Whatever You Say I Am_ The Life and Times of Eminem - Anthony Bozza [78]
“OK,” he says, gathering his pants, which are baggy and prone to falling down. “I’m gonna take it back for a minute.” Eminem joins Royce center stage as Armstrong rolls out Dr. Dre’s “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang.” Royce throws his hands in the air. “C’mon!” he shouts. “Put ’em up, yo! Sing that shit!!”
Bodies start to sway and arms are raised in allegiance. All eyes are on Eminem. He will prove himself now or lose them forever; by the end of this song, he’ll be either an MC with skill or a Caucasian karaoke casualty.
Eminem commences his performance, his delivery laid back, a mix of his wacky modulated monotone and Snoop Dogg’s silky drawl. The room awakens again as the crowd begins to move; the energy is tangible, spreading, and palpably warm.
“Ain’t nuthin’ but a G thang …,” Eminem sings. Armstrong cuts the music.
“Baaby!” the crowd shouts.
“Two loc’d-out Gs goin’ …,” Eminem raps, avoiding, as he always does, the word niggaz.
“Craaazay!” they shout.
Eminem scampers herky-jerky across the stage, bobbing his head and with one hand holding his pants. The crowd is won. They’re dancing while watching the action; people hang over the balcony railing to see. Royce and Eminem meet at the front of the stage, chanting the song’s chorus. On the last beat, Armstrong cuts from mentor to apprentice, splicing “‘G’ Thang” into “My Name Is.”
Anyone who didn’t know, knows now. Of the four times I see Eminem perform “My Name Is” tonight, this one will be the best. Earlier, on Staten Island, he faced teeny-bopper reality. Later, he will do his thing for the beautiful people. But this crowd is home to him: skeptics, haters, new fans, devotees, and indifferents. He loses himself in the song, running out ahead of the beat, then falling back into it. His eyes are closed and he nearly falls from the stage, throwing himself back from the edge just in time. A formidable black woman in front has been watching his performance with a wrinkled brow. She gives it up finally, cracking a huge grin at the line “My English teacher wanted to flunk me in junior high. / Thanks a lot, next semester I’ll be thirty-five.” She dances in place and raises her hands at the chorus, singing the loopy hook like the white teen girls next to her.
Armstrong cuts the music during the last chorus to initiate an audience call-and-response, which grows to a loud crescendo, then the music stops.
“Good night,” Eminem says. The mike thuds when he drops it, unlike his pants when he drops them, flashing bright geometric-print boxer shorts. The audience cheers. Eminem jumps off the back of the stage, dragging a human wake behind him. There is a mad rush to the dressing room and the knocking begins anew, more insistent than ever. The air in the room is dank. Eminem sits, sweaty, lit with adrenaline and slaps from his crew. A new line of well-wishers trail from the door.
I leave the room to catch a breath. A white girl who is jockeying for door position tells her friend, “I love him and you know I don’t love hip-hop.”
“I know,” the friend answers. “He’s, like, so original! And he’s so cute. He’s perfect. I want to marry him.”
Her friend nods.
“And I will, too,” the other continues. “I know when he sees me, we’ll be together forever. He’s perfect for me.”
When I return to the room, I squeeze into my place by the door. Eminem is surrounded by friends and strangers, drinking water, and not really smiling. He doesn’t look mad or glad, or under siege. I critique his game face, and though I’ve only been with the camp for eight hours and he hasn’t directly said a word to me yet, in that moment I see everything. He is raw star quality, fuming with the entitlement of deep, broad, untapped talent. He’s not the extrovert I thought he was, but he can play the part. I watch him scan the room, his vision attuned to the details, yet focused far, far beyond here.
Before our flight to Detroit, we sit in a booth at the food court