Trapped In The Courtroom

Until now, I have stayed the fuck away from the mess that is the R. Kelly trial. To be honest, I’m fairly unmoved by his music, as I am with most R&B artists that specialize in the fucky-fucky groove, and view the entire incident for what it is: a glorious sideshow of epic proportions. It’s as captivating as the O.J. trial, without the 24-hour coverage, unfortunately.
Part of the reason for this is the actual subject matter. Americans can get all involved in a brutal double homicide, but balk at the idea of a grown man pissing on an underage girl. Hey, I get it…But I guess I’m just as repulsed by murder, so whatever.
Not to suggest that I wouldn’t be all over the coverage if it were in front of me. The entire thing is fascinating: from the idea that a singer is above the law to suggest that he could get away with such abuse or to the rumors that Kelly’s penchant for younger girls went unchecked, unchallenged, and unnoticed for several years. Don’t people in entourages have brains?! If one of my friends confided in me that they were getting intimate with a 14-year-old girl, I would 1.) Be aggressively vocal in my dissent of those actions and, in lieu of no immediate change in their behavior, 2.) Take steps to distance myself from them while using a free hand to call the fucking police. It ain’t about loyalty; it’s about fucking around with someone who should have to contend with getting intimate with an adult.
R. Kelly is crazy. Make no mistake about it. And while Trapped In The Closet has provided me with enormous entertainment at the expense of this lunacy, there’s something about it that just reeks of “This guy is completely serious.” He views it as an “urban opera” and, I’ll confess, a lot of time, energy and talent went into making it. It’s as if Picasso had painted a violent car crash that is both intriguing and disturbing at the same time.
R. Kelly’s fans are crazy. Not to advocate “blame the victim” here, but from what I understand there were those that introduced the victim to Kelly even after they knew he had “issues” with underage girls. So how does one sleep at night knowing that their actions or lack of responsibility lead to Kelly not only acting on some fairly irreprehensible acts, but fucking videotaping them to boot.
In a strange twist, Chicago reviewer Jim DeRogatis was tapped at the trial to testify, essentially putting DeRo at risk for having to reveal his sources when he was investigating Kelly’s sexual exploits. The judge also hinted that he would be asking for DeRo’s notes that he made during the investigative piece. I will now publically declare that Jim’s reluctance to do this has brought him a ton of respect in my book; he refused to answer most of the judge’s questions and turn over the notes, which point to the individual responsible for dropping off the golden shower video to the Sun-Times office. The answer, as it turns out, was none other than Barry Hankerson, Kelly’s former manager and Aaliya’s uncle, who sought out the help of the Sun-Times to bring down Kelly.
Fuck Trapped In The Closet, this trial is your urban opera.