I just met Eminem again, for the first time in 10 years. Don't get me wrong, we've spoken at least a half-dozen times since our initial introduction back in May of '98, when I interviewed him for BLAZE Magazine. But the guy I dealt with in those intervening years? Well, he was a different person. The dude I met in that strip mall parking lot more than a decade ago, listening to mixes on the stock system of his Buick rental, was outgoing, hilarious, genuine, razor-sharp, and endlessly talented. He was a walking adventure and an inspiration. But, with him being overwhelmed by the fame—and then the work, and then the drugs—every encounter we shared after the release of The Slim Shady LP got incrementally more awkward, involved less eye contact, and left me feeling more concerned about the collateral damage of his unmitigated success.
For the first few years this change was to be expected, as his ubiquitous celebrity necessitated isolation, and his grueling schedule of albums, tours, and movies would be enough to wear down even the most rugged. But the relationship hit its nadir, for me, with an interview in February of 2006—weeks before the murder of his best friend, Proof. I had no idea the depth of his troubles, but detached, glassy-eyed, and at least 30 pounds heavier than just six months prior, Eminem seemed to be plunging off the deep end. I don't know Em well enough to call him Marshall, but I do know enough to say with certainty that the bloated space cadet at that shoot was not the guy I'd met wearing that same damn Nike hat. And as the aforementioned personal tragedy unfolded, and the public became more aware of his deteriorating condition, from a distance it really felt like Em might be living out the frequent and unwelcome comparisons to Elvis— specifically, an untimely, pill-addled end.
Thankfully, Em's survivor spirit, and the help of his most trusted loved ones, stymied his addiction. Seeing Em reemerge healthy, thin, and drug-free with Relapse this spring, I—and damn near everyone else who likes to hear words rhymed skillfully—breathed easy. Sure, he seemed serious and sometimes stiff on his press tour. And the album, despite mostly positive reviews, caught its share of critical flak for its formulaic roll-out (poppy "nyeah-nyeah" first single, dark second single, etc). None of that mattered, though; Eminem was back! And those who knew shit about shit knew the music was damn good. And the fans spoke with their wallets—to the tune of 1.5 million units, the highest-selling rap record of 2009.
Which brings me back to our reintroduction today in Detroit. Animated, relaxed, funny, and most importantly, fully engaged, the guy sitting across from me is once again the dude that I met over a decade ago. And what's more, it's clear that as The Slim Shady LP only teased at Eminem's potential as an artist, Relapse only teases at the promise of his recovery. His awe-inspiring, precise performance on the A-list posse cut of the year, "Forever," is more than just a reminder of Eminem's maniacally focused talent in full gear—it's a promise. And a challenge. Relapse 2 is to Relapse what The Dark Knight was to Batman Begins. That's my word.
Pulling himself away from his pursuit of happiness (mixing a Just Blaze-produced future classic), Em sat with Complex to discuss his chase of the perfect album, his obsessive compulsions, and what exactly a Spankwire is. It's nice to meet him. Again.
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