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I’m inherently dubious of the celebrity memoir. Some volumes depend entirely on celebrity status, without much thought given to what’s inside. Others assure scandalous specifics about a life the public has seen and commented on from afar but never truly entered. I might not even be the intended readership for the finest of them: I’ve always liked keeping a small distance from the artists I admire, knowing only what I need to know to delve into their work.
Lionel Richie’s autobiography, “Truly,” nevertheless absorbed me. Different from the majority in the category, it is authentically susceptible, agonizing, and frequently quite amusing. Naturally, it mainly highlights his vast musical journey, beginning in 1968 when he joined the Commodores as both a vocalist and saxophonist, contributing his songwriting, singing, and stage presence to catchy tracks like “Brick House” and softer songs like “Easy Like Sunday Morning.” After his departure from the group in 1982, Richie launched his first solo album, self-titled, sparking a string of number-one triumphs throughout the eighties. He stands as one of my most beloved architects of the love ballad, and, in the book, he writes candidly concerning the relationships that fueled them—including those that concluded painfully. Richie, now seventy-six, appears to have come to terms with his shortcomings; he isn’t hesitant to examine them, and to permit a reader to witness those reflections. Consistently, there is a firm resolve not to excuse himself, yet, too, a kindness toward his younger self. For The New Yorker Radio Hour, I conversed with Richie concerning artistry, memory, and a vintage Commodores tee I stumbled upon some years back. Our discussion has been shortened and edited for understanding.
I gather vintage music shirts—I have for my entire adult life—and I believe I encountered someone who perhaps worked for the Commodores’ road crew, because they sold me all of this merchandise from the ’81 tour. I acquired this ’81 tour crew shirt, and it reads on the back, “They make it rock, we make it roll.”
No. That is magnificent. Oh, my word, my friend. Unreal!
In the book, you mention [the Commodores song] “Zoom” as the product of a visionary and someone who held an idealistic view of their environment. It piqued my interest in how songs appeared to you early in life, even before you consciously understood them, or before you tinkered at the piano with your grandmother, those sorts of instances.
It’s remarkable, as you’re never certain—people are given the chance to label you, and you somewhat conform to the narrative they create about you. . . . The way they depicted me was “He struggles with focus.” Nowadays, it’s referred to as A.D.H.D. But in those days . . . the solution was “Lionel, stop drumming on the desk. Lionel, would you like to join the rest of the class?”
I constantly pondered, Why can’t I stay attentive to what the teacher is saying in class? Why can’t I concentrate on the service in church? As I was always lost in thought, somewhere beyond this present reality. As time progressed, I began tuning in more and more to that other dimension. And as I matured—particularly leading up to my involvement with the Commodores—I started associating with people, meeting other remarkable artists and extraordinary writers and grasped, merely sitting with them briefly, Why is their leg jittering during our conversation? Why is their head bobbing as we speak? They share the same hurdle that I had. Is that a flaw, or is that what’s called creativity? I had to more or less grasp, and the word I will employ is “discover”—if I were to modify the title of this entire book and simply frame it realistically, it’s “How I Discovered Lionel Richie.” Due to it stemming from all those moments of being attuned to myself and fretting, Why can’t I be like the others? I know the answer, yet I don’t dwell on that. What I’m concerned with is: what awaits on the other side that I’m listening to is more stimulating. I mean, you’re a poet. You understand. Once you begin heeding that voice, and placing trust in that voice, you grow more and more powerful in your own right.
Indeed.
But “Zoom” was the piece that enabled me to articulate my ultimate objective moving forward.
Early in the book, you assert that you didn’t start to mend until you became a songwriter. And I wondered whether, through the creation of this book, you discovered fresh methods to heal, or elements that you were healing from, unbeknownst to you.
You’ve nailed it. When I started this book, I intended to share some fantastic stories, keeping it fairly superficial, no complexities. I didn’t foresee it taking me on a journey of—it isn’t one peak after another. It was the peak, followed by the valley. The book delves into the valley. And then arrived the subsequent summit, and then one must descend back into the valley. Well, each time I plunged into the valley, it was agonizing, because there were elements within this book that I wished to erase from my memory. However, what truly sculpted my essence was that I had to confront my vulnerabilities. I wasn’t the sports enthusiast playing football, basketball. I wasn’t the most popular individual on campus. I wasn’t the charismatic ladies’ man. I was the most timid individual in the world, truly. Excruciatingly shy, verging on misery—so it was that I had to unveil that aspect. That, in fact, rendered the book relatable. Because what transforms a recording into a phenomenon, if you will, is when people approach me at the conclusion of the song and express, “Lionel, I’ve experienced the identical sentiment.”
The book is immensely vulnerable, and, furthermore, you seem to be at peace with your early contradictions. What I mean is, you write about your time at the bomb factory and your stance against the war, while there is that touching early scene of you physically enduring a beating from a tormentor in a way that made me think about how, quite frequently, a memoir serves as a stage to display the utmost version of oneself and proclaim one’s greatness, especially from a position where you possess these distinctions and this past. I was deeply affected by how you were still grappling with yourself as the book progressed.
Yeah. What defines a man? What shapes an individual? My upbringing was during the sixties and seventies, where it was customary to hear, “Stand tall, son! Someone roughed you up? Retaliate!” It wasn’t like that—the fragility of, “I have no desire to rough anyone up.” And the humor of that tormentor, if one truly desires the truth: the tormentor showed up one night at a concert with his wife, and you could tell he was irritated as his wife repeatedly exclaimed, “Oh, Lionel is simply wonderful!” I wanted to assert that I had ultimately bested the tormentor. [Chuckles.] Although what transpires in all of this is that it was agonizing. . . . This individual intended to fight regardless of my attempts to circumvent what was forthcoming. It was unavoidable, and merely something I had to manage to the point of embarrassment. As you have to return home and face your father, and he asks, “Why didn’t you retaliate?” And that marks the conclusion of the masculine narrative. Yet, I wrestle with that internally, given that as time elapses, the tormentor no longer appears to physically assault you. The tormentor then becomes life, continually battering you. Everyone confronts that tormentor, and one has a choice to either declare, I’m going to openly share my thoughts about you, or to casually employ a Tai Chi maneuver until I navigate to the other side. Not everything warrants a battle. Just distance yourself or overcome it, or secure a triumph in some manner. I discerned that, in my circumstance, rather than endeavoring to physically dominate someone, I’ll conquer you here. [He taps his forehead.] Address your needs. Do you require ego gratification? I’ll satiate your ego. Do you require honors? I’ll bestow honors upon you. And upon fulfilling those needs, I simply withdraw. Hopefully, if executed effectively, I shall never encounter you again.
Precisely. There’s abundant generosity within the book. I contemplated how vividly it was populated and how thoughtfully you wrote regarding others and locations. For example, you compose so exquisitely and tenderly regarding Tina Turner, subsequently transitioning into writing about Marvin Gaye’s downfall. And upon reaching these points, I reflected on how your existence has been saturated with numerous individuals from diverse spheres. How did you oversee that equilibrium of neither fully detaching from yourself, yet still affording these individuals the affection they warrant?
Well, one must comprehend that, in life, if you find yourself stating, “I pondered, and I articulated, and I felt, and I executed this, and I accomplished that”—you’re not being truthful. How you’ve arrived here is through someone else imparting knowledge, someone else bestowing something upon you. And you decided, instead of extending gratitude, you claimed that I . . . Yet, I deem it imperative to express that there were pivotal “Aha!” instances in my journey. Do I presume I endured hardships? Do I believe I suffered? Very well, engage with Tina Turner. I had Tina Turner for an entire tour—two tours. The initial tour when she initially departed from Ike, and the second tour where we simply toured collectively. And I witnessed a shattered individual. Although, I observed her crawl back onto that platform and emerge as the magnificent Ms. Turner. Do you understand me? Or you witness Marvin, who was remarkably misunderstood—you’re discussing A.D.H.D., he merely existed on another plane. And one could discern that his lifestyle would not serve him favorably . . . He was unbelievably gifted. Yet, his lifestyle, the individuals surrounding him—these are narratives one must observe. For an aspiring singer like myself during that era, I had the opportunity to witness it prior to entering that realm, via Marvin, and via Smokey [Robinson]. One had the chance to hear another’s story, then suddenly realizes, akin to my father’s words: You can either stumble into every pit along life’s journey, climb out, and subsequently acknowledge that—before advancing to the next endeavor, stumbling into another pit, gaining knowledge, and emerging. Or, one can identify the location of all the pits and circumvent them. In this instance, through engaging with Tina, through engaging with Marvin, and these marvelous artists who had been immersed in it for years, it was merely: Refrain from excessive chatter. Simply listen. And they shall instruct you on the entirety of navigating this tumultuous realm we inhabit.
You possess such a voluminous repertoire of songs that you’ve composed—and not solely for your own self. Although it seems as though the zenith of your form throughout your career has been the love ballad, specifically.
Oh, without question.
I’m not certain if there are many writers who achieve what you do effectively, where you are exceedingly intimate, and the love ballad essentially functions as a tight dialogue between two entities, one of which is the speaker and the other of which could be anyone. I’m curious as to how you refine that sensitivity, and also whether, during the composition of this book, it felt as though you were the speaker addressing yourself, endeavoring to extract some tenderness from the endeavor.
Indeed, I discovered that, when engaging with myself, that mirrors how I engage with the public. That is how I present myself. Thus, I had to recognize—the most crucial note I shall ever strike in my existence is referred to as the whisper. It’s not forceful.
One does not exclaim “I love you.” One whispers “I love you.” One does not scream “You hurt me.” Do you genuinely wish to know you’ve caused someone pain? They convey it with great subtlety. “Hey, that was—I’m devastated.” That’s gentle. Hence, one must draw as near to the microphone as one can, and it essentially translates to my whispering in your ear. It’s not the grand notes. It’s the tenderness and the compassion that accompanies something within the silence. Within the whisper. Now, from whom did I glean that wisdom? Marvin Gaye. Do you grasp my meaning?
Affirmatively.
Upon learning that, it transcends technique. It’s credibility. That’s the differentiating factor. And, incidentally, I did not strategize this—that I would pen these love ballads. I believe I mentioned it in the book: the reason I gravitated toward the love ballad is due to five other individuals presenting the most exceptionally funky compositions in the world, so an up-tempo vibe was not forthcoming . . . I didn’t endeavor to venture there. How can I guarantee a song’s inclusion on the album? Here is the slow song. [Chuckles.] Although it was one of those instances where I determined that if one can articulate something meaningful—for example, “When a man’s in love, he’s only got one story”—that suffices. That is the takeaway. You know: “I do love you still.”. . . Amid the anger of the divorce or the rage of separation, there remains, “I apologize. I’m sorry this transpired as it did.” As you did not commence disliking each other. There exists a moment that one longs for. And that’s what I endeavored to capture within these love ballads.
And it is captured within the book, as well. What you articulated: simply because you falter at the culmination of the arc of love, that does not imply that the love was a failure. I believed you executed that admirably in discussing your own relationships and your own trajectory of love—which is, again, another display of vulnerability.
Indeed. It is crucial to—and I was compelled to learn this, due to guilt in failure. You know: “Why was I unable to—? What was I contemplating? That was imprudent!” With the advantage of hindsight, one discerns it clearly, yet at the time, there exists something that one must recall. You’re thirty years of age, you’re twenty-five years of age, you’re thirty-five years of age, and you’re undergoing an experience so profound that it diverts your focus from what was intended to be of significance. I had never attended the Grammys. I had never attended the Oscars. I had never been invited. Hence, you discern that you are progressing daily, and to revert and examine your existence and declare, “I can’t fathom that this transpired, or she asserted that, and I”—no, no, no. It constituted growth. And the sole justification for my advancement to the subsequent stage was, regrettably, my having to endure that. As when I initially arrived in Hollywood, when the Commodores initially arrived, we vowed, “We shall never resemble those other groups that disband. We shall remain unified and ensure that we refrain from those idiotic actions they invariably undertake.” However, the outcome was that we replicated the actions of all the other groups. And Lionel Richie ventured solo, as everyone else does. I continually pondered, How did we succumb to that trap? And subsequently, suddenly, divorce.
It constitutes a rite of passage. I encountered this peculiar predicament in Tuskegee. I approached my pastor, Father Jones, and I expressed, “I necessitate counselling in divorce.” And he responded, “I cannot counsel you.” And I inquired, “Why?” He elucidated, “No one within the church has ever divorced.” That signifies that no one ever departed Tuskegee to the extent of acquiring something novel. The elegance and trials of their lives are positioned within their dwelling, or on the grounds of Tuskegee University. Here I am, journeying to another nation daily at the age of thirty-two, thirty-seven, forty, forty-two. Surely, one jest? And endeavoring to revert home and assert, “Everything remains as I left it. It’s normal.” It altered. Therefore, I had to be compassionate toward progress, and I had to be compassionate toward my family . . . If you heed “Wandering Stranger,” it merely reads: “Please grant me passage through this, and refrain from taking it personally. It transpired—although, you know, I was developing.”
Were you a distinct character within the Commodores as opposed to as a solo artist, or was that solo persona simply an expansion, an augmentation of the embodiment of who you evolved into?
No, the solo entity was merely a continuation. The Commodores served as the proving ground, the experimental collective. I recall that at the base of each song on the album, they traditionally stated there were multiple vocalists. It was merely two of us: myself and Clyde, the drummer. Although what I would execute is one track would assume a [he affects a voice] “A man devoid of direction, with no purpose,” and all of that. And subsequently, I return with [he croons] “You’re once, twice.” Therefore, they surmised that those were two distinct individuals. That’s a character. Hence, whenever I prepared to record, I would allocate approximately ten minutes endeavoring to identify which character I desired to embody. Did it advance? Assuredly, it did, because “All Night Long” incorporated “Well, my friends, the time has come,” and naturally, on that very album was “Hello.”
I prioritized making it engaging to preclude monotony . . . That becomes tedious after approximately four songs, five songs. What shall genuinely differentiate it is: where resides the character?
Lastly, and this is potentially a momentous element, although what resonated most with me regarding the book was its essence. You commence with this scene, I believe it is at Glastonbury—
Glastonbury, certainly. [Chuckles.]
You express, “I can’t believe I’m situated here.” There exists this exquisite essence of disbelief. And that pervades the entirety of the book: this feeling, even though it is a memoir and you are composing from your perspective, of those instances where you sense that you are, “I can’t believe that this constitutes my existence.” You are permeated with gratitude. And I inquire—considering that you are proceeding, and I do not foresee you ceasing or retiring—
No, not soon, I hope. [Chuckles.]
Currently, when you are a judge on “American Idol,” when you are mentoring budding artists, as you are witnessing the musical landscape transform, and you yet exert a substantial influence upon it, do you secure an opportunity to pause and reflect on your own legacy, or are you concentrating and persist with the work?
That constituted one of the more trying components of the book. I consistently embraced the Italian-racecar-driver’s principle, which is, “What’s behind me is inconsequential. What approaches next? What is before me?” I had to reverse, examine what lay behind me, and assess it. For the initial few months after commencing, I recoiled from observing behind me. I had no inclination to dissect each stage of the low preceding the high, preceding the low, preceding the profound low, preceding the high. I was compelled to traverse these elements. The book impelled me to grapple with my reality.
And I will disclose my ritual. I believe it resides within the book. Every morning upon awakening—this remains accurate to this day—prior to rising from bed, I compile a catalog of dilemmas, and a directory of elements. How are the children? What is occurring with the family? What is the status of the bills? . . . And subsequently, I reluctantly proceed to the restroom, and I peer into the mirror, and I vocalize, “Good heavens. Lionel Richie!” In essence: What is this? Of all the countenances that could be reflected in that mirror, it is Lionel Richie. The identical individual I’ve been conversing with for the past seventy-six years. My intent is, it becomes gratitude. Given that this book shall convey to you what I was obliged to regress and comprehend: I persevered through that. It’s not the triumphs, it’s the defeats. It’s the anguish. It’s the struggle. All individuals can posit, “What magnitude of suffering have you endured, Lionel?” No, no. To survive loss—I lost a community of individuals. I lost my mother, my father, my grandmother, and that assemblage. I lost the Commodores. I lost families.
Numerous individuals disintegrate under the mere grief of parents, or merely the grief of offspring, or merely the grief of a divorce. I have witnessed resilient individuals surrender their rationality entirely in reaction to their inability to manage a loss. Although here I stand, prepared to recount the saga. Hence, I theorized that from the narrative’s viewpoint, it would be imperative to be forthcoming and honest about how I experienced vulnerability. Not this self-assured writer, but: Good heavens, I composed this composition. ♦
The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.
Sourse: newyorker.com
