Soulacoaster

by R. Kelly

  I am a mountain

  I am a tall tree

  Oh, I am a swift wind

  Sweepin’ the country

  I am a river

  Down in the valley

  I am a vision

  And I can see clearly

  If anybody asks you who I am

  Just stnd up tall, look ’em in the face, and say

  I’m that star up in the sky

  I’m that mountain peak up high

  I made it

  I’m the world’s greatest

  I’m that little bit of hope

  When my back’s against the ropes

  I can feel it

  I’m the world’s greatest

  I am a giant

  I am an eagle

  I am a lion

  Down in the jungle

  I am a marching band

  I am the people

  I am a helping hand

  And I am a hero

  When the film premiered in Chicago, the arrangements got messed up and I found myself far from Muhammad Ali’s entourage. When he found out, he sent word and had me sit right next to him during the showing. Man, you talk about a brother being proud! To have any connection with Ali was the honor of honors.

  “There’s a big connection, Robert,” said Muhammad Ali, “because you got Sam Cooke in your soul. That connection is strong as steel.”

  As the movie showed, AH and Sam had been close. Sitting next to Ali was bringing me closer to Sam.

  I always had it in my mind to do something for Ali that he’d remember forever. “The World’s Greatest” was a cool song, but it didn’t convey everything I felt for him. A few years later, the idea hit me: like mine, his birthday is in January—I’m the 8th, he’s the 17th—and I thought of the best gift I could possibly give him: an evening with Sam Cooke.

  I planned a live concert at my house where I’d play the part of Sam. The living room is as large as a ballroom, and for this special night, we built a stage right in my living room. The first person I invited was Ali, but when I learned he couldn’t come, I arranged to film it and send him a copy with a card that said “Happy Birthday, to the Greatest.”

  I invited about a thousand people and told them to dress in period clothing. I made my band study the original arrangements for all of Sam’s biggest hits. I brought in backup singers and dancers and spared no expense. I dressed in a black tux and black bow tie, and for an hour I became Sam Cooke. I sang my heart out for Ali, knowing that this was his man. But when it came time for “A Change Is Gonna Come,” I had to stop and talk about me and my mother—how she’d tell me that one day my change would come and I’d entertain princes and kings. Far as I was concerned, there was no royalty more regal than Ali, no man more instrumental in instilling pride and courage in young black men.

  After he watched the video at his home in Louisville, he called me to say that the show brought tears to his eyes.

  “You sure Sam ain’t your daddy?” he asked.

  “Pretty sure,” I said.

  “Well, you sing like his son.”

  “I’ve never had a nicer compliment than that,” I said.

  Ali influenced me to do something I’d never done before. It happened in New York City, where I was booked on a popular late-night talk show. They were putting on my makeup when I looked in the monitor and saw the show host watching dogs do flips through hoops. After the flips, the trainer, a white guy, went to the couch to talk to the show host. He said some funny shit, and it was a good interview. I started wondering, After I sing “I Believe I Can Fly”—am I going on the couch?

  “No,” said my manager. “You just sing. No interview.”

  “Why?”

  “We just want to sell records. We don’t need an interview.”

  “But what if I want an interview? If the dog trainer can be interviewed, why can’t the singer? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Don’t make trouble. Just sing.”

  The more I thought about it, the more I didn’t want to “just sing.” I wanted to talk to the host.

  Ali came to mind. When he was told what he couldn’t do, he flat-out refused to accept it. He lived life on his terms, not the unfair terms offered to him. That’s what made him a leader.

  On the monitor, the announcer was saying, “Up next. R. Kelly!”

  No. R. Kelly was not up next. R. Kelly was outta there. R. Kelly was leaving, getting into his car and going to McDonald’s.

  When the driver was about to pull away, the woman producer ran after me.

  “Mr. Kelly,” she said, “don’t worry. We will be glad to interview you.”

  I went back in, went on TV, and sang my song before walking over to the couch.

  In his hip style, the host cracked at me. In my own style, I cracked right back at him. We kicked it for a while. It was cool. My point had been made.

  R&B THUG

  The ‘90s was nothing but hits. So I was eager to start off the new decade and fresh millennium with even more energy. I wanted to make more impact. I wanted my first record for the 2000s to be something that referred to the past but defined the future. I wanted it to be an album that showed all sides of me, and that would appeal to both my male and female fans. I called it TP-2.com. The 12-Play tradition, which really started with Born into the 90’s, was continuing, but this time I was taking it to the next level.

  The first single that was released was “I Wish,” a song I’d planned to do with Tupac. I originally wrote it about a friend of mine who I was supposed to go out to the club with, but I’d been so caught up recording in the studio that I told my friend to go on without me. He died that night in a car accident, and I wrote the song. I thought it would be perfect for me and Pac. You can hear Tupac’s flow all over the way I sung/ spoke the verses. The drama is about loss—not only the loss we felt when Pac left this Earth to go to a better place, but the loss we feel whenever a homie has moved on too soon. Violence is an ugly thing, and “I Wish” is a prayer for all violence to stop.

  “Fiesta” was the next single to break out. On the album I had Boo and Gotti rapping. On the remix, Jay-Z came on board, and we had a smash hit.

  Because TP2.com was the official follow-up to 12-Play, I couldn’t ignore the sexual theme. “Strip For You” pretty much represents the whole concept of the album. I couldn’t imitate or just redo 12-Play. I needed to figure out how to mic it differently but still be the same thing at the same time. I also had to continue the realness, so I had to flip it. So on “Strip for You,” instead of a girl stripping for me, I pulled a “switch-eroo,” I say “Imma strip for you.”

  On the intro to TP-2.com I start out "Hit it hard from the back. Roll around on the front. I know you heard a lot of tracks, but 12-Play’s what ya want.” When you’re talking sex, it doesn’t get more real than that. This time I wanted to try to go a bit more out there, but at the same time really being a little bit sarcastic, but creative at the same time. And saying, “Hey, I know what you want.”

  On “The Greatest Sex,” I paint the scene on a bigger canvas. It’s great sex—yes—but it’s spiritual sex, where the lovemaking leads to the birth of a child. When I wrote it, I told people it felt like a sexual “I Believe I Can Fly” or a sexual inspirational song.

  At the same time, some of my music is comical. It almost feels sexual, but if you listen to it closely, it’s really funny. “Feelin’ on Yo Booty” was a comedie sexual song, yet there’s still a real song in there. You’ve got to be very silly to sing it and you’ve got to be a silly person to love it. I like to make people laugh and have fun. When you go to church, if the pastor at some point doesn’t make you laugh, he probably ain’t gonna make you join. You’ve gotta have a joke or two in there. You gotta do something to keep the crowd.

  On TP-2.com I also wanted to show people who I am and let them feel the streets in me, not just the romantic Kells or the inspirational Kells. The song “R&B Thug” is about that. It’s straight to the point—the streets of
Kells. Where I grew up. I’m from the dirt, and a lot of people didn’t know that. When they hear “Happy People” or “I Believe I Can Fly,” it throws them off. I wanted the girls; at the same time, I wanted to let the guys know—no doubt about it—Kells is 'hood. I wanted to show the street side of me. I’m not a rapper, so I had to do it my way.

  I wanted to conclude TP-2.com on a high note and leave the listener with a message of hope. I wanted to let my fans know that, no matter what they might be going through, a better day was coming. I put all that emotion in a new anthem called “The Storm Is Over Now.” That song is the vegetables to go along with the meat and potatoes. Sometimes my music confuses people. I don’t want people to think, Well, Kells is just confusing me—he’s gospel, he’s sexual, he’s trying to do too much. But I believe in balance; no matter what, I believe in good, I believe in bad, I believe in ups and downs. I believe in partying, but then I believe in church. That’s what “The Storm Is Over Now” is about.

  What I didn’t know, though, was that the storm had just begun—a storm like nothing I had ever seen before.

  THE STORM

  When you get to be a best-selling entertainer or a public figure, you’re opening cks and lawsuits. When you’re R. Kelly everybody wants a piece. n that piece, they’ll find a way to get it out of you, one way ou have lived long enough in the spotlight, someone will claim you did this, while another person will swear you did that. It’s all part of the game. I knew that coming in.

  During the'90s I got hit with a bunch of lawsuits from several people making false claims. These suits were called “nuisance claims” and, according to my attorneys, it would cost me more money to fight the suits than to settle. The smartest thing would to be minimize the cost or I’d wind up spending 10 times the amounts fighting charges that could simply be settled out of court.

  I followed my lawyers’ counsel, but those suits were not about the truth—these people knew damn well that I had’t done what they clamied; but they had hooked up with slick lawyers and were only about getting paid. I didn’t like doing it, but I settled.

  I’ve been blackmailed a million times in my career. I’ve been sued for ridiculous stuff that defies common sense. I can’t say I’m used to it. You never get used to it. You just learn to expect it.

  A superstar becomes an ATM, especially if you’re the only star in your family. Everyday wants something from you, and most people feel you owe it to them.

  “But me a car.” “Buy me a house.” “Furnish my house.” “Buy me another house.” It goes on and on. When you help your homies, they dont’ve helped them enough—so they diss you in the press. “All that mothafuckin’ R. Kelly thinks about is his mothafuckin’ self.”

  For years, I tried to balance being a responsible family member and loyal friend against the crazy demands on the part of folk trying to play me. It always seemed like if I gave someone something, it was never enough. If I gave 'em a lot, they wanted more. If I gave 'em more, they disappeared until they ran through what I gave them. Then they were back with their hands out.

  Not everyone was trying to use me. Certain friends and family members showed me love without attaching a price tag. They never asked for anything. They were concerned about my welfare. They checked to make sure I was okay, not to see what they could get out of me. I loved them even more for their genuine care and affection. Devotion minus the money motive equals pure love.

  Anyway, that was the '90s. Lots of annoying lawsuits, but they were all pretty much handled easily.

  But then, in 2002, an H-bomb was dropped on me. After someone sent the Chicago Sun-Times a video that supposedly showed me having sex with a teenager, I was arrested and accused of child pornography. It didn’t matter that there were real questions about the authenticity of the video; or that the girl the prosecutors claimed was on the video insisted no way it was her; or that both her parents, her grandparents, and several family members said the same thing. R. Kelly had a reputation, and R. Kelly had to pay. So what if that reputation was a fictional creation of crazy-ass music videos, sexy concert performances, and off-the-hook media hype that had nothing to do with who Robert Kelly really was. R. Kelly was going down.

  I was looking at penalties involving long-term jail sentences. If I was found guilty, my career would be ruined in a single blow. Everything I ever worked for would be taken away. I’d be taken away. My kids would see their father as a criminal.

  I knew the charges were bullshit; I knew I was innocent, but none of that mattered.

  The press had a field day. News outlets began generating rumors and innuendo based on “anonymous” tips and interviews with supposed lovers, former employees, and associates who validated the charges against me. The media spread the lies with lightning-fast speed all over the world. I was presumed guilty long before my trial.

  The flurry of uppercuts, jabs, and body blows was unstoppable. Before vowing not to participate in the media circus, I reacted like a woozy boxer throwing wild punches, hoping to slow the assault.

  In 2000, my manager and I had parted ways. I thought we parted on fairly decent terms, but then I heard he’d sent a letter to reporter Jim DeRogatis at the Sun-Times, claiming that he had suggested I get psychiatric help for my supposed sexual addictions. I never found out if it was true, but it bothered me.

  I don’t have to tell you that the wheels of justice grind slowly. Man, this case grinded so slow, I thought I’d lose my mind. Nearly seven years! Seven years of having to ask the permission of the court whenever I wanted to leave Chicago. Seven years of lies, folk scandalizing my name, depicting me as a devil. Seven years of living with the sharp edge of a guillotine repeatedly hovering over my jugular. Seven years of sleepless nights and scary dreams. I was facing jail, financial ruin, the end of my career, the loss of my fans, and the loss of all respect and love.

  Seven years is a long mothafuckin’ time to be facing that kind of nightmare. To be honest, I felt like I was already in jail throughout those years. A lot was taken from me—my pride, my dignity, my passport, and a helluva lot of my money. It was a hell I wouldn’t wish on anybody.

  Throughout the ordeal, comments from many of my advisors went like this:

  “Rob, you got to put a hold on recording.”

  “Don’t tour until this legal mess is behind you, Rob.”

  “Robert, this is not the time to come out with sexy songs. Retreat until this thing blows over.”

  “The public isn’t ready to accept any new material from you, Rob. Everything you write or say will be viewed under a magnifying glass. Better to say and do nothing.”

  I disagreed. The advice came out of concern for me, but I knew myself better than anyone. I couldn’t see myself sitting around for years, twiddling my thumbs while lawyers fought with each other and court dates kept getting postponed. Truth was, if I was going to survive this ordeal, I needed my music to get through it.

  I had to sing.

  I had to write.

  I had to produce.

  I had to tour.

  I had to connect with my fans.

  I had to work with other artists.

  Rather than retreat, I had to redouble my efforts. And I did. For those seven years, while I was under this dark legal cloud, I went out there and did more creative work than in any other period of my life. I might have done twice as much work. I turned the fear to energy. I went to work with a vengeance.

  Sometimes negative situations can be more inspiring than positive ones. Struggle feeds passion; it fed my music. If I focused simply on the negatives I was going through, I would have just broken down. I didn’t. My music held me together.

  Not only did I need the outlet—the release from the anxiety brought on by these charges—I also needed the pure joy that comes when I’m writing a song. I needed the love that comes when I’m singing a song. I needed God, and God lives in my songs. God is strongest in me when I’m writing the melodies that He puts in my heart.

  “You’re wrong, Rob
,” said one advisor. “You’re exposing too much of yourself. You’re making yourself more vulnerable.”

  “Good,” I said. “The more real that I am, the more powerful my music will be.”

  In the face of the charges, I was determined to sing even louder and prouder as I set out to make the most powerful music of my life.

  The

  more

  real

  that I am,

  the more

  powerful

  my music

  will

  be.

  WELCOME TO THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY

  Welcome to the room I call the Log Cabin, the beating heart of my recording studio, the Chocolate Factory. For many years the Chocolate Factory was nestled in the basement of my home in Olympia Fields. The Chocolate Factory was my sanctuary, the place I could escape to when the weight of the world was bringing me down. And the weight often had me on my knees. The Log Cabin was where I recorded. It’s made out of logs and different woods. It’s small, intimate, and cozy.

  There’s nothing fancy about the Log Cabin. I use the same mic I’ve used for years. I sing my vocals right there where the engineers are sitting so that I can give them instructions, play something on the keyboard, or play one of the many instruments I keep close at hand; because while I’m singing, I’m also writing and producing. In the Log Cabin you’ll also find my main engineers, Ian and Abel Garibaldi, and my musical director and guitarist, Donny Lyles—all of them have worked with me for years.

  While I was hard at work in the Log Cabin, prosecutors were working overtime to build a bulletproof case. I can’t tell you how many of the people making allegations were, at one time or another, the same people who had asked me for some sort of favor. A few of them were just pissed that I told them no. Sometimes people presented themselves as friends or allies and then just straight-up lied. I couldn’t figure out why I was the only one who understood their motives. If someone messes up and you have to fire them, of course they’re gonna be mad. The money they were getting, the fame, or whatever disappears. So anything that comes up about you, they’re gonna run and say, “Yeah, he did that to me” or “Yeah, I knew that about him, too!”