Yo yo yo. Word to the mutha that be giving her boy pills to pop.

Alright. I finally caved in and gave the Em a chance, though I’ve historically given white rappers as much or more short shrift as anybody out there. Still, I found the Eminem tracks on the 8 Mile Soundtrack oddly appealing, so I figured it was time to see what King Wigger was really all about. To those of you who pointed to The Marshall Mathers LP as the apex of his career, this is an indication that I was listening to what you had to say. And, I must admit with no small degree of humility, I’m rather impressed with what I heard.

Because every sideways-hat-wearin’, pant-saggin’ pale-faced homeboy has already given you the lowdown on this album, I see no reason to waste my time dissecting a bunch of Eminem’s lyrics in agonizing detail. Let’s go for the broad overview instead and focus on the generalities; after all, I write rap reviews not for the know-it-all adolescent who obsesses over this stuff at the expense of his education, reputation, and clean criminal record, but for the occasional grandfather, Catholic priest, or Shi’ite imam who stumbles upon this site and wants the outsider’s skinny on what is really going on in the hip-hop world.

So…with no further Adu, let’s throw our motherflockin’ hands in the air and talk about this album ‘til it handsomely impacts Pyfr’s next month's income share.

I once read that next to Tupac Shakur, Eminem is the highest-selling rapper of all time. I dismissed him back in the day as a loudmouthed idiot who was simply pulling a fast one on the homeys and everybody else (namely, seriously misled white kids) by ripping off the black man’s game. I now know that that assessment is seriously flawed from just about every angle; not only have I yet to meet one black rap fan willing to pay full and unconditional props to the Marsh, I also realize that Eminem is far from stupid or untalented. He is, from what I can tell, the Marilyn Manson of the hip-hop world, a highly intelligent dude who can bring the goods when his flame is on, but one whose career is ultimately predicated on sleekly packaged controversy and an amazing uber-producer as patron (Dre was to him what Reznor was to Manson). Take away one or both of those elements and I doubt the guy would’ve had a career anywhere this side of laying tile.

As it stands, The Marshall Mathers LP was at one time the highest-selling rap album in history. I’m not sure if it continues to hold that title, but now that I’ve listened to it, I can certainly understand why it made the impact it did. It’s haunting, visceral, entertaining, smart (yet stupid)…and let us not forget, groovy. The novelty of a white dude spouting some seriously disturbing rhymes about rapin’ his ma, lamenting his success, cutting his girlfriend’s throat, and dissing everybody from other celebrities to homosexuals to whoever the hell Ken Kaniff is was apparently just what the record-buying public needed at the time. You can probably run in all kinds of theoretical directions with what that says about modern culture (I’m sure many have), but this album doesn’t really let you sit on the fence.

The first thing I noticed is that, despite the tendency of many rappers to flex their violence and misogyny, Eminem goes overboard on here in a way that only white folks and maybe the Japanese can (that said, I’m just not sure the Japs will ever adequately express their dementedness via the medium of hip-hop music). Whereas Wu-Tang or Dre might put a cap in yo ass, Em throws out a darkness so extreme, I’m still not entirely sure where the joke ends and the serial killer instincts begin. If Kim, the notorious track where he pretends to beat, torture, terrorize, and finally murder his girlfriend over her screams and music that sounds like Tool’s Sober, isn’t meant for a laugh, then it’s really sad that he as an artist would either allow someone to push him to that point and/or exploit it in the public forum. I guess it really all just depends on how much exploitation you as a listener think is too much.

In some respects, this album is no better or worse than many of its ilk. The music, much of which was produced by Dre, is almost entirely dark. On Amityville and the deranged fan yarn Stan, it’s appropriately cinematic, while elsewhere (as on The Real Slim Shady and Marshall Mathers) he incorporates an element of playful groove or genuine sorrow. Such noteworthy guests as Snoop, Xzibit, Bizarre, Dido, RBX, Stinky Fingaz, and, yes, Dr. Dre all show up, but I never got the feeling that Em was getting by exclusively with a little help from his friends. The guy had so much to say that I’m surprised anybody else was able to get a “yo” in edgewise. I found the skits mostly pointless and retarded, but I’ve rarely heard one on a rap album yet that hasn’t disappointed me. The whole skit concept just seems really idiotic to me.

As I already sorta pointed out, Eminem has many similarities with other rappers. However, his excruciatingly detailed introspection is something that I haven’t heard from anybody else- or at least to that degree. Even when he’s whining about being a scapegoat, throwing out jokes almost off the tasteless meter (the one about putting down Christopher Reeve’s legs in I’m Back probably completely blew it with the wheelchair crowd), or walking that fine line between insulting and silly (again, I’m Back leaps to mind- he informs P Diddy there that he’d bang J-Lo even if she were his own mother), the fella has a razor wit, a colorful vocabulary, and an agile tongue. The posturing oftentimes takes a backseat to the storyline, which isn’t always the case with some of the rap I’ve heard (take N.W.A., for instance, who could boast at and menace the listener all album long, but were definitely not about to take Homer’s crown).

I’d definitely look into this if I were you, the one person on the planet slower to the draw than your humble reviewer. From everything I’ve read, the guy’s golden age is likely over, but The Marshall Mathers LP is a serious earthquake of an album. Its intensity and violent imagery keep it from being fully fun, but I was damn near worn out by the time it drew to a close. Whether or not the bulk of rap fans want to admit it, I think the guy had his own powerful and uncomfortably private thing going; unfortunately, it was so effective that it basically ruined his ability to hit as hard forever after. You’ll only recoil in horror at the word “motherfucker” or tremble at the sight of a snake a time or two before the effect is gone- just ask Eminem, Marilyn Manson, Al Qaeda, or anybody else who bases their legacy on the knock-out punch.