SOHH ON THE SCENE

A Trip To R. Kelly's House To Meet A Guy Named Robert & His Awards

Posted on August 18, 2009 4:58 PM

"Hi I'm Robert!"

With an outstretched hand and a mischievous smile, that's how "Robert" aka R. Kelly greeted me last night. He invited a bunch of bloggers and journalists into his Chicago home for a preview of his upcoming record entitled Untitled.

After his "I'm Robert" routine, pronouncing the "R" and "T" with extra crispness for effect--he let out a guffaw and shook my hand heartily. There was no Zoro (or Robin) mask, no extravagant house robe, no glistening dark sunglasses, the whole scene was devoid of the expected attention-grabbing R. Kelly stunts.

The truth is, I was looking forward to some level of weirdness. I think we all were. I've come to expect the unexpected with R. Kelly. I had thoughts of Prince-like nuttiness. I was waiting for the man to make some grand entrance, gallop in on a pony or mule wearing a poncho and a Zoro mask while drinking from a pimp chalice. After all, other journalists had told me fantastic and endless tales of his eccentricities. I've even witnessed first-hand one of his strange public displays (I saw dude storm off stage during the Best Of Both Worlds tour after pointing out some phantom fan who, he said, flashed a gun from the audience. There was no gun.).

But Kells, er, Robert had a different plan this night. He and his Cuban cigar arrived, greeted people in regular people talk, and dressed in regular people wears. In the process he revealed a very un-kooky Kells.

I was stunned.

He was modestly dressed. Dark button-up shirt, jeans. He sported a common haircut. A sort of fade-Mohawk hybrid. And in this alternative universe, where Kells is common folk, this jovial cat flits around the room displaying all the charm and personable qualities of a young Bill Clinton.

The spectacle we were expecting never showed up. But what Robert offered turned out to be a much more enlightening.

[They asked us not to take pictures/videos so I'll try to paint the scene. Pardon if I get too long winded here.]

His home sits at the end of a sterile housing complex, notable for its unexceptional American Beauty suburban blah. The houses don't sit high on a hill off in a distance, they stand near enough to one another for a neighbor to cross the well manicured lawns and borrow a cup of sugar from the house next door. That is, except for Kells' enclave.

The man has his own gated community at the end of road.

When we arrived, one of his security dudes was checking credentials. And, after a short wait, we were whisked into his home. Inside, we were gathered into his entertaining room. It resembled a fancy-shmancy ski lodge. Huge wooden beams. Cream colored walls. Super high ceilings. And a fireplace with the inscription above that reads: I BELIEVE I CAN FLY.

There was a stage that was curtained off. And large drapes about blocked out any light from the outside. The area that got the most attention was his awards shelf. I was sitting near the awards and everyone who came over to ogle the awards joked (fantasized, no plotted!) about slipping one in their bag and no one would be the wiser. (I was one of the few who actually had a bag with me.)

Stocked with his Billboard Music Awards, Vibe Awards, Source Award, NAACP Award, Soul Train Awards, and more. One was a bust of Stevie Wonder, another was a bust of Quincy Jones. People squinted at each to figure out if it was indeed Stevie or Quincy.

Conversation overheard at Award shelf:

Award Ogler #1: "That's Stevie?"

Award Ogler #2: "Nah. That looks like Predator! [laugh]"

#1: "They could have put his glasses on."

#2: "I know, who knows Stevie without his glasses!?"

I thought Award Ogler # 1 had a point, though I did recognize both at first glance. These conversations, along with talks of smuggling out an award, went on throughout the evening. 

The most peculiar thing about the shelf was the placement of his three Grammy Awards, which occupied the far bottom shelf. I asked why he did they give The Grammys a more prominent placement.

"I don't know," he began, as if the thought never occurred to him. And it probably hadn't. "I been here for like eight years. Sometimes we have parties down here and I got to move them up out of here. Cause you know people wanna walk out with them. But I left them here tonight, cause y'all won't steal them." He leans in and smiles wide. "I can trust you, can't I? Eyebrows raised. "Can't I."

* He laughed loudly and moved on to the next group of house guests.

After he shook every hand and kissed every baby [Dammit! Grow up. You know what I mean] he was ready to play music. He stood on the coffee table in the center of the room, and made a toast. Everyone lifted their glasses, mostly filled with the house-made mixture of punch and mystery liqour called "Sex in the Kitchen."

Kells set the tone with his toast: "May the best of the past be the worst of the future."

Then the music played.

There was almost a consensus, from what I could tell, with the likes and dislikes of the new album. The "Sex in the Kitchen" was flowing. The music ranged from Ron Brows-styled auto-tune ("Crazy Night" ft. Rock City) to classic euro-house influenced soul power of "Be My Number 2," which was my personal favorite.

"Echo" is a bizarre R. Kelly styled ditty made comically classic with an undeniable yodeling chorus. Think Lil Wayne's "Ms. Officer" but replace the siren sound with a yodel. Absurdity, hilarity and infectious yodeling ensues. It is apparently slated for the second single, after the obligatory "Number One" feat. Keri Hilson, who, as a team, Kells dubs R. Keri.

The ballads are distinctly Kells, like the standout "Elsewhere," in which Kelly stopped the track in mid play.

"Start that over," he barked. "I got my girl back with that." He laughed. But you know he was serious.

There are more hits and misses on the album. You'll be able to judge for yourself. After the music played, he took us down to his studio where his hits are created from scratch.

"If y'all wanna go see where the magic is made, follow the Pied Piper," he said.

By then the Sex in the Kitchen had taken its toll. And almost everybody had a Cuban cigar dangling from their mouths. Before we knew it, the Piper had a party brewing. He was like Marryann from True Blood whipping up the crowd into a mood and a moment.   

About 30 or so bloggers, journalists and others filed behind the, um, Piper, through his hallways--packed with gold and platinum plaques--and past his indoor pool area, complete with palm trees to round out its tropical jungle theme.

There was a Maybach parked conspicuously on the side of his house, and out back a trippy glowing aquarium stares at all visitors (He raises sharks). If you crane your neck around the corner of the house, there was a clever little "crooked" tree house with odd window and door angles intended to toy with your depth perception.

Then we went down into the tiny box room where the magic was made.

The juxtaposition was noticeable. Enough to prompt someone to ask: "Why did you decide to make the studio small, was it because it helps it be more intimate?"

Kelly, now seated behind the keyboard and mic, leaned back on the mirror. "Look," he paused. "I was going to give you a whole elaborate explanation," he sat up straight as in the explanation posture, "but to tell you the truth it was just the space I had to work with. That's all." The room laughed with him.

He went on to glamor a few of the, ahem, ladies who were on-hand, with comedic stories and an impromptu performance, including a live basement studio rendition of "12 Play." He talked about Michael Jackson and how he had five records planned for the King of Pop. He seemed just as surprised as we were that MJ actually came to his little studio. He was amused that he "got him Chinese food." And he seemed more surprised that he got him to eat it.

"I did like five songs with Michael Jackson before he passed that we didn't get a chance to do," he said. "I'm gonna finish what me and Mike were doing and try to get it out there. He was like," he breaks into Michael Jackson's soft-spoken tone: "'It sounds just like me. I feel like I made the song already'."

I don't want to be too redundant, here. Miss Info, who was also there, wrote a thorough and well documented account of the entire event.

But he went on like this all night. High spirits. Clear eyed. Charismatic. Funny. Charming. I wish I could capture the magic of the moment in this blog. I wish I could describe better the easy confidence displayed by the Kells we met last night. I wish I could have taken some damn video. [Well, I did but they made me vow to never show it.]

Nevertheless, It would have been fun to see the wild, tantrum-throwing, mask-wearing, trapped-in-the-closet, caught up in his hype, R. Kelly. The awkward moments would have been something to write about. But what we got, instead, was a more complex picture of this guy.

Somehow, despite all you expect from R. Kelly, he managed to deliver the "unexpected" in a way only Robert could. I'm thinking he deserves an award for that. He could stuff it right down there on the bottom corner of his shelf next to his Grammys.   




*[Okay so I didn't steal an award, but I had to at least steal a picture. Even if it is a crappy one.]
 
-E. Parker

Posted by Danica

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