The Commodores of Tuskegee Sail on a Golden Sea of Hits

A heroic statue of Booker T. Washington surveys Tuskegee, Ala., where the onetime slave founded the respected Tuskegee Institute 97 years ago. The likeliest candidates for similar homage next in Tuskegee are the six homegrown young men clambering over the Booker T. monument at right. They are the Commodores, the nation’s preeminent soul group and creators of an economic boom that has converted the town’s biggest cash crop from cotton to rhythm and blues. Tuskegee is so proud of the six, all institute graduates, that it renamed the town center “Commodore Circle.”

The gang boogied together for a decade, but not until last year did they ignite. Two of their songs, Easy and Brick House, made No. 1 in R&B, then leapt to the pop charts and went straight to the top—a remarkable feat (and a successful “crossover” that Tuskegee’s famed botanist George Washington Carver might have envied). The Commodores reaped a boggling $6.5 million on a 70-city tour (outgrossing Peter Frampton, among others) and sold $25 million worth of records. One more measure of their success: the three nominations they earned at next week’s Grammy Awards on ABC.

The past year, unhappily, also brought tragedy. Bassist Ronald LaPread’s wife, Kathy, died of cancer last spring while the group was in London, a blow that stunned them into a month of cancellations. (Two subsequent albums have been dedicated to her.) They were further shaken in October when hundreds of fans were turned away from an SRO concert at Madison Square Garden and some of them rampaged through New York streets, robbing and beating bystanders. “It’s a shame that a few kids can ruin a show for the masses,” says lead singer Lionel Richie. “It’s gotten to a point where people are terrified to go to concerts. That’s sad, because inside, it’s okay.”

The Commodores were born when six freshmen showed up for a Tuskegee Institute talent night with little in common besides growing up in the South. Richie and LaPread are Tuskegee natives. Trumpet player William King is from Birmingham. Drummer Walter “Clyde” Orange and lead guitarist Tommy McClary come from Florida, while keyboard player Milan Williams is a Mississippian. Originally called the Jays, they chose their present name when King flipped open a dictionary and ran his finger down the page. “We lucked out,” he laughs. “We almost became ‘The Commodes.’ ”

From the start the Commodores avoided rote R&B formulas, preferring an eclectic sound that would appeal to white audiences. “It was obvious that the more versatile you could be, the more people you could attract,” says King, who with Richie is the closest thing to a leader of the egalitarian band. “And the more money you could make.” Rehearsing in the basement of a house belonging to Richie’s Grandma Foster, they analyzed groups ranging from the Temptations to the Rolling Stones. “One evening,” King remembers, “we all packed into a little VW and rode 200 miles to see Elton John. We had to know what made that dude so hot.”

After graduating from Tuskegee (three of them have business degrees; only one majored in music), the group played both the chitlins circuit and all-white deb parties, occasionally tangling with Jim Crow. In 1969 they migrated to the famed Smalls’ Paradise in Harlem, where they were spotted by an entrepreneur and PR sharpie, Benny Ashburn, who offered to manage the band. (Ashburn, 52, is now the silent Commodore, taking a one-seventh cut of the profits instead of a manager’s usual 20 to 25 percent.) He signed them onto the ocean liner S.S. France and shrewdly booked them in Monte Carlo when Ed Sullivan was on vacation there. The gambit paid off with a Sullivan Show offer and an eventual worldwide tour. (They’re still unrivaled soul champs abroad, and Easy was the biggest-selling single of 1977 in Brazil.)

All six Commodores have written songs for each of their six albums; the group votes on which tunes to record. “When you’re outvoted,” says Richie, “you have to accept it and put your energy into the songs you didn’t write. When we go into the studio, we say leave your Mercedes, your money and your ego outside the door.” (Their only rupture came in 1970 when King briefly and unsuccessfully tried his hand as a tennis pro.) Peace prevails on the road thanks largely to a majority-rule system of fining members who violate the band’s rigid code of conduct, e.g., absolutely no drugs, strict punctuality, etc. Richie holds the record, a $2,000 fine, for being in a hotel room when someone was puffing on a joint. “And I don’t even smoke the stuff,” he groans.

The Commodores live with their families in modest homes in Tuskegee and still write and rehearse there. “We’re unique because our life-style is so ordinary,” King says. “This is our home and always will be. We don’t get burned out on the hype.” Richie agrees, “Of course we all love Hollywood. But the California scene is something you enjoy as a novelty, another side of the coin to Tuskegee. Enjoy it, then let’s get back home.”