Truth or Dare

"Oops, I didn't know I couldn't talk about sex / I didn't know I couldn't speak my mind." No, it wasn't the former Marshall Mathers, but rather Madonna, another tough-talking provocateur with a secret yearning for approval, who originally delivered those defensive lines. Nevertheless, the man who launched his notorious career by bragging he didn't give a fuck seems to riff endless variations on that line all throughout his oddly repentant new record, The Eminem Show. And like Madonna, who spent the majority of her 1992 album Erotica (and concurrent Sex book) talking dirty only to use the previously quoted "Human Nature" (and her 1994 album Bedtime Stories) as a platform to apologize for it, this change in tone counts for a lot. Particularly on the preceding Marshall Mathers LP, he exploded in at least three directions in every song, leaving the complicated job of sorting through the emotional wreckage to the listener. Here however, putting on his best halo for the irony-deficient in his audience, he attempts to justify his previous bad behavior by surgically excising much of the offensiveness out of his lyrics, thus simplifying his formerly complex persona into an approximation of a responsible adult -- all to prove, it would seem, that he's a worthy father for his daughter Hailie Jade.

In theory, this is healthy -- we would want this for our friends. But as Mathers -- in either his own voice or those of his alter egos, Eminem and Slim Shady -- has preached so many times before, the world that inhabits music occupies a different plane of existence than real life. Unfortunately, on his new record, the slight dumbing-down this rehabilitation apparently requires results in fewer jokes, fewer of his trademark skewed rhymes, fewer dimensions to his anger. In earlier masterstrokes like "Who Knew" and "The Way I Am," He created disturbing art that targeted authority figures only too willing to blame disturbing art -- his own, for instance -- for the world's problems. But in his new songs, he unironically attempts to justify his right to make that disturbing art (which after all, is only an extension of his bad self), which just isn't as shocking, disquieting, or fun.

This being the case, The Eminem Show may garner fewer picketers and more favorable reviews in mainstream magazines (that dottering old uncle Time seems to have taken the bait), but neither of those virtues saves the album as a whole from its own compromises. The hit single "Without Me" showcases most of the things that make him the most exciting rapper in America, yet the ostensible theme of the song -- his social function as a necessary whipping boy -- takes on an unintended double meaning when you realize he isn't actually being all that controversial. Unless, that is, threats to ejaculate on Lynne Cheney's tits inspire you to take to marching in the streets.

Occasionally though, this less convoluted approach works. On the superb "Cleanin' Out My Closet," he "confides" that on the night he caught his ex-wife cheating, "The smartest shit I ever did was take them bullets out of that gun," and the revelation shocks exactly in the cold way he intends. Likewise, in an equally chilling line directed toward the mom whom he vows never to see again, he raps, "Remember when Ronnie [his uncle] died and you said you wished it was me?/Well guess what, I am dead/Dead to you as can be." The song wouldn't resonate as much if it was couched it in the trademark irony and sick humor for which he is infamous. Here at least, the unvarnished candor suits the material. If only it resulted in more tracks like this rather than the pathetic VD screed "Drips," which tastelessly lambastes women with "pubic hairs looking like sour cream dips," without speculating on the gender of human being that got them in that condition in the first place.

One other concession may be the most surprising of all. In much the same way that Madonna traded the visionary electroporn of Erotica for the tamer R&B of Dallas Austin on Bedtime Stories, Mathers de-emphasizes the terse hip hop shadings that made him a household name for a more conventional rap-rock hybrid. Admittedly, it certainly gets the job done more efficiently than Linkin Park, but in the end it caters more to his white fans (and critics) than challenges them. In theory, as with the modification of his lyrical approach, this doesn't stop him from producing a modest batch of pretty good songs anyway, but nothing here tops his peaks, and the depressing amount of mediocre tracks is undeniable. With his Evita (the Curtis Hanson-directed 8 Mile) coming down the chute, this rock critic would like to offer a suggested mantra for future recording endeavors, borrowed from his worthy predecessor, Ms. Ciccone: "Express yourself / Don't repress yourself."

Chicago, IL
June 2002