1983 was an extraordinary year for Pop music. Maybe the biggest ever. “Beat It,” “Billie Jean,” “1999,” “Little Red Corvette,” “Every Breath You Take,” “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” are just a few of the many gargantuan singles from that year. To read through the Billboard Hot 100 for 1983 is to read through some of the most played Pop radio and MTV songs of all time. The Grammy for Album of the Year for 1983 went to Lionel Richie for “Can’t Slow Down.” In 1996, everyone could agree on Lionel Richie. On “All Night Long,” “Hello” and all of the greige in between. He pleased everyone and offended no one. He was a handsome, smooth, familiar opiate calming any concern for the underbelly of Reaganism. 

Ironically, in spite of his breakthrough album’s title, all Lionel Richie ever did was slow things down. “All Night Long” and “Dancing on the Ceiling” were upbeat outliers for Richie. At heart, he was a balladeer. But not just your run of the mill, slow dance balladeer. No -- Lionel Richie was an elite slow walker. He sings with the patience and tenderness of kindly sloth, blessed with a breezy, warm voice. He milks every millisecond out of each second he sings. At its best, it can be nothing short of hypnotic.

Three years after “Dan’t Slow Down” was the equally massive “Dancing on the Ceiling.” And then, inconceivably, he virtually disappeared. Aside from a greatest hits package with three new, forgettable tracks, Lionel Richie did not release new music again until 1996. That’s ten years. In the interim, Hip Hop really happened. Grunge really happened. Alternative Rock started to really happen. And R&B started to really happen, again. The charts were no longer filled with middle of the road, genre-less Pop songs designed for everyone. To stay relevant, Lionel Richie was going to have to pick a new direction, it seemed.

The decade long break has been explained in many ways. Some attribute it to his long and public divorce. Some say it was on account of disputes with his record label. Others still contend that there was nothing abnormal about it and that Lionel Richie simply likes to take his time and his space. None of those explanations, though, account for what seems to have been a case of writer’s block mixed with some hesitance about re-finding his place in a market that was changing too fast for the slowest singer in the world. To make it in 1996, Lionel Richie was going to need help.

That help came in the form of sixty four credited musicians and thirty five credited producers. If you need to read that sentence again to confirm what your eyes just told your brain, I understand. Read it again. Sixty four credited musicians and thirty five credited producers. That is a sentence that should be reserved for major philharmonic orchestras and their list of patrons. Right?

The product of this small army was “Louder Than Words,” an extremely professional and equally boring hour of slightly modern R&B from Lionel Richie, with assists from Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam and honorary Commodore, James Anthony Carmichael.

Of the fifty shades of greige that Richie has mastered, “Louder Than Words” operates mostly in the shade of downtempo balladry that sits somewhere between Babyface and Sade. Given the milieu, Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam, who’d scored massive hits for Mary J. Blige, Janet Jackson and others, were fitting producers. They helped add considerable bottom to Richie’s buttery vocals. However, while the bass and beats were updated considerably, the melodies on “Louder Than Words” lag. And, if history proves anything, it is that Lionel Richie wins when the melodies are slow and simple (“Hello” and “Truly”) or when the beat picks up (“Dancing the Ceiling” and “All Night Long”). The former plays to his patience as a singer and the latter plays to his feathery blandness.

Nearly every track on “Louder Than Words” is about the yearning of love’s lost or love’s distance. “Piece of Love,” “Still in Love,” “Can’t Get Over You” and “Don’t Want to Lose You” are all virtually the same lyrical subject painted either slightly greyer or beiger. To be clear, they all sound like very expensive, labored-over R&B.  But Richie’s voice simply lacks the bass and the grit that is required to land the yearning and testifying of the form. While Richie’s voice is certainly a beautiful and capable instrument, it will never be mistaken for Keith Sweat’s or Usher’s. 

Of the singles, “Ordinary Girl,” co-written by Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds almost delivers the melody that Richie needs. It’s a solid, era-appropriate R&B song with better than average bass. But it stays stuck in second gear, which is exactly where Lionel Richie doesn’t want to be. And it also features on of the most unironically shitty and least romantic choruses ever written:

All I want is an ordinary girl

All I need is an ordinary girl

Ordinary

Someone to love me

On the way out, Richie leaves us with two gifts. The first is the Country-ish Soul ballad, “Don’t Want to Lose You.” Save for some glitchy synth effects, presumably to modernize what is otherwise standard Lionel Richie fare, this is the singer in his element. He gently milks a melody, waiting to float a big old chorus. “Don’t Want to Lose You” is almost exactly like a Kenny Rogers song with 2% more soul. And, frankly, that is the formula that made Lionel Richie a superstar

The album closer, “Climbing” is a bananas, Browadway-ready epic, co-written with mega-ballad machine, David Foster. Complete with flutes, strings, electric guitars and at least three major tempo shifts, this is Lionel Richie’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It has fun moments. It has pretty moments. Richie goes big and almost sounds believable. The orchestra takes you for a ride and closes, no doubt, to a standing ovation. You can’t help but want to stand up and applaud yourself, only to wonder, “Did I love this song or am I just happy it’s all over?”

“Louder Than Words” is a meticulously average Contemporary R&B album from a well above average singer. It was an elaborate costume that Lionel Richie seemed compelled to try on. It didn’t fit. But, alas, he sounded patiently pleasant as ever, he avoided the pressure to rap and there’s no autotune. He left, minimally, with his brand intact.

by Matty Wishnow