Based on torturous mid-Nineties exposure, by way of unavoidable cultural osmosis, to his “I Believe I Can Fly” off the Space Jam soundtrack, I’d written R. Kelly off as another generic stud diva from the “woo woo woo” school of R&B calisthenics effectively roasted in the Two Times One Minus One skits on HBO’s “Mr. Show.” But 2003 was a banner year for Kelly in the public eye, and in my own personal, um, appreciation. In one confused flurry of publicity, R. became monologue fodder and a potential prison bitch as videotape emerged of the crooner of Top-40 treacle fucking and then pissing on a 13-year old girl—and he sidestepped this potential career-crippler with the release of a single, “Ignition (remix),” so invasive and irresistible that nobody within earshot of a stereo could hold him a grudge. Kelly’s “Sippin’ on coke and rum/ I’m like ‘So what I’m drunk?’/ It’s the freakin’ weekend baby I’m about to have me some fun” on the song’s hook remains, for me, the motto of “Don’t give a fuck” joie de vivre.

A resounding “so what?” from the public allowed Kelly to slip through the sort of legal entanglement that felled Chuck “Bitch, you can smell my fart, too” Berry in his prime. Maybe a part of this is that Kelly, with his great up-from-the-Chi-town-projects backstory, is just too essential a success story to his audience for them to dethrone, just as white yobs all over needed to forgive (or forget) Pete Townshend’s alleged transgressions (and Townshend must be Kelly’s spiritual brother, considering their shared fondness for outsized, silly non-Operatic Operas and—ahem—troubles).

After emerging from the rubble of a soured joint tour with Jay-Z still relatively unscathed, it might be understandable if Kelly was feeling a little invincible. The field of his creative soul had been sewn with the delusions of infallible megalomania reserved to venal medieval popes, Eastern Bloc dictators, and pop music potentates; what the listening public reaped was his staggeringly overambitious, not a little insane, and entirely unprecedented “Urban Opera,” “Trapped in the Closet.” Hail, folly?

The track is a repetitive trickle of piano, trampoline-bounce bass, and Chinese water torture drip that resolves into a nice, warm haze at the end of each of its 12 chapters—a relatively unobtrusive backdrop for Kelly to wildly emote over. There’s no question who’s the star here, no risk that R.’s voice will be upstaged by his beat (as in “Ignition (remix)”) and, rather betraying his operatic ambitions, the only voice we hear for the 40 or so minutes of “Trapped,” representing close to a dozen characters (and a narrator), belongs to one Robert Sylvester Kelly. This one-man-show quality is responsible for one of the tune’s most commented-on features, several dozen mouthfuls worth of expository “and I’m like,” “and she said,” “and he was all”-s, as well as much of its banality.

The song-story opens with “Sylvester” (played in these Kelly-directed videos by… R. himself!) waking in a strange bedroom, only to be immediately pushed into hiding—guess where?—by last night’s conquest. From this Blue Velvet homage onward, we’re propelled into a roundelay of overlapping infidelities, convoluted cliffhangers, cover-ups, and revelations: everyone involved has someone of their own in their proverbial closet, each opening onto an increasingly bizarre litany of outings—without giving it all away, I’ll note that it’s no accident that trailer-trash wife Bridget’s name rhymes with “midget.” If I’d gone to a better college I might suggest a parallel with Schnitzler’s La Ronde but my High School GPA was sufficiently dismal to spare us all that. The lack of judgment with which “Trapped” handles its wide range of sexual combinations (interracial, homosexual, and beyond) is nice to see, though I imagine you take the “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” bit of the Bible extra seriously when you get caught relieving yourself on a Middle Schooler.

Jive’s DVD package includes the tellingly titled featurette “Trapped Behind the Scenes,” which offers more evidence of the auteur’s amok ego, including: “[‘Trapped’] changed the way people think about videos, the way people think about writing” “This shit came outta my head!” “Put the ‘S’ on my chest, I’m comin’ through savin’ people”

Or, if that’s still not enough Kelly for you, you can watch the videos with R., who kicks back in a chocolate-colored suede tracksuit, smokes a cigar, and overlooks his unspooling masterwork with those oddly blank, shiny shoe-button eyes of his. How does he answer the frequent question as to if “Trapped” was taken from personal experience? “It’s just something that happens in reality—in life. So I decided to take a few chapters out of life and write a story about it.” A rather strange thing to say about a tale whose mounting absurdity hits a dizzying height of incredulity-inducing “What am I watching?”-ness at about the 2/3rds mark. The main strength of “Trapped” is in this: it’s just jaw-droppingly strange enough for a bid at immortality, a pop curio so singular it’s hard to even consider if it’s good or bad. As long as there’s enough weed and sofas in this world, “Trapped in the Closet” will live on.

Promises Kelly: “We’ll be comin’ back with 20 more chapters”

To quote the man’s song: “I think I just shitted on myself.”

—NICK PINKERTON