Like a philandering lover on his knees with the same pitiful excuse, though, we take him back because, aw, come on baby, Kells was just foolin’ with them underage girls, and he really loves us. His 2005 mini-opus Trapped in the Closet: Chapters 1-12, for example, offers boundless guilty pleasures until a surreal commentary track (which features a clueless Kelly marveling at his own storytelling bravado) that suggests his favored auteurs might be Candace Bushnell and Larry Flynt.īut what’s wrong with a little, well, a lot of brazen honesty, especially where matters of the heart and genitalia are concerned? If anything, it helps break down the barrier of self-righteous snarkiness we use to shield ourselves from such genuine outpourings of emotion, especially ones from an artist with as sordid a personal history as Kelly. It’s a simultaneously endearing and unnerving quality. While many a cut-rate lothario has burrowed his way into America’s hearts and panties, none seem to do so with the same utter lack of self-awareness as Kells. He’s also perversely talented at expressing his horniness in songs that, be they club anthems or baby-making background noise, inevitably plant themselves firmly atop the charts and in the collective cultural subconscious.
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