Soulacoaster

by R. Kelly

  “Bump N’ Grind,” the second single from the 12-Play album, definitely fits in the baby-making music category. The song was originally written for the movie Menace II Society at the request of the directors, the Hughes Brothers. The song was supposed to play over the scene of Jada Pinkett Smith and Larenz Tate in bed together. I was excited to do it because it was the first time I’d been asked to do a song for a movie before. When they heard “Bump N’ Grind,” the Hughes Brothers loved the song, but the record company and my manager decided that the song should be released on my album and not the soundtrack.

  There were a lot of politics about that at the time, and they ended up using “Honey Love” in the movie instead. But keeping the song for the 12-Play album was probably the best thing for me because that song gave me my first #1 record on the Billboard pop chart and was the longest-running #1 record on the R&B chart at that time.

  Still, I knew my second album had to better than the first. The lyrics had to be more direct; more authentic; more reflective of my experiences, emotions, and, of course, my city. I also knew it would be dedicated to my mother.

  What I didn’t know, though, was by the time the album came out, my world would be changed forever.

  While I was making the 12-Play album, I spent many nights in the studio. A lot of that emotion showed up on the tracks. When you hear: “Any unexpected position. Bring it on. Any secret fantasy. Baby, I will fulfill as long as you sex me” in “Sex Me, parts 1 & 2,” you’re hearing raw, unfiltered, youthful desires coming through in those lyrics.

  I had a song that said, “It seems like you’re ready,” and I knew that the ladies were ready and I was ready. I wanted an album that would make love to every woman in the world. I wanted it to talk honestly to them and touch them in satisfyingly sensual ways. The spirit of seduction was heavy on me, and I saw no reason not to go for it. The album was an extended version of the concert—with all the pleading, teasing, mood-setting, foreplay, and getting nasty with “Sex Me,” the gritty climactic song. I didn’t see nothing wrong with a little “Bump ’N Grind.” I felt “Your Body’s Callin’.” I liked “The Crotch On You,” and I wasn’t afraid to ask the ladies to “Sex Me.”

  While I was making the album, my mother got sick. I found out later that she’d gone to the hospital for some tests, but she downplayed them to me as well as to my brothers and my sister, telling me, “Baby, you’re busy making your music. You go on and keep working. Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna be fine. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “But what do the doctors say?” I asked.

  “The doctors say the same thing, baby. They say I’m gonna be just fine. You go do what you got to do.”

  “I’m supposed to head back to Europe for some concerts.”

  “Then go to Europe, Rob.”

  “You know I hate flying,” I said. “Flying is always a lot easier if you’re sitting next to me.”

  “I’ll be with you next time.”

  “I want you with me this time,” I said. “I don’t want to get on that plane without you.”

  “You’ll do fine without me, son. Call me every night if you want to.”

  “I will.”

  I did.

  When I went to Europe this time, the crowds were four times bigger than before. That made me happy. But it wasn’t the same without my mother with me.

  “I got another couple of weeks out here on the road, Mom,” I told her on the phone. “I really want you here with me.”

  “If you want me to come out there, son, I will.”

  “But I thought you said you gotta go back to the hospital for more tests.”

  “I do, baby, but the tests can wait. If I have to, I can get on a plane tomorrow.”

  “No, Mom, I want you to have those tests. You take care of yourself. That’s more important.”

  “God will take care of you, son. I know He will.”

  In those last weeks, the European fans kept coming. The tour was a success. I couldn’t wait to get home and share that success with my mother.

  “SHE’S TEACHING ANGELS

  HOW TO LOVE”

  When I arrived home from Europe, I was surprised to see my sister Theresa waiting at the airport.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s Mom,” she said.

  “What about Mom?”

  “She’s gotten worse. We need to go see her.”

  “How much worse?”

  “Much worse.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Mama said not to. She said your tour was going good, and she didn’t want anything to mess it up.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Roseland Hospital on 111th Street.”

  I raced over. My brothers were sitting in the hallway.

  A doctor was standing in front of the door to her room.

  “Robert Kelly?” he asked.

  “I’m Robert Kelly.”

  “Let’s talk before you go in there.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk. You need to prepare yourself.”

  I was already scared, but the word prepared scared me worse.

  “Prepare for what?” I asked.

  “Let’s just sit and talk.”

  “Doctor, please, just say what you have to say.”

  “Your mother has incurable cancer that has reached its final stage.”

  “You’re lying!” I shouted.

  “I wish I were. I wish I could say there was hope.”

  “My mother says there’s always hope.”

  “I’m sorry, Robert, but your mother is very near the end.”

  When I opened the door, my heart fell to the floor. My mother looked like a completely different person from the one I’d seen just a few short weeks ago. I’d never seen her look like this before. She was so much smaller. Her eyes were as yellow as a yellow crayon. Her body was all shriveled up. I went to her side and started crying.

  “Oh, baby,” she said, “you gotta get out of here. I told them I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

  “I had to see you,” I said.

  “I don’t want you to have this memory, baby. I want you to remember when I was healthy and strong.”

  “No one told me, Mom. No one said you’d gotten so sick.”

  “It happened really fast, son.”

  “How can you forgive me?” I asked.

  “Forgive you for what, baby?”

  “For not being here, for not coming home.”

  “I didn’t want you home, Rob. I wanted you out there singing. That’s what you were born to do.”

  I held her hand and said, “Mom, I promise you—I’m gonna be the best writer on the planet. For you, I’m gonna be the biggest singer.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, Rob.”

  “I know that, baby, and I’ve already seen it coming true. Now, please, get on out of here and let me be. I need to be alone.”

  “I don’t want you to be alone, Mom. I can’t live without you.”

  “I’ll always be with you, Rob. You know that.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, Rob.”

  I left her room with tears in my eyes. I didn’t know what to do or where to go—so I went to the studio. I had to be around music. I had to sing. To me, singing is like praying. It’s the most powerful prayer I can send up. I was playing “A Song for You” when the call came in. Joann Kelly was gone.

  I stopped playing, put my head down, and just sat there. There were people around trying to comfort me, but I didn’t hear their words. At that moment I heard a new melody. I didn’t have words for it, but the melody was strong. It had my mother’s spirit on it. It stayed in my head. I thought of recording the melody, but something stronger was pulling at me. I knew I had to go see my mother one last time.

  When I got to the hospital, I learned that they hadn’t moved her from her room. I told the staff that I needed this one last
time to be alone with my mother. I sat next to her bed and looked at her lifeless face. Cancer had been cruel to her, but when I looked at her, I remembered her when she was still healthy and full of life. I took her hand and said, “I swear this to you, Mom. I swear this with God as my witness. I will be the greatest artist in the world. I will do this for you because of how you always believed in me.”

  I got up and left. People stopped me, saying words I couldn’t even hear. It may sound strange, but my mind was fixated on basketball—the only thing I could think of that might get me through the coming hours. Just being out there on the floor, running and shooting and giving it my all—the spirit of grief was so huge that only basketball could keep me going. I imagine there are people who, upon hearing horrible news, beat their fists against the wall. That’s their way of coping. My way was a full-court press, bouncing that ball on the hardwood floor. I exhausted myself by playing ball for three straight hours.

  Afterwards I went to the studio where that same melody kept echoing through my mind. Every time I started to sing it, though, I broke down and cried.

  Mom was like God to me. She was the one who never judged me, she never abandoned me, she listened patiently to my doubts and fears, she encouraged my hopes and dreams. Without my mother, I felt there was no one to call on anymore.

  I cried like a baby, cried until I felt like I had used up every tear in my body. How could I go on? How could I live without Joann Kelly by my side?

  I couldn’t complete the 12-Play project without paying tribute to my mother. I thought about the melody that had invaded my mind after she had died. It was still there. But there were still no words to go with it. I’m the kind of writer who never chases a song. I wait until a song chases me. And though I knew the unwritten song was going to be one of the most important of my life, I couldn’t force it into existence. I had to be patient.

  But I also had to dedicate a song to Joann Kelly. I thought back on her life and remembered how, when I was just a little boy in the ‘70s, Mom loved the Spinners. She used to stop whatever she was doing when their lead singer, Philippe Wynne, started in on “One of a Kind (Love Affair)” or “Mighty Love” or “Love Don’t Love Nobody.” He also sang a song that talked about a mother named Sadie Mae: “sweeter than cotton candy” and “stronger than papa’s old brandy.” Every line of that song made me think of my mother. I’ve never been inclined to record a cover song—I’ve always been proud of my originals—but I knew that by singing “Sadie,” I’d pay my mother the highest tribute. The song was out of her era. It was a song sung in the high style of soul that she had taught me to honor. And while it’s true that 12-Play would turn out to be a record that broke records and busted up some old taboos—an album that would be remembered for songs about sensuality and sex—the song that means the most to me is “Sadie.” My mother was my Sadie, my everything.

  THE DEPTHS OF MY STRUGGLES

  DETERMINE THE HEIGHTS

  OF MY SUCCESS

  When my mother was still alive, I was a boy. After she died, I became a man. When my mother was still alive, my career was starting to build. After she died, my career blew up.

  The most tragic event of my 26-year-old life—the death of my precious mother—coincided with the explosion of my music around the world.

  Because she was gone, I was sadder than I’d ever been in my life. And not too long after my mother passed, my grandmother lost her battle with cancer and went to join her daughter, Joann. Because “Bump N’ Grind” became the longest-lasting R&B hit in the history of Billboard’s charts—not to mention a #1 pop hit as well—I was more successful than ever. Grief and joy had a hard time shaking hands. My mind was like a mixing board where the tracks—the up-tempo happy jams and the deep dark blues grooves—were leaking all over each other.

  I’d reached my goal; I’d become a superstar. And while I could feel Mom’s spirit still feeding me love, it hurt my heart that my eyes couldn’t see her face. She was no longer there to give me a hug. And man, did I need a hug!

  Looking back, I remember feeling that I couldn’t go on without my mother. And, if my career hadn’t taken the amazing turns that it did, maybe I would have broken down completely and spent the next year or two doing nothing but grieving. But music wouldn’t let me do that. My music took over and suddenly started sweeping the country. Suddenly I was famous. But fame almost overwhelmed me. It was like a hungry monster with an appetite that could never be satisfied. It wanted more, more, and then just when I thought it was satisfied, it asked for even more.

  Things were happening so fast that I could hardly keep up with myself. These were good things—musical gifts—that were tremendous challenges and undeniable blessings. Take, for instance, the fine art of the remix.

  Back in the late ’80s and early ’90s most hit records got a second life (and sometimes even a first life) by releasing a remixed version of the original. Usually remixes were done by hot engineers or producers to create new versions of a song, which was often for clubs. On the 12-Play album, I decided to do the remixes of my own records instead of having someone else do them.

  Because of the advances in recording technology and my growing confidence and experience in the studio, I could see how to break down the different elements of the song and put them back together in a different configuration. I could modify the groove; strip down the vocal and add new elements; throw in new sounds and accents—in short, I could re-engineer the music in a way that gave it a whole new flavor. I did two remixes of “Bump N’ Grind”—the “Old School Mix” and the “How I Feel It Extended Mix,” which is the version of the song we shot the video to. I also did my first remix for “Your Body’s Callin’” as the B-side of the “Your Body’s Callin’” single. All the remixes were huge successes. I don’t know how many remixes I’ve done for “Your Body’s Callin’,” and I recently remixed “Bump N’ Grind” as a choir version, for my Love Letter tour.

  I saw the remix as a new art form to explore. I loved it as a canvas for sound. It wasn’t that I no longer liked starting with a clean slate and creating a brand-new song; I’d always like doing that. But it was no longer either/or. Now I could do both. Not only could I create a new feeling out of a previously recorded song of mine, I could do it for other artists as well. Just like that, I established another major career as the remix man. Making matters sweeter, the remix of “Your Body’s Callin’” sold more copies than the original.

  By 1994,12-Play had sold more than 5 million copies, and the sexy R. Kelly brand was established. Jive’s president, Barry Weiss, publicly labeled me a “pure artist” and an “old-fashioned creative genius.” Jive had no problem happily allowing me to control my own creative destiny.

  This kind of artistic power was a big boost to my ego. I was happy that my fans and the people I worked with accepted me as who I am. I didn’t have to be phony or change my music or bow to the will and demands of others about my music.

  I was riding high as a real artist and a rising star, but, according to my plans and definition of “success,” I still hadn’t risen high enough.

  While 12-Play was rising on the charts, Janet Jackson’s janet album was the biggest of her career. Janet, Jimmy Jam, and Terry Lewis wrote a beautiful song called “Anytime Anyplace.” It was especially appealing since, earlier in her career, Janet had a hit with “Let’s Wait Awhile.” Now the waiting was over and it was cool—anytime … anyplace. When they sent me the song to be remixed, I was ready. And when my remix went crazy on the charts, I saw that by re-imagining songs that people already loved, I could enjoy another outlet for my musical energy.

  One thing was building atop another. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any bigger or better, it did.

  Enter Michael Jackson.

  MJ

  As a kid, I watched a lot of TV and loved much of what I saw. TV was my window into worlds outside our little home. Cartoons were wonderful. They were crazy funny. Sometimes I’d picture myself jumping into the carto
ons and running after the characters. But I never thought the characters were real.

  Take Mickey Mouse. Mickey was the superstar of cartoon characters. Donald Duck was cool, and so was Goofy. I dug the Roadrunner and Porky Pig, whose stutter reminded me of Uncle Doug. Mickey, though, was the boss. Mickey ruled the TV screen, but I knew he was just make-believe.

  Well, in a funny kind of way, I thought of Michael Jackson the same way. When the Jackson Five popped into our lives, we loved them to death. We loved Michael and Jermaine and Jackie and Tito and Marlon. We knew one from the other. We couldn’t wait for them to come on TV and sing their songs about school like “ABC.” They were as cool as cartoon characters—beyond human. And they were black like us! We’d been told the fairy-tale myth of how Diana Ross had discovered them. (Later I learned that that wasn’t true, but as a kid I believed the myth.) When The Jackson 5 were set to appear on American Bandstand or The Ed Sullivan Show, we got to the TV a half-hour early so we wouldn’t miss a single minute.

  I was still a little kid—four or five—when the Jackson 5 actually became a cartoon show, where the brothers were animated like Mickey Mouse! That closed the deal; they weren’t real. Michael was Mickey Mouse.

  When Miss McLin came along and said that one day I’d be writing for Michael Jackson, I didn’t believe her. And then when Mom died and I leaned on Miss McLin even more, she kept saying the same thing. “You’re more than just an artist, Rob. You’re a writer whose songs will be sung by the biggest artists in the world.”