by R. Kelly
I confronted Neice.
“Who do you want?” I asked.
“Him.”
I died inside as though I’d been shot through the heart. I felt worse than at any moment in my life.
“He’s no good for you,” I told her. “He’s going to hurt you.”
“And you haven’t, Rob?”
“Not like him.”
“Hurt is hurt.”
“I want to make it work for us.”
“It’s too late,” she said. “I’m gone.’”
My life with Neice was over.
“DON’T GIVE ME SOME KID OFF THE STREET … GIVE ME THE PRESIDENT!”
I’ve always had a big inventory of songs. Even starting out, I had more songs than I knew what to do with. That’s because songs float into my mind the way clouds float in the sky.
My work ethic was intense and insane. I thought nothing of staying up three or four nights in a row writing or recording music. At the time, I didn’t know the . downside of working so hard—didn’t want to know it and honestly didn’t care—my 1 music was a 24/7 compulsion.
For me, it was a natural thing. Before I was even sure what “producing” meant, I was producing myself. I was figuring out the grooves; I was coming up with the parts for the keyboard, the bass, the drummer, and the guitarist. I was arranging my own background vocals and most of the time I was singing all the parts.
When I auditioned for Barry Hankerson, he asked me if I’d written the songs that I’d sung. When I told him that I had, he asked me if I could produce, too. I said “Yeah,” because I had wanted him to take me on, but at the time I didn’t really know what “producing” was. I went home and asked my mother.
“The way you put your music together when you’re writing your songs—that means you’re a producer,” my mother said.
“It does?”
“Absolutely! Very few artists can produce themselves. We’re talkin’ about Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Prince—musicians of that caliber. When you have producing talent, though, you need to work it on other artists as well as yourself.”
I agreed. I realized that I wouldn’t be truly great until I made another artist great. I needed to find that artist. I asked my manager to find an artist for me to produce.
One day my manager picked me up and told me I’d be producing David Peaston. I was excited to meet David, a former school teacher, who had become one of the newest hot R&B singers in the country. At that time I would have been excited to meet any celebrity. But I’d seen David on Showtime at the Apollo in the late 1980’s. His version of Billie Holiday’s “God Bless the Child” tore up the crowd. He was an amazing singer, and his fans were calling him the new Luther.
The meeting with David happened before Born into the 90’s hit the airwaves, so David wasn’t really aware of my writing or singing skills.
“Rob,” said my manager, “he’s gonna love your songs. You’re the perfect producer to bring this guy to the next level.”
We drove to the hotel where David was staying, I was in the front seat and my manager was driving. When David came out, he didn’t get into the car; he came to the front and just looked in until it became clear that I needed to hop out and sit in the back seat, so that he could sit up front. David was cordial but cold. Riding over to the studio, there was hardly any talking. The vibe was nervous.
In the studio, I got to work. I played David a bunch of songs I’d written. I just knew that a couple of them were smash hits. He listened without saying a word. Then David motioned my manager to follow him into the recording booth. They didn’t realize the mic was on, so I got to hear their whole conversation.
“I thought I told you to get Teddy Riley. Teddy can’t do nothing but make hits. He s the king of New Jack Swing. Teddy’s the President.”
“Teddy’s not available.”
“Then make him available. Don’t give me some kid off the street … give me the President.”
“Give the kid a chance. You won’t be sorry.”
David finally caved, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d made up his mind that I was no hit-maker.
I tried. I said, “David, you got an unbelievable voice. Now just don’t over-riff on the verse. Sing it like this …” And I’d show him how it went.
When it came time to record, though, Peaston changed it back to his over-riffing style and ruined the whole feel. We went back and forth like that for two hours, until I finally saw what I had to do.
I got up and left.
“Where you going?” the singer and my manager both asked me at the same time.
“I’m going to McDonald’s for a double cheeseburger and fries.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I’m not.”
And I didn’t.
I had another early encounter with a celebrity, who was a helluva lot more pleasant. In fact, it was a highlight of my life because it involved my mother.
My manager also worked with this singer who was an artist that loved my music. She was a down-to-earth lady who reminded me of my mother. And I knew my mother would love to meet her.
“Can I bring my mother over today?” I asked the singer.
“My hair’s all up in curlers, my face is covered with cold cream, and I’m wearing an old housecoat.”
“My mom won’t care,” I said.
“If she doesn’t care, Rob, I don’t care.”
An hour or so later, my mother and I arrived. I didn’t tell Mom the lady’s name. I just introduced her as a friend in the music business.
“Mind if I smoke?” my “friend” asked my mother.
“Take one of my Winstons,” Mom said.
They lit up, drank coffee together, and started discussing everything under the sun—their children, men in their lives, TV shows they liked, movie stars they thought were the cutest. You would have thought they’d grown up together.
After a half-hour of this, I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned to my mother and said, “Mom, do you know who this lady is?”
“She’s your friend. Now she’s my friend, too.”
I repeated. “Do you know who this lady is? Look closely at her face. Look closely in her eyes.”
“I’m looking, Rob, I’m looking.”
Several seconds passed by—and then my mother screamed: “Oh, my Lord! It isn’t! You can’t be!”
My friend started laughing. “I’m afraid it is,” she said.
“You can’t be!”
“I am.”
“Gladys Knight?” asked my mother, still in shock.
“That’s what my parents named me,” said Gladys, hugging her like she was her best friend in all the world.
12-PLAY
On the poster, my name was barely big enough to read. It was the early ‘90s, I was in my mid-twenties, and I was on the road with two big stars. I was the opening act.
The late Gerald Levert, of course, was royalty. His daddy, Eddie Levert, was one of the Mighty O’Jays. Gerald had been lead singer for LeVert, who had big hits with “(Pop Pop Pop) Goes My Mind” and “Casanova.” He’d just released his first solo album, and the title song, “Private Line,” was already a number-one hit.
Glenn Jones, who got second billing, had a hit record with “We’ve Only Just Begun,” a song the ladies loved. He’d also been on the charts with “Show Me” and “Bring Back Your Love.” Like Gerald, Glenn could sing.
I wasn’t thrilled about being third on the bill because when I started singing, folks were just walking in: most of the seats were still empty. I was feeling frustrated because I had worked hard putting my show together with what I had—I didn’t really have lights at all. Because I was the opener, I had what looked like a flashlight on me and I had a smoke machine to enhance my presentation. Lighting has always been extremely important to me. I want to be heard, but I also want to be seen in the right light. Lighting shapes mood. And for me, the mood’s got to be right.
Meanwhile, as the tour went on, “
Honey Love,” my new single, started to really blow up. It got to the point where the promoters saw that I was starting to generate more heat than Glenn Jones. They decided to have him open. That meant I’d come on just before Gerald. Glenn snapped about the rearrangement, and I could understand why. I didn’t want to disrespect him, but I also wanted to reach more people. I was tired of singing to an empty house.
The first night went really well. People were in their seats and got to see me; I was feeling good about the new lineup. The second night, though, they wouldn’t let me use my little light or my smoke machine. I figured if I was moving up in the show, I should get more, not less. The promoters didn’t see it that way. They wanted to keep the spotlight on the bona fide star.
I respected Gerald as an artist and a man, so I went to his dressing room to discuss it.
“I feel you young fella,” Gerald said, “but in this business, you got to pay your dues. My daddy did, I did, and now you’re paying ’em, too. It’s part of the deal.”
I thanked Gerald for breaking it down for me and left. He was right. But that also didn’t stop me from thinking, What can I do that would still ignite this crowd, where I could still stand out and do me, even if I’m singing in the pitch black? I needed a gimmick to take my show to the next level, something that would make people remember me. That’s how I created “12-Play.”
I thought about it for a couple of days, and I finally came up with a little skit, me just talking to the audience. At the point in the show where I would break down “Honey Love,” I would start talking to the audience.
“Can I tell you all something? Can I keep it real? Can I tell you about a dream I had last night? Well, I actually had a dream where I made love to Mary J. Blige.”
Everyone reacted with a big “WOOOOOOOOH!” Mary J.’s first multi-platinum album, What’s the 411? was super-hot, and here I was talking about kicking it with her. The audience got a big kick out of picturing me with Mary.
I went on, “Hey, it was only a dream, but it was so vivid, it felt real; but in this dream, it was more than foreplay—it was 12-play. Y’all wanna hear it? Can I sing it for y’all, tell you how it went?”
Everyone yelled, “YES!”
About now, my piano player started backing me up with sexy runs on the keyboard while I sang:
“One. We’ll go to my room of fun.”
And the whole audience said “Two!” at the same time, as if we d rehearsed it. That s when I knew I had them.
I sang. “I’ll say give me your tongue.”
The audience roared: “THREE!”
“’Cause tonight I’m gonna …” I grabbed my crotch and sang “… fulfill your fantasy!”
And the women went crazy! It was a wrap. I had never heard the crowd scream that loud during the whole tour, during anybody’s show. And that was just on three!
At that moment I had an instant double dose of confidence in who I was on that stage. I knew that I could excite a crowd with more than just having and singing hit records. I now knew that I could tell a story, or give a testimony, or play a game with the audience: That was something that would set me apart from everybody else.
By the time the show got to the next city, fans had already heard about this “12-Play” and started screaming the moment I mentioned Mary J. Word spread like wildfire—and this was way before Twitter and Facebook even existed.
“Girl,” a female from Detroit would tell her friend in Cleveland, “you got to get to the show and hear this R. Kelly sing about his ‘12-Play.’ It’s the bomb!”
When I went to radio stations to promote Born into the 90’s, the DJ’s just wanted to hear about “12-Play.” It was the talk of every town I went to—before I arrived.
“Haven’t recorded it yet,” I’d say, “but I will. Matter of fact, it’s gonna be the title of my second album.”
The song was causing such a sensation that Gerald Levert’s people told my manager that they didn’t want me to perform it any more. The reason they gave—because I hadn’t recorded it yet—was lame. Where is it written that an artist can only perform a song he’s recorded? I just continued to do my show.
My management backed me up. “Long as the ladies keep yelling for it,” they said, “you keep singing it.”
By the end of the tour, no one could deny that the highlight of every show was when I got out there and started discussing a dream I had about loving on Mary J. Blige.
THE MAKINGS OF ME
Born into the 90’s had been a great buzz album, and a great way to introduce R. Kelly to the public. The guys in Public Announcement had been my background singers and dancers, but the plan had always been that on my second album, I would be a solo artist, not the leader of a group. The guys would still be in the videos and tour with me, but the second album was all about launching R. Kelly.
I wanted the next album to be something that was going to stick around for a long time, I wanted people to know that I was in it for the long ride. In order to do that, I had to take the music, my melodies, and my lyrics to the next level. So I went into the studio totally focused on achieving my goal. I wanted people to know that this was real. That I was real.
“12-Play” started out from a skit that I’d come up with to help me get through a tour, but that concept blew up and took on a life of its own. By the time I got home from the tour, the song “12-Play” was already a smash—so there was a big demand for the record. The song was so successful that I decided I would do a whole album called 12-Play. I would spend my sound checks writing new songs for the album, so that I could record them as soon as I got home.
Chicago is the center of my universe—my home as a baby, a boy, a teenager, a young man, and an adult. To me Chicago is the soul of America. It’s the home of my soul. It has its own, unique musical vibe. Chicago has launched the careers of many extraordinary artists from Sam Cooke to Kanye West. It’s the home to many different kinds of amazing music and I’m determined to make sure it’s properly recognized and respected.
I wrote the entire album over a month and a half. But when I started working on it, I had some concerns. I knew the song “12-Play” was strong in concert, and the ladies were loving it, but the popularity of New Jack Swing had helped get me out there. I felt I needed to develop musically if I wanted to have the longevity of a Marvin Gaye or a Stevie Wonder. The song “12-Play” had introduced me to my true self—musically—and there was no going back.
On the one hand, my management and the label were saying that because “She’s Got That Vibe” and especially “Honey Love” did so well, I should be careful not to move too far away from that sound. They wanted to sell records, and the New Jack Swing thing was still the hottest seller out there.
I thought about what they said. This was to be my first album as a solo singer—no group, no one on the cover but me. I didn’t want to make any foolish mistakes. I wanted to bust out with a winner.
On the other hand, I knew in my heart that it was time to take off the training wheels. It was time to introduce R. Kelly—the real R. Kelly—to the world. I felt like a fireman who’d gone through all the training and practice drills. When he finally hears that bell go off, he’s ready to slide down the pole, jump on that big red fire truck, and go put out a fire.
More than just having the gift of music, I think I have the gift of having the mind of a musical scientist. I’m not afraid of research or of trying different things, stretching genres and boundaries. I wanted to bring new things to music. I wanted to be not like anybody else. That desire was as strong for me as being in the music business. I didn’t want to be just some singer or some songwriter. I wanted to be great, and I wanted to be remembered for my work—having the desire, the passion, and being blessed with a gift, and being able to channel where I come from and what I’ve been through. Having a gift is not enough; it needs to be cultivated and shared.
When I went to record the new album, I was able to be both more patient and more innovative in the process. I
started recording the songs I’d already written while I was on the road or downtown at CRC studios. But my mom’s house was the hangout spot. Much as I tried, I couldn’t get her to move out of the ’hood and into a nicer place. She had her friends and her life there, and that’s where she wanted to stay.
“12-Play” was inspired by conversations with my Mom and the aunties and their friends hanging out on the porch. They would be listening to their favorites: Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye and Teddy Pendergrass. One night I was chilling out on the porch with them, and we were listening Teddy Pendergrass.
“That’s baby-makin’ music right there!”
“That’s right! Y’all was born off Teddy Pendergrass. Y’all born off Marvin Gaye!”
“What do you know about this?” one of my aunties challenged me.
And that’s when the direction for the 12-Play album became even clearer. I had to make a baby-makin’ album. If Marvin Gaye did it I wanted to do it. I wanted to make an album that people want to make love to and not just make babies but want to get married, want to love somebody, want to make love to somebody. And to help expand the population. I thought I had a head start with the song “12-Play.”
I was also inspired by the stories that my mom told me about going to the Regal Theater and being able to see everybody, from Marvin Gaye to Stevie Wonder. I wanted that kind of legacy for myself—I wanted people to be sitting on their porches and talking about the 12-Play album some day, like my mom and her friends talked about their favorite artists and their songs. But I wanted to be alive and still in the game—still making hits when that day came.
As far back as my first high school performance and my days singing in the subway, my gut told me that I needed a hook—something that would make people remember my act. When I was creating 12-Play, I wanted to create a buzz and attract attention. Sex and sensuality were going to be my hook. I saw the album as a suite in 12 parts. It was my play to win the attention and love of music fans all over the world. “Sex Me” was deliberately designed to generate a little controversy. A group called H Town had had a big hit with a song called “Knockin’ Da Boots.” “Sex Me” was going to take what they started to a whole new level. And because I’d been to Europe and toured America, playing in Summer Jams and major arenas, I knew how to excite a crowd. Now the challenge was to put that excitement—that was sensuous but also spiritual excitement—into a record that reflected my true heart: one that would reveal the makings of me.