Music is weird. It sticks to memories like glue, but sometimes those memories turn sour. You know the melody. You’ve heard it at every 90s graduation, every middle school talent show, and definitely during that one pivotal scene in Space Jam. It starts with those soft, twinkling synths. Then comes the sweeping orchestration. By the time the choir hits the bridge, you're usually ready to run through a brick wall or, at the very least, try to dunk a basketball on a lowered hoop.
When people search for i believe i can fly i believe, they’re usually looking for a specific feeling. It’s that soaring, cinematic optimism that defined an entire decade of pop culture. But there’s a massive elephant in the room that makes talking about this song complicated.
Honestly, it’s one of the greatest "bridge" songs ever written in R&B, yet its legacy is now inextricably tied to the federal convictions of its creator, R. Kelly. This isn't just a song anymore; it's a case study in how we separate—or fail to separate—the art from the artist.
The Cultural Explosion of 1996
The song didn't just climb the charts. It lived there. Released in 1996 for the Space Jam soundtrack, it was the perfect storm of marketing and genuine musical craftsmanship. Think about the context. Michael Jordan was at the absolute peak of his global powers. Looney Tunes were being introduced to a new generation. The track spent three non-consecutive weeks at number two on the Billboard Hot 100, kept off the top spot only by Toni Braxton’s "Un-Break My Heart."
It was a juggernaut.
It won three Grammys in 1998, including Best R&B Song. Everyone from Frank Sinatra to Yolanda Adams covered it. It became a secular hymn. The lyrics are basic, sure. "I used to think that I could not go on / And life was nothing but an awful song." It’s Hallmark card poetry, but the delivery sold it as gospel truth.
That Hook: I Believe I Can Fly I Believe
The repetitive nature of the chorus—i believe i can fly i believe I can touch the sky—is what made it an earworm. It’s a psychological trick called "prosodic drumming." The repetition reinforces the message until it feels like an internal monologue rather than a song. For a long time, this was the "everything is possible" anthem for a post-Cold War America that felt invincible.
But things changed.
The Surviving R. Kelly documentary series wasn't just a TV event; it was a cultural reckoning. As the details of Kelly's decades-long history of sexual abuse and sex trafficking came to light, the song began to vanish. It was pulled from radio rotations. It was scrubbed from many graduation playlists.
What happens to a "pure" song when the source is proven to be anything but?
Some people still listen. They argue that the song belongs to the fans now, or to Michael Jordan, or to the memories of their own childhood. Others find it physically impossible to hear that voice without thinking of the Brooklyn and Chicago trials. It’s a polarizing piece of media. You can’t just hum it in a grocery store anymore without someone giving you a look.
The Technical Brilliance (The Part Nobody Wants to Admit)
If we're being intellectually honest, the song is a masterclass in arrangement. Most R&B tracks of that era relied on a heavy beat. This didn't. It relied on a crescendo. It starts in a low register—almost a whisper—and builds into a full-scale orchestral explosion.
- The Instrumentation: A mix of live strings and 90s digital pads.
- The Vocals: Ad-libs that don't crowd the melody.
- The Pacing: It’s nearly five minutes long, which is an eternity for a pop radio edit today.
The songwriting structure follows the "Hero's Journey." It identifies a problem (the inability to go on), finds a spark of hope (the internal "belief"), and concludes with a triumphant transformation. It’s the same narrative arc as Rocky or The Lion King. That’s why it worked so well for Space Jam. It wasn't just a song about a rabbit playing basketball; it was a song about redemption.
Why We Can't Just "Delete" It
Google search data shows that thousands of people still look for the lyrics to i believe i can fly i believe every single month. It hasn't been erased from history because you can't erase a global phenomenon.
It exists in a strange limbo.
Music historians often compare it to the works of Wagner or the films produced by Harvey Weinstein. Can you appreciate the technical achievement while condemning the human behind it? There’s no easy answer. Some fans have switched to covers. They’ll listen to the version by the Chicago Mass Choir or a gospel rendition where the focus is shifted away from the original singer.
Actually, the song has a weird history with NASA, too. It was used to wake up astronauts on the Space Shuttle missions (specifically STS-122). When you're literally in orbit, the line "I believe I can fly" takes on a very literal, non-problematic meaning.
The Space Jam Factor
We have to talk about the movie. Space Jam was a $230 million behemoth. It merged the world of sports and animation in a way that hadn't been done since Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The soundtrack went 6x Platinum.
Without that song, the movie's climax feels different. It provides the emotional weight that a cartoon about aliens stealing basketball skills probably didn't deserve. But that’s the power of a well-placed power ballad. It tricks your brain into thinking the stakes are life and death.
Real-World Impact and Legal Fallout
By 2022, following R. Kelly’s sentencing to 30 years in prison (later followed by an additional 20-year sentence in a separate case), the royalty landscape for the song changed. While the song is still streamed, many platforms have seen a shift in how it's promoted. You won't find it on "Feel Good" curated playlists as often as you used to.
It’s a ghost in the machine.
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For the victims of the artist, hearing the song isn't a nostalgic trip to the 90s; it’s a reminder of a man who used his fame as a shield. That is the nuance of modern media consumption. We aren't just consumers; we're critics. We have to decide what we're willing to carry forward.
Actionable Insights for the Modern Listener
If you find yourself still drawn to the melody but conflicted about the artist, there are ways to navigate this without feeling like you're compromising your ethics.
- Seek out covers. There are incredible versions by artists like Patti LaBelle or various gospel groups that capture the soul of the composition without the baggage of the original vocal.
- Support the survivors. If you do choose to listen to the original, consider making a donation to organizations like RAINN or the #MuteRKelly movement to balance the scales.
- Contextualize the history. Don't ignore why the song is controversial. Use it as a talking point about how the industry protects powerful figures.
- Acknowledge the production. You can respect the work of the session musicians, the orchestra, and the engineers who built the wall of sound without glorifying the lead singer.
The legacy of i believe i can fly i believe is a fractured one. It’s a song that taught a generation they could do anything, while the man who sang it was doing things that should never have been allowed. It remains a testament to the power of a melody and a warning about the idols we choose to celebrate. Moving forward requires acknowledging both the "touch the sky" inspiration and the ground-level reality of the harm caused behind the scenes.