R. Kelly Touches Us All

When I heard the rumblings last year about a new R. Kelly album, my whoop-di-doo-o-meter registered a negative 3. I’ve never been a big fan of the “hoodlum with a heart of gold” school of R&B… and then there was that sex scandal. He handled that so badly. Really, R., everyone knows that you have to cut off their tongues and hands so they can’t identify you later.

So it was with much protestation that I let my friend Patty O’Mallory play me a selection from this new album. He introduced ‘Trapped in the Closet’ to me as a complex and delicately rendered tale of domestic strife, each track an elegant “chapter” of a visionary masterwork. He pressed play. My distaste quickly gave way to prune-faced disgust – “there’s no tune! and the lyrics are stream-of-consciousness!” – which evolved into confusion – “wait, this second track has the same aimless instrumentation” – then wonderment – “did he just say the neighbor burst in brandishing a spatula?” – incredulity – “did he just say ‘I said what, you said damn, I said I know?’ and why is there still no tune?” – awe – “there’s a midget in the closet! and still no tune!” – and finally fanatical flabbergastification. “This is it,” I declared, “the Ulysses of our generation!”

Now, R. Kelly knows his shiznit is radicizzally insurrectionizzlist, but he’s mistaken as to the nature of his innovation. He claims he is a genius for pioneering what he daringly labels “hip-hopera.” Most fans of the genre would credit that honor instead to Prince Paul’s ‘A Prince Among Thieves’ (an outstanding album with, among other virtues, a tune… several in fact), released in 1999. However, as I just learned this evening, most fans would be wrong because the Animaniacs beat both Prince Paul and R. Kelly to the punch with their 1997 album, 'Animaniacs Starring In A Hip-Hopera Christmas.’ Yakko, Wakko, and Dot in da house.

No, R. Kelly’s genius is in the way he shatters our narrow modern notions of lyricism. He eschews the hackneyed verse/chorus structure. He heroically dismantles our feeble dependence on meter and melody. He altogether transcends the primitive habit of rhyming (though, oddly, I read an interview in which he congratulated himself on his ability to deliver the complex narrative in rhymed prose, which is a surprising claim given his failure even to capitalize on the opportunities presented by a character named Bridget having an affair with a MIDGET). But even amongst these bold innovations, his greatest accomplishment is the subtle blend of microscopic detail with gritty dialogue:
- He says “move.” / She says, “no.” / He says “move.” / She says, “no.” / “BITCH MOVE!” / She moves.
- whoo while Twon & Sylvester sniffin’ around / tryin’ a figure out what’s that smell / as they turn and look at each other like whaaat the hell?
- *Cough cough* *cough cough* / Twon starts coughin'. / *cough cough*
- Then she cries out
“Oh my goodness, / I'm about to climax.” /
And I said, “Cool.”
- Then the midget takes his inhaler out / and says, “This is not good for my heart.”
- whoooo the midget faints again / while Twon and Sylvester is trippin’ / “The midget is the baby's.....daddy” / whoo!
- The midget say “God I think I just shit'ted on myself”

Best of all, he has figured out how to convey heightened emotion and narrative tension by simply singing louder. It’s a masterpiece. A towering accomplishment in the history of musical endeavor. A virtuosic reflection on the grit, glory, and heartbreak of the human condition.


But would you expect anything less from a man who pees on fourteen-year-old girls?