While I could be mean and point out that the flabby, ashen, wrinkled fist that Kelly is clenching on Double Up’s tacky cover (remember, Robert, to moisturize when you masturbate), the album’s heat deficit is basically grammatical. He’s addicted to exposition, and he may think that his endless capacity for pillow talk proves his sexual endurance, but it should make any rational sonic fuckee want to smother him. But it’s even more true that Kelly, with his uninterrupted stream of what I guess could generously be called cadence, is even more pathologically unaware of his unsexiness. It’s true that the endless chapters of that song’s sub-telenovela melodrama certainly fulfilled the Sontagian requirement that camp be unwitting-and, in Kelly’s case, witless. (Reportedly, what might be referred to as the song’s “second season” is scheduled for release later this summer, and hopefully the fainting midget has taken a few tablets of Pepto in the interim.) Halfway through the unilaterally moronic Double Up, I realized that the possibility of the former type of hate had completely dried up, no doubt after the psychotic “Trapped in the Closet” cycle-which camp aficionados are still trying their damnedest to ignore-drizzled to a sopping close. Kelly album with mixed feelings, the natural result of not being able to anticipate whether I’ll hate it so much that I’ll love it or I’ll hate it so much that I’ll hate it. I approach the prospect of listening to an R.

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