Unsaved by anything resembling an acceptable musical hook, Kelly’s lyrics are uniformly dumb, but anyone who holds it against anyone else for saying stupid shit while having sex deserves a lifetime of extremely well-spoken celibacy. If the sex sounds suspiciously rote, it’s also worth noting that Kelly’s most passionate performance can be found on “Real Talk,” a monologue that is either one side of an ugly break-up phone call or (more likely) Kelly working up his would-be withering bons mot: “Didn’t I just give you money to go get your hair, toes, and nails done the other day? Hmm, yeah your ass was smiling then!” As Paula Abdul said, “Love TKO!” Somewhere in this mess, he’s also “Havin’ A Baby,” and both his musical and paternal commitments sound practically court-ordered: “Baby, you’re pregnant in April, which means we’re having a Capricorn.” Capricorny.
Still trapped in the closet are we, R.? Hell naw, and he’ll use the word “girl” every third syllable to make sure you don’t forget it (or the criminal charges). Aside from the paleontology of “The Zoo,” Kelly spends time “Tryin’ to Get a Number” with Nelly, about to “Get Dirty” with Chamillionaire, and sharing the “Same Girl” with Usher. Entertainment Weekly’s review was kind enough to preserve some of Kelly’s choice couplets in print form, one of which I think bears repeating: “I got you so wet, it’s like a rainforest/Like Jurassic Park, except I’m your sexosaurus.” Forget Velociraptors, Kelly’s lyrical skills make pinheaded Stegosaurs look quick-witted.
While I could be mean and point out that the flabby, ashen, wrinkled fist that Kelly is clenching on Double Up’s tacky cover (remember, Robert, to moisturize when you masturbate), the album’s heat deficit is basically grammatical. He’s addicted to exposition, and he may think that his endless capacity for pillow talk proves his sexual endurance, but it should make any rational sonic fuckee want to smother him. But it’s even more true that Kelly, with his uninterrupted stream of what I guess could generously be called cadence, is even more pathologically unaware of his unsexiness. It’s true that the endless chapters of that song’s sub-telenovela melodrama certainly fulfilled the Sontagian requirement that camp be unwitting-and, in Kelly’s case, witless. (Reportedly, what might be referred to as the song’s “second season” is scheduled for release later this summer, and hopefully the fainting midget has taken a few tablets of Pepto in the interim.) Halfway through the unilaterally moronic Double Up, I realized that the possibility of the former type of hate had completely dried up, no doubt after the psychotic “Trapped in the Closet” cycle-which camp aficionados are still trying their damnedest to ignore-drizzled to a sopping close. Kelly album with mixed feelings, the natural result of not being able to anticipate whether I’ll hate it so much that I’ll love it or I’ll hate it so much that I’ll hate it. I approach the prospect of listening to an R.
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