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Will the real Slim Shady...
on 23 January 2014
Eminem was an invention
A name to shift the blame of his aggression
Rhymes that bore more firepower than a loaded Smith n' Wesson
Songs that somehow taught the young AND old a lesson
Lyrics with enough heart, it made you feel a part
Of something special, something incredible
Something labelled 'pop music' but undeniably more tangible
An underground story, from an underground industry
Making Gangsta rap mainstream, as though it was mandatory
And doing it with style, violence, and a lot of humour
'White boy doing Black music' - so began the rumour
'A pop act who hates pop' - too bad it didn't happen sooner
A breath of air, as fresh as Tarantino's Big Kahuna...
Burger, packed with songs of murder, rape, and misogyny
But not a moment of monotony, and never a word that said sorry
For rapping about his ex wife, or how his Mother ruined his life
Or how his Father wasn't there. In fact the only real care
The only flare that made the hair - stand up
Was when he got serious about his daughter
And how there's no one who means more ta'
Him - well, that was eminem
White boy, Marshall Mathers,
Peroxide Blonde, blue eyes, his rhyming was the baddest
Beats by Dre, and the stories always had us...
Hanging on, hypnotized,
A white trash facade, but those words were awful wise
Now it's been a while, now it's been a long time
Now it's time to climb new rhymes, about the pleasant side of cathartic crime
And getting out emotions
But this boy - ain't a boy no more,
So today we knock instead on a grown man's door
Ask him to remind us what we're knocking for
Ask him to tell us of the past,
See if the boulders on his shoulders are still heavy
If he's set them aside, or just learned to hold them steady
With an ear to the speaker, we say 'Take the stage Mr. Preacher
Again, be a teacher, been too long, rap and pop need ya!'
MMLP 2 is out, wagging its tail about,
Claiming it has something new and special, to shout about
And though worthwhile, to knock on the door of an old master
To find that fame and drugs didn't make his life a complete disaster
The grown man's voice now makes his points with a whimper
Dre's beats used to bang, these are more a whisper
An unclear direction, combined with Em's aggression
Lacking point or lesson, makes you wish for something clearer
A rainstorm of words can be hard on the ears of the hearer
Em's talk is complicated, when before it couldn't be simpler
But we're told there's something inside, nostalgic, for US
Yet if Em' hates Pop stars, why do they sing almost every chorUS?
And in twenty one songs, why isn't there a story?
He CAN write fiction, it doesn't have to be autobiography
Perhaps lacking in youth, or just emotional truth,
The album feels unfocused, desperate for the old hocus pocus,
Like a first draft, instead of the hard graft,
Instead of the words, that took off with the birds
And once made pain into art
But so what? The old white face has already made his place
Parked his Limo in Fame's parking space
Marked his territory, told the world his story
And he managed to make it to forty without a 40.
Some say a sequel album proves he's not on the shelf
Or that there's nothing worse than an artist imitating himself
But he is without doubt - one tough act to follow
He was on fire yesterday ... perhaps there's still tomorrow
For today ... MMLP 2 sounds like the adopted brother
Bearing the family name, but birthed by some other Mother
The first - parented by Dre - this, by another
With little on it that's really new, to discover
And as a whole, it just feels pretty cheap and brittle
Marshall still talks a lot, but he says ... very little.