In a stunning P.R. move, embattled and possibly insane R&B legend R. Kelly invited a gang of "music journalists" to his house in the Chicago suburbs last night, where he previewed tracks from his upcoming album and generally made the journalists feel important and more likely to not judge Kellz for his allegedly freaky tendencies. And it worked! Everyone from cable TV titans to our favorite radio employee wrote glowing accounts of the evening. Are we sad we weren't invited?
Well, yes and no. Yes because we found it odd that we're deemed not as important as people whose contribution to journalism amounts to a Blogspot account, and no because WE WENT TO HIS HOUSE ANYWAY, BITCHES*. What, you thought Complex wouldn't find a way around some bullshit-ass guard dogs? Not only did we go, but we went rogue in that piece like Jack muhfuckin' Bauer. Get ready for a look inside R. Kelly's crib, Complex-style....
Blend in with the pack of music journalists on their way in. They keep referring to themselves as a "gaggle of reporters." Pretty sure that means they gaggle on artists' balls for access.
R. Kelly's butler, "Number One," serves everyone lemonade. He says it's officially called a "You're In R. Kelly's House Now Cocktail," or just "You're In" for short. The glass is warm to the touch. I pass.
Sneak out of the room and down a back hallway, where I find a map kiosk like they have in malls. This dude has a TCBY on the third floor! Gotta remember to stop by the "Feelin' On Yo Beauty Salon" for an edge-up before I leave.
Converge with journalists as they're being ushered into the studio. Yes, there's actually an usher. And it's actually Usher! He looks sad. I excuse myself to use the restroom.
Nice touch on the novelty urinal cakes, Kellz! Could do without the yellow food coloring in the faucets, though.
Start poking around the studio area. One of these rooms looks reeeeeally familiar. Oh, this is the room where a guy who totally wasn't R. Kelly had sex with an underage girl!
Hey, where do these stairs go? Very courteous of the R, though: "Watch Your Step In the Name of Love."
Holy SHIT. This can't be a warehouse of R. Kelly Sex Robots. There's just no way.
Time to go!
Out of breath. Note to self: Sex robots are faster than they look. Hey, an office! I love musicians' offices. All those gold and platinum plaques hanging up to commemorate success...wait a second, these are all depositions!
Funny, I didn't realize Weezy's ex-wife tried to sue Kellz for "Thoiya Thoing."
Enough legalese. What's in this closet?
Jesus, it smells like a dwarf shit himself in here. Time to hit the pool for some fresh air.
Catch sight of journalists just as they're being shown out the door. Bodyguards eye me suspiciously, as I'm the only one not wearing a XXXL "I Got Splashed By Greatness" promotional t-shirt, but I do my best to look tear-stained and traumatized like everyone else and they let me out. Freedom!
*Yes, this is a parody. Your lawyers are tired, Kellz, give 'em a rest!