The Marshall Mathers LP may have guns bucking or women screaming on pretty much all of its 18 tracks, but these are not its most important sound effects. The album is probably blasting from thousands of car stereos, but you can hardly hear it over the noise of parents, shrinks, lawyers, reporters, fans and advocates of any group you can think of sharpening their pens and preparing to go to war. Funny how so much controversy can spring up over an album that is, musically, not all that noteworthy. At the center of it all is Eminem himself. He might have moved copies of his last album by the truckload, but success and headlines can't take away from the fact that Eminem is a high-caliber MC, with deeper underground roots than The Roots. Between 1998's runaway success, "My Name Is" and this year's smash, "The Real Slim Shady," we've gotten so bombarded by Slim's style that it can sound gimmicky, but, then again, the same thing happened to Das-EFX, and they definitely had the gift of gab. Instead of rhyming two lines and retreating, Eminem likes to drag his outrageous scenarios out over several bars, so that his lyrics become elaborate, twisting Moebius loops, needing more than one listen to appreciate fully. "Last week I seen this Schwarzenegger movie / where he's shooting all sorts of these motherfuckers with an uzi / I see these three little kids up in the front row / screamin' 'go' with their seventeen-year-old uncle / I'm like guidance? / Ain't they got the same moms and dads who got mad / when I asked if they liked violence?" Slim raps on "Who Knew?" Much more than a hollow PMRC baiter, Shady stretches his rhymes out for pages, mocking and undermining his critics with biting social commentary laced throughout his more familiar odes to maternal rape. And, in a welcome change from the current industry norm, his delivery runs all over the emotional scale, as he chooses to spit, scream and whisper his lyrics instead of keeping his cool, giving The Marshall Mathers LP a dramatic intensity not seen since the glory days of KRS-One.
And, in the early going, the production shines as well. As always, Dr. Dre's beats are fat - literally: so swollen with funky bass they can't be bothered to sprint, and instead just roll themselves victoriously across the finish line. Never one to fix something that ain't broke, Dre and partner Mel-Man lather on the Doomsday synth loops, giving tracks like "The Way I Am" a gloomy feel that still keeps listeners' heads moving. And on the haunting "Stan," "Hard Knock Life" producer, The 45 King, comes through in a big way, complementing an unusually thoughtful Shady's rhymes about the nature of obsessive fans with an ethereal hook by Dido to deliver one of the most astounding songs of the year.
Without Dre's assists, however, the album begins to unravel. Eminem and F.B.T. take over the production halfway through and listening to their songs is like watching the air go out of a balloon. "Drug Ballad" has a nice, wired beat, but its chorus rains all over the song's would-be parade. "Marshall Mathers" doesn't do anything wrong, but it doesn't do anything right, either, and "Amityville" just sort of thrashes along blindly, waiting to be put out of its misery. "Criminal" is one notable exception to this rule, dropping hints of the same "A Dream" sample that drove Tupac's "I Ain't Mad Atcha," then cutting it midway while Slim drops some of his sickest lyrics to date all over it.
Of course, the album offers plenty more to object to than some lackluster beats and a roster of guest MCs who, for the most part, fail to make an impression. Throwing a one-fingered salute to his critics, Slim spits without restraint, making songs like the ferociously violent, almost unlistenable "Kim" bound to make even the most open-minded parent turn green. What's so remarkable about Eminem is that he's the first notable public figure of the Mickey Mouse Club '00s not only to bite the hand that feeds him, but who is willing to gnaw the whole arm off and ask for seconds. And, in a world where all it takes is a tattoo to turn Sporty Spice into Indie Spice, there's something undeniably punk about that. This album is already a best-seller, but most people will probably be too busy arguing over it to give it the listen that the better tracks deserve. So, what could have been a brilliant statement, instead elevates Eminem to the rarified air of true platinum rappers: ie, those that drop outstanding rhymes over frustratingly mediocre beats. The Marshall Mathers LP isn't bad, but you have to deliver real dynamite if you want be heard above the surrounding noise.