The Voice of America

If Eminem's goal was to be accepted in the world of hip-hop, then his strategy succeeded and backfired at the same time. Anyone who was serious about hip-hop had to respect him, but his most enthusiastic fans were the people who saw him on MTV. He was doing all the things rappers are supposed to do: making records with Dr. Dre, filling his verses with unexpected rhymes and analogies, cursing up a storm, getting arrested. And yet the more Eminem acted like a rapper, the more he was praised for his individuality. People who had never paid much attention to brilliant black rappers such as Jay-Z and Rakim suddenly found themselves raving about Eminem's nasty stories, his rough reputation and even -- when they really got carried away -- his enjambment.

Obviously, a backlash was on the way, and The Eminem Show -- clever and paranoid and hermetic -- seemed to anticipate it, maybe even conjure it into existence. His success had been built on a deception: He was the rapper everyone loved to hate, and yet it was getting harder to find anyone who really hated him. His performance at the 2001 Grammys with Elton John may have been awkward, but it wasn't ineffective; after that, only his most fanatical detractors could still be bothered to hold a grudge.

When the backlash finally arrived, at the end of last year, it seemed like a letdown. No one can deny that Eminem's race has a lot to do with his huge popularity, and it might have been exciting to hear, say, Jay-Z or Nas say so. Instead, we got clumsy dis tracks from B-team rapper Benzino, character assassination from Benzino's magazine, The Source, and more clumsy dis tracks, from Ja Rule, who growled, "You'll never know black pain/But you could become the first white rapper slain." On G-Unit's "Bump Heads," Eminem offered playful taunts in response: "Just keep singing that same song recycled/We'd all much rather get along than fight you/Me and Hailie dance to your songs/We like you." It was like listening to an outtake from 8 Mile.

For years now, Eminem has been predicting not just his own downfall but his own obsolescence, a byproduct of popularity. On "Without Me," he imitated an imagination-deprived record executive: "Hey! Here's a concept that works/Twenty million other white rappers emerge." But the imitators never showed up. Eminem is bigger than Kurt Cobain ever was, so you would think he'd be just as influential, but he has yet to attract an army of sound-alikes, the way Cobain did. (The answer may have something to do with the fact that hip-hop is harder to master than grunge.) There is no movement, no trend; there's just him, bigger and more isolated than ever.

In some ways, isolation suits Eminem. He has never seemed totally comfortable trading lame punch lines with D12, and although Shady Records has scored a huge hit with 50 Cent, he and Eminem seem to see each other more as business partners than as collaborators. The two performed together at the Summer Jam X concert in Giants Stadium in June, and although they presented a united front onstage, the audience reaction wasn't quite so unanimous. Maybe it was the rain or the lineup or just the night, but by the time Eminem took the stage for his headlining spot, many of the black attendees had split, and the crowd that stuck around looked a lot like the "White America" Eminem raps about. But "White America" wouldn't have meant as much if it had been delivered by, say, Good Charlotte -- a white rock band with white fans. When Eminem raps his version, the true target seems to be not White America but non-White America; he's telling black rap fans that he knows what they're thinking and that he cares what they think. Eminem is always bragging about challenging his listeners, but it seems that these are the only listeners who really challenge him. And you can't help but wonder what he'll do when there's no one left who's willing to put up a fight.

[From Issue 927 — July 24, 2003]