I can’t imagine what it’s like to be R Kelly’s friend. But in my latest, feverish burst of brain creation, I intend to muse upon the subject, if you’ll indulge me.
In a great portion of his dreary recording history, R Kelly, when not referring to having sex with a lady, spend most of his time mooting the importance of partying. He’s obsessed with it, and you can easily see in your mind’s eye, the kind of indulgent excess he’s banging on about.
In that song Ignition, for instance, he’s well into the party vibe. It’s the freaking weekend, so I’m gonna have me some fun, he blathers away in that peculiar drone of his.
The thing is, I think, that R Kelly’s parties have merged into one big party. In fact, I’m fairly sure that he’s been partying so much, that it’s the same party that’s been going since 1993.
And nobody’s been able to escape. Copious amounts of Moet, glass fountains, booty (Naked or otherwise) still being consumed in a disorientating, depressing mulch. Party members are wandering through a wasteland, one a glittering mansion, confused, shoe-less, with no idea how they got there.
Some naked, some writhing on the floor, lapping up the spilled liquids like a dying cat, humans, who were once young, in their twenties and taut, now approaching forty, wondering what happened, occasionally making a stumbling effort to breach the gates, but….finding the exit barricaded, they miserably slump against the wall, yelling silently into the wind as She’s got that Vibe plays for the 49,768th fucking time. R Kelly, now largely mute and static, sits on a throne made of the bones and skin of the long dead patrons, with skulls for shoes and a ribcage for a hat.
He splits his near fifty year old face into a grin, murmuring the word “Party”, repeatedly, his shirt spattered with saliva and gruel, his savage eyes scanning the room for survivors….
But not for long. Because R Kelly wants you to party.