R. Kelly

The rap on R. Kelly's first two albums was that the Chicago singer/songwriter and producer
was a soulman with no real soul, just another hot 'n' horny would-be Lothario using his
silky-smooth grooves to lure the honeys to his water bed. But those who'd seen his
emotionally wrought live shows knew there was more to the picture. "There's R. Kelly, and
then there's Robert," Kelly says. "R. Kelly is a thing on TV, but nobody knows Ro... More >

"He's grown up a little," an intelligent young member of his target audience was gratified to report, and that's a reasonable explanation for his surprise abandonment of bump-and-mack banality. But as a sage old outsider, I wonder whether he hasn't also sold out a little--and whether pop music and the world aren't better off for his market-driven pursuit of the love-man demographic. Luther's ladies buy as many tapes and CDs as B-girls do, and in real stores, too. So as said B-girls evolve into jobholding consumers who won't get played, a fella with his eye on the main chance learns to improve the quality of his dubious promises: "Trade in my life for you," that's strong, and no harm in a little "goin' down on you by the fireplace." Add a dollop of Dre, a cup of Isleys, and more church than he sees the inside of in a year, and you have the smartest and sexiest new jack swing since Teddy Riley fell off the edge of the biz. (Grade: A-)