Pitchfork

TP3 Reloaded is one of those albums where every song sounds like a radio single, and since I live in Chicago, I'll likely be able to cross each one off the list by the end of the summer. Kelly cruises through genres like he's giving a guided tour, hitting crunk, dancehall, hip-hop, reggaeton, and naturally, a handful of bedroom ballads along the way. Production work is minimal, guest stars pay deference to their album host, and the entire album puts Kelly, his malleable voice, and his considerable persona center stage.

Though R. Kelly's last outing was a departure, a two-disc concept album dealing with largely PG-rated topics like Jesus and steppin', Reloaded finds him back lecturing on his favorite topic: fucking. Fucking in the kitchen, fucking on the third date, fucking in R. Kelly's XXL white tee. Comparing fucking to remote control use, arson, and the chronic. Of course, Kelly's not quite so crass (he even self-beeps the f-word in the fifth "chapter" of "Trapped in the Closet"), but the junior-high sex synonyms don't dilute the XXX; they merely keep it just barely radio-friendly.

With such an unrelenting theme, TP3 Reloaded's 75 minutes might test the patience of those not simultaneously engaging in the activities described-- and even those who are will likely find a few weak spots. Fortunately, there's enough gold buried in TP3 worth digging for: "Happy Summertime" is a laid-back dream meetup of world-class sing-rappers, as Kelly and Snoop Dogg trade verses about harmony betwixt Cali and the Chi (including what just might be the hip-hop debut of Millennium Park). Kelly's catchy cadence keeps him afloat on the Missy-like "Reggae Bump, Bump" with Elephant Man or the martial reggaeton of "Burn It Up". Most likely to score the summer's barbecues are the straight hip-hop numbers: "Playas Only", featuring The Game, is already dominant, and "Hit It Till the Morning", with its itchy beats and rudimentarily effective Twista appearance, is waiting on deck.

All the same, your tolerance for the album is contingent upon your appreciation for the more humor-shock slow grooves. Take the "Trapped in the Closet" cycle, for instance-- perhaps the most bizarre, audacious, brilliant undertaking a major artist has attempted in years. Its five parts close out the album, and that's a blessing to the listener, as one listen is probably enough for even the most die-hard concept-music fanatic. Tracks like "Remote Control" (despite its dandy Prince impression) and "Sex Weed" similarly run the risk of succumbing to their concept: After you've heard Kelly refer to his girl's "sticky-icky" once, subsequent listens fail to pack the same punch.

But no matter your personal taste for songs like "Put My T-Shirt On", don't be so condescending as to think Kelly is being unintentionally funny-- there's no way R. can't know how Chappelle-like the line "Lying here in the bed checking you out while you're in the bathroom, girl" sounds, but clearly it doesn't bother him. Restraint fits R. Kelly about as well as suspenders and a bow tie, and shackling his libido is likely what led to the relative commercial bellyflop of last year's Happy People/U Saved Me. TP3 Reloaded might be an unfortunate title, but it's at least an accurate one: Chicago's musical skyscraper pops Viagra and strikes the phallic pose he knows best.