by R. Kelly
I didn’t like that. Prayer is a personal thing. Prayer is private. Broadcasting my religious moment in that particular manner killed the moment for me. I wasn’t on my knees to create a photo op. I was on my knees because I was humbling myself before God. I didn’t need to have that image go out to the world. That kind of publicity left a bad taste in my mouth.
Today, just as it was back in the late '90s, I’ll keep on expressing what’s in my heart, be it sexual, spiritual, or just entertaining. People shouldn’t get so deep into “psychologizing” what R. Kelly does. If you like my music, buy my music. If you don’t like it, don’t buy it. I will love you either way.
I loved hearing those words, but I had also made a promise to myself. I had promised to trade in my life. That meant concentrating on the spiritual gifts God had given me. I knew that spirit would grow if I could concentrate on one woman and one woman alone.
When I watched Andrea Lee dance across the stage, my eyes and heart told me that she was that woman.
DREA
Coming up, I was taught that every Christian has a past and every sinner has a future. As both Christian and sinner, I wanted to live in the present tense with God. I felt that my heart was ready for humanity and the demons surrounding me; for example, the drama of empty love affairs needed to stop.
And I felt like I wanted to be checked. I needed to be checked. My ego, while insisting that the music I do today is better than what I did yesterday, was not a 24-hour ego. I needed it for business negotiations and for confidence, but I was learning to keep it by my side. If I got in front of my ego, it would run me over. If I ran alongside it, I could wear it out.
I also knew that love—true love—for another human being was another way to defeat my ego.
I was auditioning dancers for an upcoming tour when I felt the first spark of that love. We’d gone through 100 dancers to choose six. Of the final six, one grabbed my full attention. She did cartwheels and splits with a flexibility and grace that knocked me out. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She was a brilliant athlete but also an artist in the way that her movements told a story. She was sensuous, she was sexy, and she was downright spectacular.
She got the job, and before long, I got a beautiful girlfriend. Her name was Andrea Lee. Her story and mine flowed together in a natural way. Her friendly sweetness and outgoing personality reminded me of my mother. She was also a firecracker. You won’t meet a stronger person. She had the heart of a lioness. Drea calmed my inner storms. She was my medicine, a wonderful woman who understood my unexplainables.
I made up my mind that I would introduce “Robert” to her. She’d seen “R. Kelly” the performer, the party guy, the player, and the music mogul. In Drea’s company, I didn’t need to be R. Kelly. I could be Robert, the guy without the swagger, who still loves cartoons, who praises God, and struggles with his worth and his sometimes overwhelming gift. With Drea, I could relax and reveal all of my past, my secrets, and my fears. I could open my heart.
Drea was more than just a great dancer. Like me, she could choreograph, and soon we were sharing that duty.
One day on tour I saw her in the back of the bus reading the Bible.
“You take that book seriously, don’t you?” I asked.
“Sure do. Do you?”
“Very seriously.”
“How would you feel if I asked you to go to church?” Drea asked.
“I’d feel good, baby. Church is what I need.”
Since the experience with the prayer circle, my heart had been a little hardened toward religious leaders. But I knew that God is bigger than any of His servants. Like me, all of His servants are flawed.
“Then we’ll go to church?” she asked.
“I’d love that, Drea.”
We started going, which was when I started to feel committed; I saw that my relationship with God was more important than anything. If I was going to give up the party life, God was the only way.
Meanwhile, my sister Theresa had gotten saved and was active in a big church with a powerful preacher. She urged us to go to her church with her, and we did. The preacher put me in the front row, next to Theresa, and his sermons had me up on my feet. I was shouting and praising and crying out the name of Jesus with no inhibitions. It felt good.
Soon the preacher saw that I was catching the Holy Ghost and wanted me to travel with him to various cities. Part of me knew that, like the leader of the prayer circle before, he was showing me off, but another part of me felt flattered and desired his company. He was teaching me the Word.
When Drea and I went to church, though, I noticed that Theresa was no longer sitting in the first pew with us.
“Why?” I asked her.
“The first pew is for the important folk.”
“Come on,” I said. “There’s no velvet rope in church.”
“You stay on up there in the front,” she said. “I’m cool back here.”
Sometimes when I fell to my knees or started talking in tongues, I saw that the little cameras, usually aimed at the pulpit, were turning in my direction. I was on display. This time, though, I wasn’t going to let that keep me from God.
I even decided to tithe. And it was a great sum of money.
“You sure you want to do this, Rob?” asked Derrel McDavid, who’s been my trusted business manager from the get-go. “We’re talking about millions.”
“Do it,” I instructed.
I also wanted to write gospel songs and join the church’s music ministry. There, though, the pastor drew the line. I could sing along with everyone else, but as far as getting up there or presenting original compositions, they said no. My reputation as the bump-and-grind man didn’t allow me that platform. They felt okay about taking the bump-and-grind money, but they were afraid of what the Christian community would say if my music got mixed with theirs.
Fine.
I wasn’t there to argue. I was there to worship.
Weeks went by—and then months. I was doing well. Drea and I had become a loving couple. I’d managed to put most of my partying in the past. But a tour was coming up, and a tour meant the chance to party even more. A tour meant meeting a lot of female fans.
Like my albums and the music I produce for others, I want my tours to be successful. It’s hard for me to concentrate on anything but success when I’m in that mode. A successful tour means parties, clubs, playing the role to get people to buy albums, guys going “woof, woof, woof before you even come on stage and women screaming your name, throwing themselves at you.
I can’t lie. Sometimes, it all feels pretty unreal.
The tour was about a week old when I knew I needed help. Temptations were up in my face. Women were handing me cards with photographs and phone numbers. I was with Drea, but my mind was wandering. I called Theresa and asked whether she’d come out on the road and bring her prayer warriors with her. She said yes.
When they arrived, we went into a room and prayed for hours. Serious praying, crying, pleading that I stay on the righteous path.
After the show, though, three ladies approached me with an offer that blew my mind. They were fine and they wanted me to join them in their room—just the four of us. They were staying in the same hotel as Drea, Theresa, and me. I said, “Wow, that sounds incredible, but I gotta pass. I’m trying to stay on the straight and narrow.” “Well,” said one of them, “in case you change your mind, we’re in room 1305. We’ll be up all night. Waiting.”
I told myself not to think about it, to forget the number, but of course that’s all I thought about. In my mind, the number 1305 was lit brighter than an opening-night marquee. I told myself I’d go to bed early. Drea, who had danced in the show, was tired and was ready to call it a night. We got into bed and she quickly fell asleep. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop imagining those three ladies.
Drea was out like a light, so when I crept out of bed she didn’t hear me. I got dressed. I went to the door. Then I changed my mind. I got undressed again, put my p
ajamas back on, and slipped back into bed. I didn’t want to do wrong. I wanted to stay with Drea. I wanted to sleep. But every time I closed my eyes, the images of those women waiting for me came back. I got out of bed a second time. I got dressed a second time. I put my hand on the doorknob. I leaned against the door. I slid down to the floor and silently prayed, “God, if you don’t want me to go to these fine ladies, give me a sign. Show me something.”
There was no sign. I wasn’t shown a thing. I got back up, turned the knob, and, careful not to make any noise, walked out of the room into the hallway. It was an atrium hotel where you could see people walking up and down the hallways below and above you.
Room 1305. They said they’d be up all night. Said they’d be waiting.
I didn’t want to go.
I wanted to go.
I was going.
Walked to the all-glass, see-through elevators. Punched the button. I was on 20.1 was headed to 13. Just then, I looked up and saw Theresa on the floor above. She waved. I waved back. I felt convicted, but the devil flesh was driving my motor. There was no turning back.
Elevator arrived. Doors opened. It was empty. I walked in, punched the button that said “13.” Doors closed. I waited for the elevator to start going down. But it didn’t move. I pressed 13 again. Sensing something was wrong, I pressed the “open door” button. Nothing. The elevator was stuck. I got my sign! Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Jesus! I had to stay on that elevator a half-hour before the mechanics arrived to force open the door and set me free. The amount of time I spent waiting for my physical freedom helped me win my spiritual freedom.
I didn’t go to room 1305. I went back to Drea.
But the story isn’t that simple. Stories rarely are.
After the tour was over and we went back home, one of the women who had prayed me into the church started coming on to me. She slipped me her number and said something about how she liked to do crazy things with red lipstick. We met at her place in secret. We messed around and were ready to kick it for real when I stopped and started crying.
“We can’t do this,” I said. “You helped bring me back to God, and here we are doing what we know damn well God don’t want us to do.”
She backed off. “I’m sorry, Rob,” she said. “You’re a hundred percent right. I’m weak and you’re strong. I need your strength to stop this.”
And so we stopped. Except, a week later, when she called and said something about a new shade of red lipstick, we were back at it.
I was back in prayer.
“Father God,” I prayed. “I might not be righteous now, but you know that my desire is to be righteous. That’s a blessing right there, Lord. For so many years I didn’t even have that desire. I pray, Father God, that you let that desire grow. I pray that I become the man I want to become—for you, for Drea, and for the family I want to lead.”
I wanted a family of my own. I wanted a Cosby-like family. And I wanted Drea to be the mother of my children.
I knew what I had to do.
When I reached the decision, I was on the road. Drea was back in Chicago. I called my sister Theresa and told her to bring Drea to the private airport where I’d be landing. Except I wouldn’t be landing in a plane. I had hired a helicopter.
“Bring Drea out to the tarmac,” I told Theresa. “Get as close to the chopper as they’ll allow. I want to make sure that she can barely hear me over the noise. I want her hair to be blowing in the wind from the propellers. I want it to look like a scene out of a movie. I want us to be in that scene. I want it to be the most romantic moment of her life.”
It was. The sun was shining that day. The chopper came down out of the sky. Drea was waiting on the tarmac. I jumped out and walked over to her. Her hair was blowing in the wind. I fell on my knees. I had to scream above the roar of the engine.
“Baby girl,” I roared, “I love you.”
I took the small box out of my pocket and handed the ring to her.
“Baby girl,” I hollered even louder. “Will you marry me?”
She was crying. She said something, but the noise of the chopper didn’t let me hear it.
“Say it louder,” I said.
She said it again. I still couldn’t hear it.
“You got to scream, baby,” I said. “You got to scream so I can hear you.”
“I love you!” she screamed with all her might. “And yes! Yes! Yes! I will marry you! I will marry you!”
It was as beautiful as any scene in any movie.
A marriage, a home, a family, everything I’d ever wanted. A dream coming true.
To make the dream even better, though, and to be sure it was righteous, I decided that we should have no sex until our wedding night. Drea agreed. It was going to be difficult, but it would be worth it. It would mean that for eight months between our proposal and our marriage, love, not lust, would be growing between us. Our love would remain pure.
I had a target date for the wedding—Valentine’s Day. I had the perfect place for the wedding—Denver, Colorado, a mile-high city closer to heaven. I could—and did—design the wedding so it would look like a fairy tale. I hired a half-dozen violinists who played heavenly music. God smiled down on us and directed the snow to fall. It was romantic, and the start of something that I believed in my heart would last a lifetime.
“Will you, Andrea Lee, take this man, Robert Kelly, to be your husband in sickness and health, till death do you part?”
“I do.”
“Will you, Robert Kelly, take this woman, Andrea Lee, to be your wife in sickness and health, till death do you part?”
“I do.”
“Then, with God as my witness, I pronounce you man and wife.”
We embraced. We cried. We were Mr. and Mrs. Robert Kelly.
FLYING
There are two ways to be in the sky—flying or falling. I prefer flying.
When the musical dream I had as a young boy came true, the cartoon characters chasing me turned out to be characters in a movie called Space Jam. The film featured the very song I had dreamed about—"I Believe I Can Fly.” The fact that the animated/live-action film was about basketball and starred Michael Jordan (who, along with Muhammad Ali, was my biggest inspiration outside of the music world) made everything even better.
If you came up when I did, if you played hoop, and if you were raised in the streets of Chicago, Michael Jordan was the man. Even before joining the Bulls in 1984, Michael was a master hoopster at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
For us, Michael redefined the game by bringing a skill set unlike anyone before him. Not only did he have the most competitive spirit we’d ever seen, he also had moves we’d never seen. As a ballplayer, he was poetry in motion. He could twist, turn, fake, and fly; he could hit from the outside; he could hit from the inside; he could move to the hoop like a bolt of lightning; he could slam with the fierceness of an angry eagle; he could shoot it soft; he could bring it hard. There wasn’t anything the man couldn’t do.
Earlier in the '90s, after “Honey Love” hit, I was walking around the 'hood when I heard some kids screaming: “Michael’s coming! Michael’s coming down the street to see his mama.”
I looked and saw a crowd of people waiting in front of a house. I didn’t want to seem like a groupie, but, hell, I wanted to see Michael Jordan just like everyone else. I wanted to see the greatest basketball player in the history of the game.
A few minutes later, Michael himself came riding up on a motorcycle. Kids flocked around him, screaming for autographs. I didn’t want to look uncool, so I stood back.
After signing a few autographs, he looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked. A second passed. Did he recognize me?
“Hey, R. Kelly! What you doing around here, man?”
The kids got a little excited seeing me—a lot less excited, though, than they were to see Michael Jordan. I walked over to him.
“Michael,” I said. “Can’t tell you what you meant to me growing up.”
/> A bunch of other words of praise fell out of my mouth. I kept blabbering about how much I admired him.
“Hey, man,” said Michael. “I can’t sing, but you can.”
“Well,” I said, “you know I also play ball.”
“What do you mean, brother? You don’t got no game.” In a good-natured way, he started giving me a hard time.
“My game is pretty good,” I said. “I’ve kept up over the years. I hoop almost every night.”
“Well, keep playing, baby. And more important than that, keep, singing.”
“Can’t stop either one.”
That little encounter made a huge impression on me. Michael couldn’t have been any nicer.
When I was about 10, George Benson’s “The Greatest Love of All” blew me away. I had a desire to write a song like that—one that reminded kids they could achieve anything and be anything if they believed and worked hard at it.
Michael Jordan gave me that chance when he asked me to write something for the 1996 part-cartoon/part live-action film Space Jam.
“I Believe I Can Fly” became my biggest cross-over hit, reaching #2 on the Billboard Hot 100, and #1 on the U. K. Pop Charts. Believe it or not, it took me all of three hours to write. Because the tune first came to me as a child, I really do believe God actually wrote that song. He just used me to get it out there. I prayed over the project. At the time, I was going through a lot—lawsuits, back-biting, fake friends, and folk more interested in my money than in me.
The song ministered to me, made me feel good, gave me life. It was more powerful than anything I’d ever done musically. I have never gotten over my fear of flying in airplanes and don’t think I ever will. You have to practically knock me out and throw me in the baggage compartment to get me on a plane. Isn’t it strange that a guy who hates flying can pen an anthem about soaring through the sky?
This is only of reasons I’m convinced God was involved. He put that particular song out there for everyday, including me, who needed to believe that they can achieve, that they can rise above any challenge.