Any lingering doubts as to the depth of Eminem's skills or his potential for raw yet compelling honesty are dispelled on The Eminem Show's first track. Armed with a quicksilver flow and a thundering rhythm track (the record was exec produced by longtime mentor and partner Dr. Dre), "White America" finds Eminem ferociously mauling the hand that feeds him, lambasting his critics, the industry, and the racism that, in many ways, helped make Marshall Mathers more than just another rapper. "Let's do the math," Em sneers, "If I was black I would have sold half/ I could be one of your kids/ Little Eric looks just like this." After the bombast of The Marshall Mathers LP and Eminem's well-noted use of sexual epithets, this kind of material is made more controversial because it actually rings true. From a brutal retort to his long-estranged and equally troubled mother ("Cleaning Out My Closets") to a surprisingly tender ode to his child ("Hailie's Song"), Eminem examines his life, loves, arrests, addictions, failures, and successes with surprising insight, making this a funk-drenched hip-hop confessional well worth the hype. --Amy Linden
Will the real Slim Shady please stand up? On Eminem's sophomore album, he can't decide who he wants to be: the deranged pseudo-psycho of the Slim Shady LP, or a nice guy who just likes to rhyme about slicing and dicing his girlfriend ("Kim"). Of course, according to Eminem, he's just kidding. He refuses to take responsibility for the misogynistic, homophobic bile he spews, whining that he's the victim of people who don't get his unique sense of humor. It's good old America's fault if the kids aren't alright (Eminem blames bad parenting), and he's just capitalizing on Uncle Sam's dark side. On the Marshall Mathers LP, he's ambivalent about his fame, angry at his life, pissed off that people take him seriously, and fightin' mad at boy bands--and a lot of other white people. But the blue-eyed brat is acutely aware of his status as rap's resident alien: he has the most offensive mouth running, but never uses the "N" word. He gives lyrical love to tragic (black) legends like Tupac and Biggie while dissing white rappers hard. Even sitting duck Puffy gets the kid-gloves treatment. Of course, Eminem is an interesting, witty rapper, and there's some nice production on this CD, courtesy of Dr. Dre and others. But the hatred in Eminem's rhymes makes the album rotten at its core. And his protests that Slim Shady is just a persona become less convincing with each arrest. Then again, Eminem's got it hard: he's rich, famous, white, and male. --Lizz Mendez Berry
On The Slim Shady LP, Eminem wants it all. He's conflicted, you see; the world has treated him badly, and he wants to respond in kind. But he isn't a straight-up gangsta--this is, after all, the first release on Dr. Dre's Aftermath Records, his post-Death Row-era venture--and Eminem (born Marshall Mathers) doesn't really want anyone to follow in his footsteps, which leads to some interesting contradictions on this album. In the first single, "My Name Is," he's self-deprecating, rapping about his poor upbringing and his hairy palms. But on the very next song, "Guilty Conscience," he plays the devil to Dr. Dre's angel--that is, until Eminem brings up an incident from Dre's devilish past, rapping, "You gonna take advice from someone who slapped Dee Barnes?" Later, on "'97 Bonnie & Clyde," he turns Will Smith's "Just the Two of Us" on its ear, making it a tale of murder; but on "My Fault," he actually feels bad--though whether it's for the girl he overdosed or for himself is tough to figure out. With his nasal Midwestern tone, Mathers has a clean, clear flow, and the production--by Dr. Dre, Marky, and Jeff Bass--is crisp but consistently fun. With his outlook, it's tough to take Eminem too seriously, but he's made an album you don't have to take seriously to enjoy. --Randy Silver
