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By Root 644 0

structures to convey what life has dealt him, ultimately to undo it, at least for the length of a song. His lyrics bite, cut, jab, and burn with an urgency that few artists harness. He uses rap music but he speaks a universal language, the same language of experience, hardship, and humor heard in the blues, jazz, country, and folk, in literature and in stand-up comedy, anywhere a story, through passion, becomes real in the retelling. Marshall Bruce Mathers III, born in Kansas City, raised in Detroit, elevates his life to art. Art is many things, but when it is true, anyone, from anywhere, at any time, can see it and feel it and understand the emotion beneath it, even if they don’t speak the language. If the feeling is pure, art can lead the whole world down the artist’s rabbit hole, at least for a minute. If that art is a song, everyone hears the message, even if they don’t like the words.

chapter 1

this looks like a job for me the evolution of eminem

It is March 1999 and it is cold in Detroit, the kind of cold that freezedries sound. Snow piled in banks frames the sides of the road and grows higher the farther the avenues ripple out from the center of the city. The roads here are small highways, just two lanes each way. Far from downtown, off the interstate, the roads narrow. The lights are fewer and the trees are taller. Standing not far from one of these byways, ankle deep in snow, I hear the woosh of a lone passing car. Behind me, the trailer park is silent and as still as a morgue. It is two in the morning. In front of me, a blond guy in baggy clothes trudges up the stairs of a trailer and reads the eviction notice on his front door.

“We took care of that one,” Paul Rosenberg says. “Don’t Worry about it.”

The blond guy doesn’t answer, he just rips it down and opens the unlocked door.

“He doesn’t lock it?” I ask.

“No,” Paul says. “They’ve had so much shit stolen over the years, he doesn’t give a fuck anymore.”

The double-wide trailer is warm, and I sit on the couch. Before me, on the floor in front of the TV, is a much smaller couch. A groggy, swirly-haired little girl curls up on it while her mother readies her bed. Above her on the wall are glossy photos in black frames: two of Eminem and Dr. Dre dressed as patient and analyst for the “My Name Is” video shoot, the other a solo shot of Dr. Dre with a scrawled note that reads, “Dear Marshall, Thanks for the support, asshole” (mimicking Slim Shady’s autograph to a fan working at White Castle in “My Name Is”). The CD rack holds 2Pac Shakur, Snoop Dogg, Mase, Babyface, Luther Vandross, and Esthero. On a wall by the kitchen hangs a photocopied list titled “Commitments for Parents.” The first line reads, “I will give my child space to grow, dream, succeed, and sometimes fail.”

“My mother moved back to Kansas City, so I bought this trailer from her,” Eminem says, sitting on the couch. “Hailie feels really comfortable here, so I took over the payments. I’m paying rent for no reason because I’m never here anymore. But when I am, I need a place to stay.”

Kim Scott lifts their daughter from her nest and takes her into the second bedroom. Hailie’s bed is dwarfed by a mountain of toys, clothes, and boxes. Kim soothes her in hushed tones. It has been a long day that began tonight; a driving tour not sanctioned by the city’s board of tourism, through the Detroit streets and neighborhoods where Marshall Mathers spent the better part of the past twenty-six years.

“Man, driving through town tonight brought back a lot of memories,” Marshall says, lowering his voice. “I’ve been through a lot of shit, man. If I sit and think back on it, it’s really fucked up. I mean, all my life has been fucked up.”

“Now that you’re out of that life, how much does the past bother you? Do you feel sorry that you grew up that way or just unlucky?” I ask.

“No, man,” he says. “It’s just my life, that’s it. When you’re living in some fucked-up shit, it doesn’t really seem that fucked up to you when you’re in it. All you think is ‘What am I gonna do now?’ Day to day, I’d have to think about