working in a weapons factory while holding anti-war sentiments. There’s a poignant scene in which you are physically assaulted by a bully, which made me consider how memoirs are often used to celebrate one’s successes from the height of one’s achievements. I was touched by the way in which you continued to grapple with your own flaws and contradictions throughout the narrative.

Precisely. What constitutes a man? What shapes an individual? I matured in the sixties and seventies, amidst the ethos of, “Stand up straight, son! Did someone beat you up? Go fight them again!” The vulnerability of not wanting to engage in physical conflict was not encouraged. The irony of that bully is that he showed up at a concert one night with his wife, and he seemed agitated by his wife’s constant praise of my performance. I could have said I eventually beat the bully. [Laughs.] But the pain remained . . . He was intent on fighting, no matter how much I sought to evade it. It was unavoidable, and I had to endure the humiliation. Returning home to face my father, who questioned, “Why didn’t you fight back?” That marked the end of the manly story. But it remains in my thoughts. The bully does not continue to attack you physically. Instead, life becomes the aggressor, assaulting you every day. We each have that antagonist before us, and we can choose to speak our minds or gracefully navigate around them. Not every issue requires combat. Avoid it, overcome it, or prevail in another manner. I discovered that, in my situation, instead of seeking physical retribution, I can triumph mentally. [He taps his forehead.] Address what needs to be addressed. Do you need validation? I will give you validation. Do you need recognition? I will give you recognition. And after meeting those needs, I withdraw. If done correctly, I’ll avoid future confrontations.

Indeed. There is a significant degree of generosity expressed in the book. I noted the detail and thoughtfulness in your descriptions of individuals and places. You write with beauty and tenderness about Tina Turner, then transition into Marvin Gaye’s suffering. It struck me how many individuals from diverse backgrounds have been part of your life. How did you find the balance between introspection and honoring the individuals who shaped you?

Well, we must recognize that it is dishonest to solely attribute one’s achievements to one’s own actions, thoughts, or feelings. Our achievements are the result of the teachings and influences passed down by others. Choosing to ignore this, by claiming personal ownership, denies them the recognition they deserve. I believe in emphasizing the significant “Aha!” moments in my life. Did I experience struggles? Did I suffer? Well, consider Tina Turner. I had the honor of touring with her—twice. The first was after she had just separated from Ike, and the second was a joint tour. I witnessed a person in distress. Yet, I also saw her ascend the stage and transform into the iconic Ms. Turner. Or consider Marvin, who was often misunderstood—you bring up A.D.H.D., but he existed on a different plane. It was evident that his lifestyle choices would have detrimental consequences. His talent was unparalleled. Yet, he had a troubling personal life and was surrounded by problematic individuals. These accounts provide crucial lessons. As an aspiring singer, I had the opportunity to see, through Marvin and Smokey [Robinson], the dangers before entering the arena. You have an opportunity to hear other people’s experiences, and you realize, as my father said, you can either stumble into every pitfall, struggle to climb out, and learn from each error, or locate the pitfalls and navigate around them. In listening to Tina and Marvin, and other veteran artists, the lesson was simple: Say little. Just listen. They will teach you how to navigate this confusing world.

You have amassed an impressive collection of songs, composed not only for yourself, but it appears you excel in crafting love songs.

Oh, absolutely.

I am not sure that many songwriters can do what you do so well, capturing an intimate and profound exchange between two individuals, with one being the speaker and the other representing anyone. How do you develop this awareness, and while writing this book, did it feel as though you were speaking to yourself, seeking to draw out kindness from the experience?

Yes, and in speaking to myself, I learned that it’s how I address the public. It’s my method of presentation. I had to learn that the most critical note in my life is the whisper, not the scream.

You don’t proclaim “I love you.” You whisper “I love you.” And if you truly want someone to understand the impact of their actions, you tell them softly. “Hey, man, I’m devastated.” That is soft. So, you approach the microphone, whispering in someone’s ear, emphasizing the tenderness and compassion within the quiet moments. That’s Marvin Gaye’s influence.

Understood.

Once you truly comprehend the idea, technique becomes secondary to believability. And, incidentally, writing love songs was not my intention. I think I mention in the book that it was a result of the other members of the band bringing in the most upbeat, funky songs, so up-tempo was not my domain . . . I didn’t strive for it. I was ensuring my song would be included on the record. Here is the ballad. [Laughs.] I recognized that if I could express something that resonates deeply, like “When a man’s in love, he’s only got one story,” that is all that you need. That’s the message. It’s like saying, “I do love you still.”. . . Amidst the pain of divorce or separation, there is still regret and remorse over how things unraveled. We never began with animosity. There’s a memory of missing that feeling. That is what I try to capture in my love songs.

That feeling is also expressed in the book. The sense that even if love ends in failure, the experience was not itself a failure. I believe you captured that sentiment effectively in reflecting on your own relationships, which, again, requires great vulnerability.

Correct. It is essential to recognize—as I had to learn—that there’s remorse in failure. You question, “Why couldn’t I succeed? What was I thinking? That was foolish!” With hindsight, everything appears clearer, but it’s important to remember one’s state of mind at twenty-five, thirty, or thirty-five, as they experience something so consuming that it diverts attention from what should have been the priority. I had never attended the Grammys or the Oscars. So, I was developing personally, and to reflect on the past and condemn my actions—”Oh, my God, I can’t believe that transpired, or she said this, and I”—no, it was part of growth. The next stage of my life was made possible by those experiences. When the Commodores and I arrived in Hollywood, we vowed to remain united, unlike other groups that disbanded. The reality was that we replicated their mistakes. Lionel Richie pursued a solo career. I wondered, how did we fall into that pattern? And then, divorce.

It’s a natural transition. In Tuskegee, I consulted my minister, Father Jones, seeking advice on divorce. He replied, “I can’t counsel you.” “Why?” I asked. “No one in the congregation has ever divorced.” This means no one ventured beyond Tuskegee to explore new experiences. They found the pleasures and trials of their lives within their homes or at Tuskegee University. In contrast, I was traveling to new countries every day at the ages of thirty-two, thirty-seven, forty, and forty-two. Returning home and expecting things to remain the same was unrealistic. It changed. I had to respect growth and extend compassion to my family. In “Wandering Stranger,” I plead for understanding, “Please allow me to go through this, and don’t take it personally. It was something that happened—but, you know, I was growing.”

Were you a different person when you were with the Commodores than as a solo artist, or was your solo identity an evolution, an extension of who you were becoming?

Oh, my identity as a solo artist was a continuation. The Commodores served as a laboratory and proving ground. At the end of each song, it was said that we had multiple singers. It was just Clyde, the drummer, and myself. I would adopt a distinct persona for each track, such as [he assumes a voice] “A man with no direction, with no purpose,” and then [he croons] “You’re once, twice.” The producers believed these were two distinct individuals. No—it’s a theatrical persona. So, prior to recording, I would spend some time developing the character I wanted to play. It absolutely transitioned into my solo work. I ensured that each song was different so that they didn’t sound repetitive. Creating diverse characters was the key.

Finally, I really appreciated the book’s tone. You begin at Glastonbury—

Glastonbury, yes. [Laughs.]

You mention that you couldn’t believe you were there. That sense of disbelief persists, even though it’s a memoir written from your perspective. You maintain gratitude, and it seems as though you are also thinking, “I can’t believe this has been my existence.” As you mentor younger artists on “American Idol,” watching the evolving music scene while still playing a pivotal role, do you step back to reflect on your legacy, or do you focus on the present?

That was one of the most emotionally difficult aspects of the book. I adhered to the principle of the Italian race car driver: “What’s behind me is irrelevant; what lies ahead matters.” I was compelled to face and evaluate my past. Initially, I was reluctant to revisit each phase, the cycles of highs and lows. I had to confront those moments. The book forced me to confront my reality.

I’ll share my routine, which I believe is included in the book. Each morning, before getting out of bed, I review my list of concerns: the children, the family, the finances. Then, I proceed to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and exclaim, “God damn. Lionel Richie!” I consider that it could have been anyone, yet it’s my reflection, the same individual I’ve known for seventy-six years. This awareness fosters gratitude. The book underscores that I had to experience all that. It’s not about winning, but about losing, about pain, about struggle. Everyone may underestimate the challenges I have faced. To endure loss—the loss of a close-knit community, parents, grandparents, the Commodores, and families—is incredibly difficult.

Many collapse under the weight of parental loss, the loss of children, or divorce. I’ve witnessed previously resilient individuals lose their composure when unable to cope with such setbacks. Yet, I am here to share my story. So, from that perspective, it was crucial to be open about my vulnerabilities. Not as a confident songwriter, but: Oh, my God, I wrote this song. ♦

The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.

Sourse: newyorker.com

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