by R. Kelly
Most importantly, I knew if there ever came a time to write my story, there’d be a chapter called “Semi-Pro.”
It’s a title I wear proudly.
When the season was over, there were hugs all around. My teammates and coaches all said I contributed to a championship season—and that was enough for me.
Meanwhile, music was calling me back to the studio.
ANGEL
“Don’t even think about it, Rob. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“Why?”
The public sees you as an R&B thug,” said the music exec. “Celine Dion is a white Canadian woman with a squeaky-clean image. Her people are never gonna let her sing some song with a black dude from the ’hood.”
“It’s a ballad that I wrote for her and me. It’s a love song.”
“That makes it even worse. She won’t go near it.”
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“I don’t need to. I know how this business works. You’re running in one lane and she’s running in another.”
“What about ‘I Believe I Can Fly’?” I asked. “That crossed over to every lane there is.”
“Yes, but you sang that alone. Give her an R. Kelly song she can sing alone and she probably will. Tell her you want to sing a duet with her and she’ll laugh in your face.”
“I don’t believe that. I want you to get this song to her and tell her I want to sing with her.”
“Sorry, Rob, but that’s just a waste of my time.”
I left that meeting feeling discouraged but not defeated.
The exec didn’t know what I knew: Celine was supposed to do this song. I wrote it shortly after my first daughter, Joann, was born. My baby had asthma. One night, she was coughing and wouldn’t stop coughing. After she was calm and sleeping, I looked down on her and said, “Man, she’s an angel.”
A song was about to be birthed. As I wrote it, I heard Celine’s voice all over it. It had to be. I didn’t hear anybody else on that song.
I had my own connects. I’d get the song to Celine on my own.
A week later I was in the studio when an assistant handed me a note that said, “Celine Dion on the phone.”
“Robert?” she asked. “May I call you Robert?”
“Of course. May I call you Celine?”
“Yes—and may I tell you that I absolutely love this song. ‘I’m Your Angel’ is beautiful. I understand that you’d like to sing it with me.”
“I’d love to, if you hear us doing it together.”
“I don’t hear it any other way. Will you come to Canada? I want you to meet my husband and my family. I think you’ll like the recording facilities here.”
A week later, I was there. Canada was beautiful, and so was Celine’s family. Everyone was gracious. The session was a breeze. Celine was happy to let me produce the song the way I envisioned it. We were in total harmony.
“I’m Your Angel” soared up the charts. When Celine was booked in Vegas, she invited me to her show. She got me a killer suite and treated me VIP all the way. Her show was off the chain.
When the music exec called to congratulate me on the success of the song—the same exec who’d been convinced that she’d never sing it with me—I accepted his best wishes. I wanted to tell him that he’d been full of shit. But I didn’t have to. He already knew.
“I’m Your Angel” came out on the R album, along with “I Believe I Can Fly.” It would be my last album of the ‘90s. I’d written so much new material that the CD was two discs with 29 tracks. The single that popped out first was “If I Could Turn Back the Hands of Time.” In contrast to the club jams, “Time” was old school. I’d like to think it’s a song that Sam Cooke could have sung. I had originally written it years before for my girlfriend Lonneice. Then when Mom died, I revisited the song, and it suddenly had deeper meaning. I kept revisiting it over the years, changing a note here or a lyric there. I always felt it was one of those forever songs, but, like all stories, I knew it would have its special place in time—if I could only be patient. The spirit would tell me when it was time to release it.
It came out at a special time in my life. In 1998, Drea had given birth to our daughter, Joann, named after my mom. What a moment! For years, people would tell me, “Rob, we made babies to your music.” I had achieved one of the goals I set back on that porch with my Mom and her friends. Well, I got to the point where I wanted to make babies of my own. When I learned Drea was pregnant, I was overjoyed. My dream of a family was coming true.
I got to confess, though, that the night Drea went to the hospital, I didn’t go with her. I’m one of those brothers who can’t handle participating in the actual birth. It’s a little too intense and the stakes are a bit too high for me if anything goes wrong. Birth is God’s great miracle, and I thank Him for the gift, but the Lord and I have agreed that I’m supposed to head to the hospital after the baby is born and everyone’s all cleaned up.
So, I paced the floor at Rock and Roll McDonald’s near the hospital in downtown Chicago. Rock and Roll McDonald’s is about the nicest McDonald’s there is. You can be comfortable sitting there for hours. So while Drea was dealing with labor, I was drinking coffee with three creams and six sugars and feeling very nervous until they came and told me that, at long last, I was a father.
The first thing I saw in the face of my beautiful, gorgeous daughter was the face of my mother. Joann looked like Joann. Thank you, God.
Two years later, our second daughter Jaya was born, and three years after that, our son, Robert, Junior. All three times had me waiting at Rock and Roll McDonald’s. All three times had me running to the hospital when word came that the baby was born. All three times had tears flowing from my eyes as I looked into the eyes of my children. They were, are, and will always be the greatest blessings of my life.
I adore my kids. When they were crawling on the floor, I crawled around with them, making a fool out of myself to make them laugh. When they got older and started talking, I found ways to keep them laughing. I played the games they played, watched the cartoons they watched. I love being a father.
In the beginning, Drea and I found ways to keep our love alive.
One afternoon I drove her 25 miles south of Chicago on Interstate 57. When we got off the highway, I had her put on a blindfold.
“Why?” she asked.
“You’ll see,” I said.
I pulled up in front of the giant gates of the mansion I had seen when I was 17 years old and a nobody—the same mansion I swore that one day would be mine. It had changed hands since I’d first seen it and was no longer the McDonald’s house. The guy who’d I bought it from owned a Black hair products company; he’d turned the original house into the “Olympia Fields Castle” with a casino and marble fountains and all kinds of things in it. So I tore down the house and had a new one custom built from the ground up, a surprise I’d been working on in secret for months. I’d just shot a music video, and the location was kind of a ski lodge. I loved that warm, cozy feel so I took that look and remixed it.
“You can take off the blindfold now,” I told Drea.
Right there in front of her, beyond the gate, was the biggest house she had ever seen. The grounds were enormous.
“It’s ours,” I said. “It’s for our family.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Our dreams are coming true, Drea.” I said. “The fairy tale is real.”
I wanted the fairy tale to last forever. On Valentine’s Day I gave a big party and invited our friends. We had a picnic on the lawn, and at a designated time a helicopter flew over. I gave the signal and suddenly hundreds of red roses came falling out of the sky. It was raining red roses. Boxes with earrings and purses came down for the ladies. And for Drea, there was an oversized Gucci suitcase with furs inside. That was a good day. Other days weren’t so good.
The love between Drea and me was under strain. Part of that was my fault, because I never was your conventional husband.
&n
bsp; People look at celebrities like they’re not human, but I’m just like the next man. I see fine women every day. Sometimes, I’m like, “Wow, wouldn’t it be nice .. .” It’s the way I was raised. I’m human. I’m flawed. I’m a man.
I’ve always carried two cell phones. One was for family calls, the other for nonfamily calls. Coming out of the gym one day, I mistakenly thought I had hung up on Drea when I took a call on the nonfamily phone. It was a woman I was sweet-talking. Drea heard the whole thing. I tried to play it off, but couldn’t. Finally Drea just said, “Robert Kelly, do you have something to tell me?”
“I do, and I’m sorry.”
I was sorry that I didn’t stop partying like I should have. I should have been a one-woman man, and I wasn’t.
Another part of our problem came from Drea’s love of dancing. That love got stronger and stronger.
From the start of our marriage, I made it clear that I needed a woman to raise our children and be my best friend and biggest supporter. This was the idea I’d put in the song “Homie Lover Friend” off 12-Play. I couldn’t fool myself. I always knew I wanted a stay-at-home wife to make my life work. Drea understood and, being a strong person, she tried her best. But when we went to see plays like The Lion King or dance companies like Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre, the choreography thrilled her and reminded her how badly she wanted to get back into show business.
After one show, I made the biggest mistake of our marriage by introducing her to Debbie Allen. Debbie is Drea’s idol. Meeting her was one of the true highlights of her life. I could feel the inspiration pass through Debbie into Drea. On one hand, that was great. On the other hand, it made Drea even unhappier because she wasn’t able to dance full-time.
The times she helped me choreograph my shows weren’t enough for her. She wanted to fulfill her own gifts. She wanted to get back into dance by employing a full-time teacher to give her private instructions. Naturally I was leery. I saw his picture. He was a good-looking guy, all cut and buff.
“You don’t have to worry,” said Drea.
Her word, though, wasn’t enough for me. I went to meet the dude. Nice guy, and real honest, too.
“What are you doing talking to the man?” she asked.
“Look,” I said, “he’s got this real touchy-feely technique of teaching, and I have a right to know who the guy is.”
“You got no right to stop me from studying with him.”
“I got every right.”
The dance instructor became a huge issue. It caused heavy resentment. But I put my foot down. Then I came up with a way to make things right.
“I’m buying you a dance studio,” I said to Drea.
“A studio?”
“A whole studio.”
“What am I gonna do with a studio?”
“Whatever you like, baby. You can teach there. You can rehearse there. You can put on recitals there. It’s all yours. I’m even gonna help you design it. But you’ll take the lead.”
It happened. For a while, the studio made Drea happy. It got her back to dancing. It channeled her energy and gave her a new canvas for her creativity. It was a healthy and helpful professional outlet for her. Our relationship, though, was continually challenged.
Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was her.
Whatever it was, no matter how we adored our kids, no matter how hard we tried, the waters got rougher. Then the boat sprung a leak that kept getting bigger. The more we tried to bail out the water to keep us afloat, the more water we took on. Neither of us wanted this marriage to go under, but what could we do to keep it from sinking?
My relationship with Drea wasn’t in good shape, But I was determined to rise to the challenge. How could I turn up the heat?
CONTAGIOUS
Miami was a hot spot. I could connect to the music vibe in the studios and the sensuous vibe on the streets. Miami had that tropical fever that pushed creativity.
I was working on my new record when Ronald and Ernie Isley came to town.
Ever since Ron debuted in the role of Mr. Biggs, in our video for “Down Low,” he’d been rolling. The Isley Brothers brand was back. Now they were looking for another hit.
“Wish I had one,” I said, “but right now I’ve been pushing hard on other stuff. I’m really tapped out.”
That’s when the Isleys told me they just had a death in their family, and they needed something to lift their spirits.
“I understand,” I said, “but nothing’s poppin’ off in my mind.”
“Can’t you make it pop off?” asked Ernie, who was getting angry. “Aren’t you the guy who can knock off the hits just like that?”
“Well, Rob’s a creative artist,” said Ron, taking up my part, “and creativity ain’t something you can turn on like a faucet.”
“He’s done it before,” said Ernie. “Don’t see why he can’t do it again.”
“Rob don’t need that kind of pressure,” said Ron.
“Or maybe he does,” said Ernie.
It wasn’t any fun listening to the brothers arguing.
“It’s better that I have some time alone,” I said, “to figure out a song for y’all. Once I get it, I’ll call you.”
“We got a plane to catch in two hours,” said Ernie. “You sure you can’t do it before we leave?”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“No worries,” said Ron. “You’ll hit us when you got it.”
“I will.”
We said goodbye, and the brothers headed out to the airport.
I started listening and feeling my way into the music.
I understood that Ernie was down because of the death in the family. He was sad and wanted something to lift him up. I got that. But his feelings toward me were harsh and angry, and I was glad he was gone because those feelings could be contagious.
Contagious—that word stuck with me. Interesting word. Interesting concept. Interesting experience. An interesting story that could link up to where “Down Low” left off. I went to the keyboard and started fooling around with a little melody. The melody captured me and then the story started to flow:
It’s 2 A.M. I’m just getting in about to check my messages,
No one has called but my homies and some bill collectors
… I two-way her, she don’t hit me back, something is funny.
So I called her mother’s house and asked has she seen my baby
Roll my six around looking for that missing lady
Got back in, turned the TV on, and caught the news
Then I put my hand on my head ’cause I’m so confused
Then I turned the TV down ’cause I thought I heard a squeaky sound,
Something’s going on upstairs, and I know nobody else lives here
“Bump bump bump” as I get closer to the stairways all I hear
Then I hear my baby’s voice in my ear screaming out …
You’re contagious, touch me baby, give me what you got
(and then a man said) sexy lady, drive me crazy, drive me wild
“Contagious” was the name of the song. “Contagious” was what I’d been looking for. “Contagious” was perfect for the Isleys.
“Get Ronald Isley on the phone,” I told my assistant.
Couple of minutes later my assistant said, “They’re at the airport. They’re about to get on a plane.”
“Tell them not to. Tell them to turn around and come back to the studio.”
They came, listened to “Contagious,” and fell immediately in love with the song.
“When we gonna do it?” asked Ernie.
“Now,” I said.
“Just like that?” he asked, reminding me of what he’d said before.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Just like that.”
A few weeks later the record dropped and blew up. After all, it was contagious.
Insecurity is also contagious. I encountered a lot of insecurity when I worked on songs inspired by the Martin Lawrence/Eddie Murphy mo
vie called Life for Maxwell, an up-and-coming R&B singer. Wyclef Jean did the score while I wrote and produced 10 original songs for the soundtrack album. I used artists that I loved. I had the great Kelly Price sing “It’s Gonna Rain.” The Isleys did “Speechless.” DJ Quick and I did “It’s Like Everyday.” Brian McKnight sang “Discovery,” and Trisha Yearwood, the wonderful country singer, did “Follow the Wind.”
When it came time for the title song, “Life,” I heard it for K-Ci and JoJo.
When Maxwell heard “Life,” though, he wanted to sing it.
“This is a hardcore song,” I told him, “about a long time in jail. It’s not something you gonna relate to.”
“I relate to the fact that it’s the title song,” he said.
“Makes no difference, Bro. I wrote a song for you that’s just as good. Even better.”
“But it’s not the title song.”
“Just listen to it,” I said.
I played “Fortunate.” I knew the song was killer.
“Record this,” I said, “and you’ll have a smash. You’ll be able to tour behind it for the rest of your life.”
“I still like that ‘Life’ track.”
“Forget ‘Life.’Cut ‘Fortunate.’”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
I pulled out. If he didn’t want to sing it, I would. But then his manager called and said Maxwell had changed his mind. He had a little pad he wanted to add to the song. Was that okay with me?
“It’s all good, baby,” I said. “I’m tellin’ you, the song’s a smash.”
Maxwell’s version of “Fortunate” went #1. It was one of the biggest hits of 1999 and won him the Billboard Award, the Soul Train Award, and a Grammy nomination.
WORLD’S GREATEST
Hollywood kept calling. I did “Gotham City,” a hit for Batman and Robin; and two songs for Samuel L. Jackson’s redo of Shaft, “Bad Man” and “Up and Outta Here.” Best of all, the producers of Ali asked for a song. I knew I’d have to find a groove that would float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. I knew I’d have to call it “The World’s Greatest.” I knew the words would have to honor this man in a way to make us both proud. I prayed for the right words, and God blessed me right away: