Having reclaimed his spot at the top, Eminem takes a page from rap’s golden age.
Interview by Noah Callahan-Bever / Photography by Daniel Hastings
“Oh, I also got the first song done for my new album. Do you want to hear it?” If Eminem asks you this question—at any point in time, for absolutely any reason—common sense dictates that you immediately respond with an enthusiastic, “Yes!” However, if he asks you this having just played you rough demos of “Forgot About Dre” and “What’s the Difference?” you’d better exclaim, “holyfuckingshityespleaserightnow thankyouthankyouthankyou,” with the motherfucking quickness. So yeah, pretty much, that’s what I said.
And then: Genteel chimes gave way to a manic piano line, Em’s baby talk preamble escalated to a violent threat. “Sit down, bitch, you move again I’ll BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!” The air in the room was gone. He was playing “Kim” for us and WEOENO. As his beautiful ugliness exploded from the speakers, no one made eye contact. No one did anything. We just listened. We’d never heard a record like this. Shit, a record like this had never existed. After wowing us with his inventive wordplay and cartoonish creativity on his first album, Eminem had bared it all. He’d untethered himself from convention, from shame, from morality, from all things socially acceptable. Unhinged and unhindered, he had crafted one of the most brutal, honest, repulsive, intoxicating musical moments ever.
The song finished and we all sat quiet. No one spoke. I already considered Em a tremendous talent, but that moment—disturbed and awed—was the first time it passed through my mind that dude might be one of the great artists of my generation. Of course not for a moment did I consider the baggage that comes with that distinction.
“So yeah, what do you guys think?”
Fifteen years later, driving through the quiet streets off 8 Mile, Eminem is previewing me a handful of songs from his forthcoming The Marshall Mathers LP 2.
In the intervening years, as a result of the visceral connection songs like “Kim” made with fans, he’s become one of the most famous people on earth, experiencing all the pleasure and pain that comes with such adulation. Now four years sober, a 41-year-old father of three, Eminem remains arguably the most technically gifted rapper alive. But his art has become more restrained.
Eminem has spent the better part of the last decade trying to put the genie that is his personal life—the very genie that granted the once-struggling musician wishes of success, wealth, and fame—back in the bottle. At this point we know little about his private life. Aside from the promotional rounds for his albums, we barely even see him. And that’s exactly how he wants it.
His last two albums, Relapse and Recovery, were mined from his experience as an addict and then as a recovering addict. Their narrow focus allowed him to go deep, if not broad. To keep a few things for himself. But the songs he plays for me today range from spine-tingling (“Legacy”) to brain-bending (“Rap God”), and though all are quite personal, one thing they’re not is personally revealing.
Speaking to Eminem over video chat a week later it seems he is now to “take the restraints off,” as he puts it. He’s still tinkering with his album as he counts down the hours before his deadline. “I can’t even remember the last time I did an interview,” he says. “When I’m in the process of making music I can’t even think of what I want to say. But I got to get back in that mode, and you know what? You’re my first.” During a conversation broken up by Brooklyn police sirens and FaceTime glitches, we discuss whether or not the personal revelations that fueled the MMLP were worth it, how the new album might tread in similar territory—though he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise; he’s big on surprises—and why you should never pry into a man’s fantasy football strategy.
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