The Michigan rapper, who calls himself Eminem -- and whose debut, The Slim Shady LP, sold 480,000 copies in its first two weeks -- was a cook in a Detroit grill before his obscenity-strewn, gleefully violent, spastic, hilarious and demented ryhmes landed him in the studio with rap honcho Dr. Dre.

The blue-eyed MC is dealing with the instant fame and simultaneous criticism well enough -- much better, actually, than he is dealing with the fifth of Bacardi he downed an hour ago.

On a chilly Friday night in New York, he emerges bleary-eyed from the bathroom of his manager's office. "I just threw up everything I had, he says in his slow-roll drawl, which is a bit slower at the moment. All I ate today was that slice of pizza. Feel good now, though."

His manager exhales slowly in relief. Eminem has three club gigs tonight, and the first one starts in less than an hour. The crew (nine including DJ Stretch Armstrong and Dennis the security guard ) ambles toward the elevator. Downstairs awaits Eminem's partner in rap, Royce the 5'9'', who looks to be about seven people of his own in tow. Em hops into a giant white limo as fellow honky Armstrong cops a ryhme from Eric Clapton's Cream. "In the white room, with white people and white rappers," he bellows. A minute later there's a knock on the window and one of Royce's posse gives Em the first of the three hits of ecstasy he will consume over the course of the night. Down it goes in a swallow of ginger ale as the car zooms off toward Staten Island.

Out on New Dorp Lane, there is a crowd of kids, a mere fraction of the number already inside the Lane Theater. The all-ages show is packed, and Eminem is the evening's main course. The mob is being controlled by the club's security, but when the rapper moves inside, the burly dudes are no match for the crush of shouting teens. "You look good!" one girl shouts. "Oh, my God, he looks better in person," shrieks another. Everywhere, kids have tiny glow sticks in their mouths, which, here in the dark, look like neon braces. At the back of the club, up a ladder, is the minute dressing room, where the very proud owner of the club is waiting. "Hey, nice to meet ya," he says. "My daughter told me to get Eminem, so I got Eminem. It's her fourteenth birthday. Hey, say hi to her and her friends."

Eminem soon grabs four bottles of water and heads to the stage. He owns this audience. These predominantly white kids know every word, every nuance, and can't get enough. If Slim Shady's rhymes about sex with underage girls ("Yo, look at her bush, does it got hair?/F--- this bitch right here on the spot bare/Till she passes out and she forgot how she got there") bother them any, they don't show it. In fact, the filthier the material, the louder the cheers.

On The Slim Shady LP, Eminem says, "God sent me to piss the world off." Interscope Records is Em's label -- a perfect fit for a company that's home to controversial artists like the late Tupac Shakur and Marilyn Manson. Eminem has been condemned as a misogynist, a nihilist and an advocate of domestic violence, principally in an editorial by Billboard editor in chief Timothy White, who attacked The Slim Shady LP as "making money by exploiting the world's misery." "My album isn't for younger kids to hear," Eminem says. "It has an advisory sticker, and you must be eighteen to get it. That doesn't mean younger kids won't get it, but I'm not responsible for every kid out there. I'm not a role model, and I don't claim to be." On the album, his alias, Slim Shady, hangs himself from a tree by his penis, dumps the girlfriend he's murdered in a lake with the help of their baby daughter, takes every drug at once, rips "Pamela Lee's tits off" and heads out into the night yelling, "To all the people I've offended, yeah, f--- you, too!"

[Excerpt From Issue 811 — April 29, 1999]