EMINEM
Encore
Aftermath
· The official return of the polarizing superstar. Did he ever really leave?
Eminem hasn’t wasted any time in the two years since his last official release. Between his acting career, producing and his work with D-12, it’s clear his near omnipresence in the public eye has expanded his power base beyond the usual confines of commercial radio. This has come at a price, however. The man who was once at the centre of an endless string of firestorms has become less controversial, less offensive and, well, kinda normal. For performers who trade on shock for success, this acceptance (whether through a softening of the artist or through the attrition of people’s ability or willingness to be outraged) is not a good thing. Ask Madonna.
This issue might not be relevant if it didn’t so thoroughly colour Encore. Whether Slim Shady and Marshall Mathers were characters or not, this album is Eminem having a personality crisis. When he’s at the top of his game, as on the apology-by-way-of-explanation "Yellow Brick Road" and the Martika-sampling "Like Toy Soldiers," which chronicles his various public feuds, including the infamous one with Ja Rule, there is little doubt as to his power and talent. On these autobiographical, even introspective songs, it’s as though Eminem is pleading a case for his maturity, asking for recognition that he has indeed grown up with only a minor tempering of his ferocity.
But for every track that impresses, there is another that is just plain bad, with songs that are defiantly immature, mired in bathroom humour and bodily functions. It leaves you to wonder if Eminem has decided that misogyny and homophobia isn’t shocking (at least coming from him) and that he’s better off using fart jokes to piss off the parents of America. His manic defensiveness, self-deprecation and the usual targets of his vitriol – his mother, his ex-wife, um, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog – are tired aspects of the Eminem mythology, made even less interesting by the frequent National Lampoon-esque sound effects.
As with so much of his work, he’s operating on a number of levels, whether it is his (perhaps coincidental) allusions to Jay Z in three of the song titles, the number of songs he has self produced, the occasional softening of his musical edge or his attempt to reassure his fans he hasn’t sold out through the album’s artwork, which depicts him shooting into a stereotypical upper-class crowd. What is crystal clear, however, is that Encore sees Eminem relying on what has made him distinctive in the past – his subject matter, his flow, his distinctive vocal patterns and repetition – as a crutch. Even the beats on this album maintain a pace that matches the ever-present feeling of fatigue. The question that you’re left with is whether it’s Eminem who is sputtering creatively, or us as a public who are beginning to just not care.
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