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Marshall Mathers’ new album begins with a classic Eminemism: the timeless sound of a loogie being hawked. This, paired with calling his twelfth studio effort ‘The Death Of…’ suggests he may be trying to invoke a Proustian moment — a Remembrance of Slims Past. Unfortunately, what he delivers is a kind of Jungian hellscape of lacklustre rap in which Mathers’ ghosts are exhaustively dragged from the shadows and reckoned with. Badly. The overriding impression is that this is an artist who really wants to be cancelled. And it’s Not Going to Happen. Eminem finds himself outstripped by historical events, outdated by a world that’s too wild at heart and too weird on top. Back in 2002 when Eminem really mattered, he duked it out with Dick Cheney, each publicly loathing the other. In 2019, comedian Keke Palmer failed to recognise a photo of Cheney and apologised – “sorry to this man”. Whoever he is. The same death awaits Slim Shady.
