by R. Kelly
I was doing it for more than me. I was doing it for all people caught up in struggles. That’s mostly everyone. So many of us are caught up in a financial mess, a medical mess, or a romantic mess—they’re hurting for some kind of help. They need to turn their mood around and take away the pain. Music is the medicine. It’s better than any drink or drug, plus there’s no hangover or dangerous side effects.
Chocolate Factory had been a healing record for me and my fans. I wanted to outdo myself. I wanted to keep the love party going. I wanted to make the happiest record and, at the same time, the most spiritual record of my life. So, in 2004,1 released a double-sided soul and gospel CD. One side was U Saved Me, and the other was Happy People.
I had to teach and preach my truth: Music makes me happy and saves me from misery. Name the singer who sings the saddest blues—like Billie Holiday—and I’ll guarantee that while she was singing her blues, Billie’s blues went away. Music cuts through the sorrow of life. It turns sad into glad. That was my purpose with “Happy People.” Like Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up,” War’s “All Day Music,” or Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People,” I wanted to give another long-lasting gift of happiness.
Throughout the record, I’m your friendly, feel-good “Weatherman,” which is also the name of the first song:
1-2-3 LOVE (love-love yeah)
What’s up America and the rest of the world
It’s the pied piper, your music weatherman
It’s love-o’clock and we’re broadcasting live
Right here from the Chocolate Factory
Where music ain’t just music
But hit music, let’s go
Steppers to the floor, steppers to the floor …
Around the time oí Happy People, I was asked to sing the national anthem before the Bernard Hopkins/Jermain Taylor middleweight championship fight. I wanted to do something different, so I did a remix and created a stepper’s version of the anthem. I choreographed my performance and brought real steppers into the arena while I performed. Most of the fight fans loved it. Some didn’t. Someone said I had “Marvin Gayed” the “Star Spangled Banner.” Time.com described my rendition as an “ill-advised smoovification” of Francis Scott Key’s original song. I took all this as compliments. In the words of Sinatra, “I did it my way.” And for those who said I disrespected the country, I wished them love by pointing out that singing and dancing can be beautiful forms of praise. I was praising the nation with my song, just like other songs of mine praise God.
God was the theme of the second disc, U Saved Me. The “3-Way Phone Call” echoed the struggle I was going through. I could be happy in Happy People by singing songs about sunshine and good times, but when it came to God, I had to come with all my fears. I had to come in the vulnerable state I was in. I had to call my sister and find my prayer partners. Through prayer, the rest of the songs flowed: “U Saved Me,” “Prayer Changes,” “I Surrender,” “Spirit,” “Leap of Faith,” and “Prayer.”
I always prayed for my wife and children. But I prayed for them more than ever during those years before my trial. For all the struggles Drea and I faced as a couple, I wished her nothing but peace of mind and happiness. Every day I thanked God for our three wonderful children—Joann, Jay a, and Robert, Jr.
The bottom line for me is always family. Nothing matters more to me than my family. No offense to God, but when my kids are around me, you wouldn’t want them in heaven; you’d want them to stay at my house.
You wouldn’t believe the good times we have. There’s nothing I’d rather do than tell them stories about princes and princesses and castles in the air. Their minds are so open, their curiosity is addictive. My kids are my best audience, my favorite people in the entire world. I take them into the studio with me and watch them toy with the instruments with a skill way beyond their ages. They sing and write songs. And as much as little Robert loves his father’s music, he might love Michael Jackson’s a little more. He also has his MJ dance routine down to an art.
I love kidding and teasing my kids. Say we’re watching SpongeBob; I’d purposely start calling Patrick—the starfish character—SpongeBob, the star of the cartoon series.
“That’s not SpongeBob, Daddy,” they’d scream, “that’s his best friend, Patrick.”
With “pretend” authority, I’d hold my ground. “Hey, kids, I know my cartoons and I know that’s SpongeBob,” I’d say pointing to Patrick.
When one of their friends came into the room, I’d switch over and start calling SpongeBob by his rightful name.
“That’s right, Daddy,” they’d say. “That’s SpongeBob.”
When their friend left and Patrick came on the screen again, I’d say, “Oh, here’s SpongeBob about to get into more trouble.”
“No!” they’d scream. “You got it all wrong!” But now they’re playing along, screaming and laughing at the same time. I love making my kids laugh. But I also take pride in teaching them about success—not just the glamorous parts, but also the struggle and hard work that create success. I’ve always tried to be real with them about business.
At our house in Olympia Fields, Thursday was pool and pizza day. We’d spend the day together playing in the water. I remember one Wednesday night, though, I came to them and said, “Sorry, kids, but tomorrow I’ve got to go into the city for a meeting. I can’t miss this meeting because it means a lot more money for all of us. So tomorrow I have to get all dressed up to make a good impression. I hate to miss pool and pizza day, but I have no choice.”
“Daddy,” said Robert, “you promised you wouldn’t ever miss pool and pizza day.”
“I know, son,” I said, “but tomorrow is super important for my business.”
The look in Little Rob’s eyes made my “important” meeting seem silly.
On Thursday, I waited until the kids were in the pool before I put on a $2,000 suit, a $500 white shirt, and a $300 red silk tie. I shined my best black alligator dress shoes, grabbed a brand-new leather briefcase, and strolled out to the pool to tell the kids goodbye.
“How do I look, kids?” I asked, stepping fairly close to the pool.
“You look nice, Daddy.”
“How about this suit?”
“It’s a pretty suit, Daddy.”
“How about this tie?” I asked, stepping a little closer.
“Pretty tie, Daddy.”
“Well, your daddy’s going into the city to do this big business deal,” I said, stepping even closer to the edge of the pool. “And I don’t want nothing to go wrong.”
With that, I faked like I had slipped and, wearing all my fancy clothes and holding my briefcase, I went flying into the pool.
The kids howled with delight. I’d never seen them crack up like that. When I climbed out soaking wet, all they could say was, “Oh, Daddy, you’re so crazy.”
JUICY TUESDAY
During my legal ordeal, not only did I keep making music at a crazy pace, I also kept playing ball like my life depended on it.
I hooped almost every single night, and tried not to miss a night; to this day, I never miss Tuesdays—they were the big night for intense hooping. It’s come to be known as Juicy Tuesday. My niggas know I never missed a Juicy Tuesday: that’s when the best shooters show up at the local gym. Sometimes even NBA players come down to bump elbows with me on Juicy Tuesday—it’s fiercely competitive. Because I’m a night creature, we sometimes don’t get started until around 1 A.M. or 2 A.M. and play for at least two hours. When my team wins, I love to ride the losers. Boasting rights are big with me. I get a kick out of pointing out how many games we’ve won in a row and how badly we crushed the other side.
On one particular Tuesday night in 2004,1 was warming up when my security guy spotted an unfamiliar brother hanging around. He asked me what he should do about the stranger.
“Ask him his name,” I replied.
After asking, the security guy came back and said, “Says his name is Charlie.”
“Well, go
ask his last name.”
Few seconds later, my man said, “Says his name is Charlie Wilson.”
“The Charlie Wilson?” I asked, “Charlie Wilson of the Gap Band?”
I went right over to him and saw that it really was the Charlie Wilson!
“Man,” I said, “it’s really good to see you—been loving your music forever. Just didn’t expect to see you here. Whassup?”
“I came all the way to Chicago looking for you,” Charlie answered. “The cats told me this is where you come on Tuesdays, so I figured I’d take my chances and try to catch you. I’ll be honest with you, Bro. I need a hit.”
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Charlie Wilson is coming to me for a hit? After all those years of studying you, the least I can do is write you a hit.”
“Then you’re willing?”
“It’d be an honor.”
“When do you think you can get started, Rob?”
“Right after I hoop. Hang around, Charlie. The minute I’m through playing, we’ll head to the studio and start working.”
After the game, Charlie and his woman came to my house, and I took them right to the Log Cabin. By then it was around 4 A.M. While I was fooling with ideas, they fell asleep in the easy chairs behind the engineer’s board. I was happy they did. When I start writing, the early drafts are sometimes pretty crazy. The spirit of criticism in the room can sometimes dampen my groove. I need to be free to go in whatever directions, twists, or turns the song may take. If, for example, someone says, “Oh, man, that sounds terrible,” it can throw me off the journey and ruin the whole operation.
Talking about operations, later when I told a business associate about how I’d met Charlie and immediately took him to the studio, the associate said, “You were going to write and produce a song for him without a contract? Didn’t you want to have a signed document before you began working?”
“If a patient goes to the emergency room and asks a doctor for help,” I said, “should a doctor start asking if he has insurance? The brother asked for my help, and I was the man he came to. I wasn’t about to do anything except help him out and write him a song.”
The song came to me quickly. The creative process followed our real-life encounter on the basketball court: I remembered when security told me someone named “Charlie” was hanging around and how I asked about his last name. That’s how I came up with the song’s title, “Charlie, Last Name Wilson.”
When Charlie woke up, I had the song. But, before singing it for him, I felt I had to say something: “No disrespect, Charlie, but there’s a whole new generation out there who don’t know who you are. I want this song to be all about your name. You’re introducing yourself to a whole new world of fans.”
“You got that right, Rob. No argument there.”
“That’s why I want this song to have your name. Fact is, I want this song to be all about your name. You’re not only introducing yourself to a fine honey at the club; you’re introducing yourself to a whole new world of fans as well.”
I played it and Charlie loved it. Right then and there he sang it. He didn’t argue with any of my direction. He understood that he was putting on a custom-made suit that fit him perfectly.
“It ain’t right how you turn out hits so easily,” Charlie joked when we were through.
“It’s easy when I’m writing for you,” I said. “Real easy.”
“Charlie, Last Name Wilson” did what we had hoped—it introduced Charlie to a younger R&B audience. It was the name of his first single, a major hit, and also the name of his album, which sold more than 71,000 copies in the first week of its release. The album went to the #10 spot on the Billboard 200 chart in 2005 and was eventually certified gold, with sales surpassing the 500,000 mark.
Charlie was back, and now everyone knew his name.
That year, my work schedule was beyond crazy. There were songs I was writing for other artists; there were the remixes of my old songs; and I was hard at work writing and recording my seventh studio album, which I’d decided to call TP.3 Reloaded.
The wait for the trial became even more drawn out. The pressure of the accusations served as my motivation to keep working on songs, songs, and more songs. I could go 48 hours straight without sleep. If I did manage to fall asleep, an idea would wake me and shake me until I had to run down to the studio and start recording what was in my head. Like a cannon stuffed with cannonballs, my head was stuffed with songs. Night after night, day after day, week after week, I kept firing a cannon that never emptied.
“The legal stuff is getting complicated, Robert,” one of my lawyers told me, “so please, be conservative in your music.”
Impossible. I couldn’t rein in my music any more than a fisherman could rein in an alligator.
I was still reaching for more daring metaphors. I believed I caught a good one with “Sex In the Kitchen,” where I was able to marry two human comforts—food and sex.
Girl, you’re in the kitchen
Cookin’ me a meal
Somethin’ makes me wanna come in there and get a feel
Walk around in your t-shirt
Nothing else on
Struttin’ past
Switchin’ that ass
While I’m on the phone
I want sex in the kitchen
Over by the stove
Put you on the counter
By the butter rolls
Hands on the table
On your tippy toes
We ’ll be making love
Like the restaurant was closed
There were other sexy songs on TP.3. 1 got deep into the slow-grinding reggae jam “Slow Wind.” I found another wild metaphor when I told the honey to treat me like a “Remote Control” (“Touch me, turn me on, make me sing a song, now put me on slow, push enter, now fast forward, girl, you got me programmed under your control”); “Hit It Till the Mornin’” (featuring Twista and Do or Die); and “Sex Weed” (“Girl, you got that sex weed, I just wanna hit it all the time … how did your sex make me feel this way, like I’ve been smokin’ purple haze).
These songs were cool, and they kept my musical engines burning. I wanted to be heard in the club and I wanted to be played on the radio. But my mind was also expanding into a whole different form. I started seeing way past a single or even an album concept. What I saw confused me: my music started to look like an opera with a winding, connected storyline that underscores human drama and everyday complications.
You might say that the other forms—the ballad, the club jam, the sexy dance groove—were starting to make me feel a little trapped.
Trapped was a word that played nonstop inside my head.
TRAPPED
You could draw a lot of conclusions as to why, during this seven-year period leading up to my trial, I suddenly felt like I needed to branch out into a longer musical form.
Maybe it was the letdown from the canceled Best of Both Worlds tour that made me want to retreat to my basement in the Chocolate Factory. Perhaps I was going back in time to take refuge in that period when Lena McLin exposed me to singing, theater, and opera. Maybe my legal dilemma inspired me to think about other people who were also under the gun. Maybe I was just feeling increasingly trapped and the concept was something I had to think about and deal with every day. Maybe it was all these things. Whatever it was, the idea of Trapped in the Closet crept up on me like an alien from another planet. I didn’t go into the studio with the intent of writing a screenplay. But the lyrics:
“7 o’clock in the morning and the rays from the sun wake me,
I’m stretching and yawning in a bed that don’t belong to me …”
Just came into my head, and as I sang them, I could picture the entire scene in my mind. Unlike my other songs, where lyrics led to video, Trapped came to me as a drama in need of a score.
The song scared me at first. I had no idea where the story was going; it had a life all of its own. After I was two minutes into it, still singing the verse
, my crew in the studio started screaming how much they loved it. And I was just as curious as they were to find out what would happen next. Their reaction fueled my desire to move from writing verses to actually writing chapters.
Chapter 1 finds my character, Sylvester, the narrator, waking up in the bed of a married woman. Her husband comes home and he’s forced into the closet. His cell phone rings; her husband searches for the sound. While in the closet, Sylvester sings: “… checks under the bed, then opens the dresser; he looks at the closet, I pull out my Beretta.”
Chapter 2 opens with a confrontation at gunpoint. The woman’s husband, a preacher, has a confession to make. He’s been on the down-low and figures his wife’s actions are good enough reasons for him to come out of the closet about his love affair with a man.
As the chapters progress, we learn that Sylvester’s woman is at his house kicking it with a policeman—the same cop who gives Sylvester a ticket on his way home—and on and on until the complications can’t get any more complicated.
One character led to another; one scene led to another, more intriguing scene; one betrayal seeped into other more whacked-out betrayals; and tricky situations became even trickier and each chapter ends with a cliff-hanger. Yet, everything was part of a grand scheme.
“Trapped in the Closet” started as a single, 16-minute “song” that I recorded for TP.3. When the executives at the label heard it, they didn’t know what to make of it—a I 16-minute song with no chorus and no hook? The president of the label said he wasn’t sure if it was a work of genius or insanity.
To their credit, they supported that vision and let me fulfill a lifelong dream of mine. Although I’d always come up with the concepts and co-directed my music videos, but Trapped was so much more than a music video—this was a mini movie. I was involved in every aspect, from set design, casting, costuming, editing, teaching the actors their parts—everything. We did everything like it was a movie and a lot of the crew we hired were movie people.