Nice timing, Lionel

By Victoria Johnson

Lionel Richie

Coming Home

Island Def Jam

One out of five stars

Whether or not Lionel Richie is reaping the benefits of Nicole’s anorexia publicity is moot-this album still stinks.

But what is to be expected from a man who hasn’t done anything relevant since The Commodores-wait, was that even relevant?

I don’t know. I hadn’t been born.

What I do know is that this over-produced, plastic-wrapped R&B-soul-salsa-reggae fusion stuff is abhorrent.

Richie tries to be Stevie Wonder, Al Green, Bob Marley and Gloria Estefan (to name a few), and he fails at every juncture.

One song has a Latin dance theme and the next is a wannabe rude boy synthesized reggae travesty.

And those songs are actually the highlights of this heinous album.

Most of the other songs are attempts at the dim-the-lights-and-get-seeeeexxxy mood.

When I listened to this album, all I could think of was how much I wanted to dim the lights and overdose on sleeping pills.

Now I know you’re probably thinking that I should commit suicide to an album I like, right?

No.

If I took a bottle of sleeping pills and put on an album I really like, such as, I don’t know, The Songs of Leonard Cohen, I’d be fighting for consciousness just so I could listen to the rest of the disc.

With Coming Home, I’d be desperate to leave a world that produced such a vapid, synthetic, abominable waste of studio time.

How to best sum this up? One way: This album reminds me of everything that is wrong with music-creating pointless, insipid noise just to make a few bucks-and then, to grind some salt in the wounds, it’s a blatant exploitation of a daughter’s illness and trash-reality notoriety for publicity campaign (I saw the press release-trust).

Another way: Man, oh man, oh man.

I have a prescription to fill?