When we left R. Kelly’s sprawling, 22-chapter hip-hopera “Trapped in the Closet,” it was 2007. Main man Sylvester (Kelly) and a dozen other shady characters were tracking a “package” (possibly a metaphorical one? HIV?) through a convoluted love dodecahedron. In real life, Kelly was awaiting trial on seven counts of soliciting a minor and taping it, aka producing child pornography. (He also allegedly peed on her.)
Kelly’s stream-of-consciousness opus was a glorious train wreck. The series won two Grammy noms and brought him new, young fans. (Plus, he was ultimately found not guilty of the child porn/peeing thing.)
When IFC premieres new chapters of “Trapped” on Friday, I will watch. (I will also bounce, bounce to “Ignition” like it’s the freakin’ weekend whenever it comes on.) That’s because I want to see what comes out of that strange, Howard Hughes brain next. I also apparently put on the same creeper blinders for Roman Polanski, but not Chris Brown. I am deeply conflicted by my subjective internal grossness meter.
An intro as I take over Sound Bets: I’m senior arts editor at Express, and I’ve been a writer in D.C. for 10 years. I love our scene and music that’s fast and loud. Looking forward to your feedback.