Few texts in hip-hop are as bizarre as Eminem’s debut LP, Infinite. Released on a local Detroit label in 1996, it was either ignored or dismissed by those who rejected his whiteness and his borrowed aesthetic. Were it released in 2017, it might be celebrated for its scholarship of the form’s early classics, a la Joey Bada$$ or Roc Marciano. Instead, he was written off as a swagger jacker who sounded too much like Nas and AZ.
The criticism burned, and from that fire he formed his alter ego, Slim Shady. A manifestation of Marshall Mathers’ inner turmoil, the persona served as a vehicle for his darkest, most violent thoughts and helped him step out from the shadow of his forebears to channel the darkest parts of himself. On 1998’s The Slim Shady EP, he found his unique and disturbing voice. It caught the ear of Jimmy Iovine and Dr. Dre, who spent the next five years molding him into one of the biggest pop stars in the world.
In those early years, for all the controversy his lyrics caused, Slim Shady helped Mathers focus his energy, a cathartic outlet that was both messy and intensely fascinating. But after more than two decades, he’s older, well-fed, and in possession of pretty much every accolade there is to acquire. The Slim Shady suit no longer fits; once the outsider, he’s now the establishment. If Slim Shady fed on hate, what does he do now that he’s beloved? What motivates a healthy, sober, 45-year-old father with enough money for several lifetimes?
On Revival, his ninth studio LP, Eminem is largely fueled by his own self-doubt, a creeping fear that we might forget he was once one of the best to ever hold a mic. The only thing the battle-tested, Oscar-winning, best-selling hip-hop artist of all time has to prove is that he’s got another classic in him, the one thing that he hasn’t proven since the curtains closed on 2002’s The Eminem Show. On the records that followed—his 2004 Encore, the inevitable Relapse in 2009 into Slim Shady, and his eventual Recovery—Eminem struggled to reconcile with the aftermath of his rapid ascent to stardom. The confessional nature of his storytelling, often featuring his mother, his daughter, and her mother, laid bare his deepest insecurities and most twisted fantasies. By the time a sober Marshall Mathers dropped the sequel to his defining work, he seemed desperate to prove he still had the ability to shock, disturb, and amaze with his skills on the mic. But by then, it was already apparent that he’d run out of stories to tell. Having freed himself of substance abuse, he reconciled his toxic relationship with the mother of his child and the effects of incorporating his daughter into his art. He’d matured into a more evolved human. But the music didn’t grow with him.
For the past 15 years, Eminem has been stuck in a feedback loop, revisiting different versions of his former self. Musically, Revival is no different, chock full of piano ballads and pop-star features that echo the most cynically commercial corners of his catalog. The shock value comes not from the album’s overwhelmingly bland hooks or cringe-worthy humor (of which there is plenty), but from the moments where his growth as a human is most apparent. Much of early single “Untouchable” is indeed unlistenable, but how many other rappers are reminding us of KRS-One’s teachings that “there can never be justice on stolen land?” And did the man who once mocked Lady Gaga with the lyric, “She can quit her job at the post office, she’s still a male lady,” really just diss the 45th president’s ban on transgender service members?
That being said, Eminem is due no accolades for having thumbed through a copy of Between the World and Me or for finally acknowledging the humanity of non-binary people. Nor should he be deified for mackling about the privileges of whiteness and how hard it is to be black in America. These are not new topics in hip-hop lyrics, they’re just new for Eminem. In 2017, listening to an Eminem rant against police brutality or a racist president can feel like watching “60 Minutes” after spending the week on Twitter; a slow recounting of last week’s news. It’s certainly possible that these screeds could be revelatory for Eminem’s most delusional racist fans, but for those who’ve long since arrived and put in the work, it just sounds tired.
And if the beats knocked, it would probably be tolerable, too. But legendary executive producers Dr. Dre and Rick Rubin managed to stuff a bloated tracklist with uninspired production and instantly forgettable pop hooks. Even Beyoncé couldn’t save “Walk on Water,” a stale piano ballad that undercuts Eminem’s attempt to explore the weight of his self-doubt. The Alicia-Keys-featuring “Like Home” is equally limp and toothless, defanging Eminem’s attempt to battle Donald Trump. He sees himself as a crusader against his influence, champion of the bullied, a notebook full of disses at the ready. It’s not his fault that all Trump has to do to beat him is ignore him, but it is his fault that the beat makes it so easy to do so. Rubin’s contributions are particularly embarrassing; his re-hash of hits from the Rush/Def Jam days (“Heat,” “Remind Me”) suggest he’s completely out of ideas.
But while the long tracklist and equally protracted verses make for an exhausting listen, there are rewards for those that endure. The eponymous interlude features a short verse from the late Alice and the Glass Lake that sounds like a sketch for something potentially great. And on an album full of poorly matched beats and verses, the delicately morose guitar melody and heavy fuzz of the Cranberries “Zombie” suits his flow on “In Your Head” perfectly—even if the hook was pretty much cut and pasted from the original.
It’s not until the album’s final tracks that we see a glimpse of the masterful storytelling he exhibited on early hits like “Guilty Conscience” and “Stan.” “Castle” is structured as three letters to his daughter, who, for better or worse, tends to inspire some of his strongest work. It’s hard not to be disarmed by his apology for the big ears he gave her, or his acknowledgement of how he fucked up by hashing out their family’s domestic strife in public. When it ends with his very real 2007 methadone overdose, he imagines the effect of his death on his family on the album closer, “Arose,” with a funereal beat that interpolates an elegiac backing vocal with the beeps and gusts of air from life support machines.
This is the contradiction of Eminem in 2017. The brat who once boasted how he “Just Don’t Give a Fuck” now has an abundance of fucks to give. He’s still firing off juvenile sex jokes (“Your booty is heavy duty like diarrhea”), but he’s clearly still tortured by his love for his child’s mother. He decries the president’s racism, then (jokingly?) admits he agrees with his stance on pussy grabbing (“Why do you think they call it a snatch?”). These multitudes might be reconcilable were his considerable technical gifts not consistently wasted on tired themes and lame attempts to revive an irrelevant persona he outgrew years ago.
Eminem’s consistent run of mediocrity over the last 15 years has not tempered his album sales, and it’s unlikely to start now—he remains one of the most bankable acts in pop. But sales and fame have never been his primary motivation. He’s always wanted to be the best, and ever since he conquered the music world in the early aughts, it’s as if he has no idea where to go. As he raps with precision on “Believe”:
Man, in my younger daysThat dream was so much fun to chaseIt’s like I run in placeWhile this shit dangled in front of my faceBut how do you keep up the paceAnd the hunger pangs once you’ve won the race?When that fuel exhaust is coolin’ off’Cause you don't got nothin’ left to prove at all’Cause you done already hit ’em with the coup de grâce
These fears are relatable—what artist hasn’t struggled to find motivation?—if not necessarily interesting. But Revival is ultimately plagued by the same pitfalls as Infinite, which found him shadowboxing against ghosts, unable to land any punches. This time he’s competing with a version of himself that no longer exists. And though it’s easy to empathize with his creeping self-doubt, it’s tougher to swallow in the context of an album that ultimately proves that those doubts are correct.
