[Marxism] The end of Eminem?

["Charles Brown" <cbrown@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

The end of Eminem?


Latest tour and CD could be rap superstar's last, insiders say


July 15, 2005

BY BRIAN McCOLLUM
FREE PRESS POP MUSIC WRITER

On Eminem's new summer tour, a tense video storyline is woven through the
Detroit rapper's show. Following a montage of visuals encapsulating his vast
celebrity -- magazine covers, TV footage, limos, crowds -- the star is seen
alone backstage, aiming a loaded pistol at his image in a mirror before
turning it toward himself.


The climax is abrupt: With the gun to his temple, Eminem pulls the trigger.
The screen goes black.

When the dressing room eventually fades back into view, the audience sees
that the rapper sits unharmed; the gun has misfired. Eminem looks into the
camera.

"This is how you go out with a bang, baby!"

At a casual glance, it might come off like the latest shock attack in a
career defined by controversy. But dig a bit deeper and you'll come upon a
revelation even more startling, one that has been known only to the artist's
closest friends and associates.

Marshall Mathers is ready to get rid of Eminem.

Here's what it could mean, say those close to the rapper: When he steps off
the stage Sept. 17 in Dublin, Ireland, he will have made his final concert
appearance. "Encore," his slyly titled 2004 release, will stand as the final
Eminem album. The reign of Eminem, and his alter ego Slim Shady, will have
been voluntarily vanquished.

It wouldn't be a mere name game, in the hip-hop fashion that let Puff Daddy
become P. Diddy, or the fanciful indulgence of a superstar toying with
personas, like Prince. Nor would it be some gimmicky farewell stunt, say
hometown friends and professional associates, many of whom asked not to be
named in this story, citing sensitivity about the issue deep within Eminem's
record label and management camps.

What it would represent, say those friends, is a dramatic life shift for a
celebrity grown weary of public commotion -- and an artist who feels trapped
by musical expectations.

"Em has definitely gotten to the level where he feels like he's accomplished
everything he can accomplish in rap," said rapper Proof, Mathers' right-hand
man onstage. "He wants to kick back and get into the producing thing."

Detroit producer Jeff Bass, who won an Academy Award for cowriting Eminem's
"Lose Yourself," said while he won't rule out the possibility of further
solo albums from Mathers, "the Eminem part of his career isn't going to be
at the forefront anymore."

If Mathers is truly set to shake things up, exactly where he goes from here
is unclear. He's not doing interviews this summer, and his spokesman at
Interscope Records in Los Angeles declined to comment. Manager Paul
Rosenberg said there's been "no official decision" about the future. But he
acknowledged that some kind of recalibration is likely, adding that Eminem's
latest multiplatinum record is "certainly the cap on this part of his
career."

Others by his side, from business partners to fellow rappers in D12, say
Mathers is ready to embark on a path like that of mentor Dr. Dre, who upon
reaching his 30s eased away from the microphone for a successful career as a
producer and star-maker.

Such a move by Mathers would shake the tectonic plates of pop culture. At
33, he is now the best-selling hip-hop artist in history and is, by many
standards, the globe's biggest music star.

If this is indeed a final bow, Eminem will join a special society of pop
icons: the ones who went out on a high note. It's a small and exclusive
membership that includes the Beatles, Sam Cooke, Led Zeppelin and Nirvana --
artists who, by choice or fate, quit while they were ahead. They're the ones
who left stories with clear beginnings and ends and legacies that never
risked getting spoiled.

"Why not bow out while you're on top?" said Proof, speaking last Friday
inside his tour bus at Germain Amphitheater in Columbus, Ohio, second stop
on the Anger Management Tour 3.

"Marshall is very smart about this stuff," said another musical partner. "He
knows the danger of being at this level, where there's nowhere to go but
down."

Within the star's tightly insulated Detroit circle -- a small group of
long-trusted friends and collaborators -- the signals began to emerge during
sessions for his latest record. This was it, he told them. The last album,
the last tour, the last sprint through the thicket of public hysteria.

"We didn't go into this for the celebrity thing. We were never looking for
that," said Mark Bass, brother of Jeff Bass. Mathers is signed to their
production company, 8 Mile Style, which landed the rapper's deal with
Interscope.

"As much as he caters to his fans, this has always been about putting food
on the table," Mark Bass said. "And he knows the right thing to do to make
sure that happens. If that's moving into producing 50 Cent and the other new
artists he's handling, then that's what it is. He's a smart guy. He knows
what he's doing."

In November, Eminem unveiled his mind-set for everybody -- and nobody caught
on. His new album was titled "Encore," complete with a cover photo that
showed him taking a bow. For his fourth release since his 1999 breakout,
Eminem had chosen to announce the end of the show.

"I was actually pretty shocked when no one picked up on the concept," said
manager Rosenberg.

Maybe the audience was still too noisy to notice. "Encore," his first solo
effort in more than two years, was the most anticipated album of the season,
generating wall-to-wall hype on its way to the obligatory critical kudos and
No. 1 debut. Eight months later, sales are nearing 5 million.

The new concert video, with its metaphoric killing of Eminem, merely extends
a concept already sketched by Mathers.

Buried in the "Encore" album notes is a line that reads, "To my fans ... I'm
sorry," adjacent to an image of a bullet. On the album-ending
"Encore/Curtains Down," he delivers his closing stanza accompanied by the
sound of gunfire: "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming out --
peace! / Oh ... I almost forgot / You're comin' with me / Ha ha! Bye bye!"

As "Encore" promotional plans were mapped out, sources say, worried advisers
convinced the rapper to leave it at that, to resist further tip-offs that
"Encore" was the end: Why chain himself to a pledge he might not want to
keep?

Any fears would be understandable. Even in an industry often accused of
nearsightedness, the short-term publicity bang of a retirement announcement
wouldn't trump the loss of the decade's biggest seller. Since 1999, Eminem
has sold more than $1 billion worth of records. So much was on the line for
so many, from the global executives at Universal Music to Mathers' local
team of writing partners. Though Mathers remains under contract to
Interscope, he can't be forced to deliver another record, based on music
industry precedent established by California courts.

Extensive discussions did precede the album's release, said Rosenberg, but
the decision to withhold a farewell announcement was driven by Mathers
himself.

"He didn't want to seem like one of those guys who's playing a trick on his
fans, or playing with their heads," said Rosenberg, pointing to the
on-again-off-again retirement of hip-hop star Jay-Z. "It's part of the same
struggle he goes through in his music -- 'How much of my inner thinking
should I be putting out there?' "

But if this really is it, why now?

Friends say several factors have converged to create the transformative
moment: a growing weariness with the media spotlight, a related drive for
solitude and family time, and a savvy recognition of the links between
credibility, age and the limited shelf lives that come with pop stardom. But
musical motivations top the list.

Over time, Eminem's own songs have alluded to his frustration at feeling
creatively cornered by public expectations. You don't need a decoder ring to
get the message: "I've created a monster / 'Cause nobody wants to see
Marshall no more," he rapped on the chart-topping 2002 hit "Without Me."
"They want Shady / I'm chopped liver."

"Marshall feels like he's said everything he can say as Eminem," noted one
insider. "The idea that he intended this to be his last record is something
that everyone on the inside circle has known for a while."

"At this point," said Mark Bass, "he's a producer."

Mathers will likely devote increased time to "guest appearances and working
on other people's stuff," said Jeff Bass. "The songs I've been writing with
him are being placed on other artists' albums now."

2002 was a career peak for Eminem. Three top-10 albums. Box office success
and critical acclaim for the film "8 Mile." A subsequent Oscar for the song
"Lose Yourself," which spent three months at No. 1. Behind the scenes, he
was taking increasing command of his own production work while beefing up
his Shady Records roster of artists, including soon-to-be sensation 50 Cent.


Even amid the whirlwind of '02, Mathers rarely spoke with the media. But in
an interview that December with the Free Press, he hinted at a day when his
rapping appetite might wane.

"When it does for me, as far as rap goes, as far as being the front man,
I'll still be doing music," he said. "Which is why I'm trying to build my
clientele, so to speak, and producing. People have a hard time recognizing
that, looking past the fact that I'm a rapper."

Summer 2005 was already shaping up as a crucial moment in the Eminem story,
a time of transition for both his career and the broader pop-culture realm
where it operates.

Few pop artists hold on long to the double aces of creative vitality and
commercial clout. It's just not the nature of the pop-music deal, which
rarely delivers that winning hand in the first place -- let alone allows it
to be played several times in a row.

Eminem has now been front and center of American culture for nearly seven
years. The Beatles were there for six.

That he's pulled off such a feat within this era, within the realm of rap,
makes the dynasty that much more remarkable. Both the 2000s and hip-hop
favor the chew-'em-up, spit-'em-out mentality. Together, they're nearly
lethal to longevity.

"The public is certainly fickle," said Howard Hertz, the rapper's Bloomfield
Hills attorney. "But when you've got an artist with such enormous talent, it
tends to rise above the crowd in terms of staying power."

For a figure who remains perched atop the music world, Mathers has kept a
startlingly low profile these past three years. No U.S. tour, one solo
album, few forays into the big-media spotlight. In an age of surplus
celebrity, prone to information overdose, Mathers and his advisers have
approached the game carefully, cautiously. They've played it Prince and Bob
Dylan style: Seclusion feeds the mystique that feeds the public demand.

Even when Eminem seemed everywhere, he was rarely anywhere outside his
familiar daily orbit -- namely, his Oakland Township manor and the Ferndale
studio where he records much of his work.

Since a pair of gun incidents in 2000 that led to probation -- and
accompanying drug testing -- Mathers has reshaped his personal life, toning
down his wild side while toning up in the gym. In recent years, he has
largely managed to avoid tabloid headlines, which have been left to focus on
the perpetual legal troubles of his ex-wife, Kim Mathers. In stark contrast
to fellow Detroit star Kid Rock, who also hit big in 1999, Mathers is the
bane of gossip writers across the land, conspicuously avoiding the
late-night, out-on-the-town scene.

It's an interesting study in restraint for a guy who made his name with a
loud mouth. Of course, when you're as big as Eminem, the physics of fame
works both ways, and public demand also can force seclusion. When the world
grabs at every piece of you, saving some for yourself can take hard work.

On the evening of Detroit's fireworks last month, Eminem made a rare
appearance to perform a song at a downtown rooftop party. His brisk entrance
and departure were waged with presidential precision. Staffers snapped crisp
orders over headsets; bodyguards jammed into tight formation; a Department
of Homeland Security dog team sniffed for bombs. And that was just in an
otherwise deserted parking-garage stairwell.

On his way out of the party, a crowd surged toward him, armed on an
autograph mission. One lanky teenager was among the lucky few to get a CD
signed as Eminem stopped briefly to indulge the group. The scrawled name
wasn't enough; the young man had found his opening.

"I had to meet you, man," he hollered desperately, hands still stabbing
forward for a touch. "I've been waiting to meet you, man. I had to meet
you!"

Eminem nodded vaguely as his security staff prodded the rapper toward the
exit. Five years after discovering that he could start alone at one end of a
shopping mall and wind up surrounded by 500 people when he got to the other,
Mathers still seems uncertain how to handle the crush of attention, so much
of it intensely personal.

His 1999 debut, recorded when he was a virtual unknown, was packed with
standard hip-hop bluster about dominating the world. Just 15 months later,
"The Marshall Mathers LP" found him wrestling with the reality of explosive
celebrity. On the song "Stan," he tackled it head-on, condensing the
complexities of fame, the blurring of private and public life, into a
narrative about an overzealous fan.

It was the first big sign that Mathers wasn't going to let the public snatch
him up and have its way with his psyche. While insiders say he relished the
popularity, which served as a figurative middle finger to any former
doubters, he also developed a kind of bunker mentality, seeking sanctuary as
he retreated from the celebrity circus.

Rosenberg concedes that some fans have been frustrated by Mathers'
detachment, an isolation that is aided by one of the most unyielding media
policies in modern entertainment. But the manager defends the choices,
pointing out that Mathers has already revealed more than most public
figures, via his emotionally raw music.

"In a sense, he feels like, 'Hey, I'm giving y'all enough already,' " said
Rosenberg, a Detroit native now based in Manhattan. "There's a strong
dichotomy between what he puts on the table with his private life through
his art, and what he wants people to see in public. He exposes exactly what
he wants to expose. Everything else, as far as he's concerned, is private."

Central to that quest, said Mark Bass, was simply remaining in the Detroit
area, deliberately avoiding the frantic entertainment centers on the coasts.


"If we'd stayed out in Los Angeles, this would all have happened a lot
quicker. He might be gone already," said Bass. "I really think the best
thing is that he stayed here -- that he stayed home."

Privacy has been a growing priority for the rapper, who reunited late last
year with his ex-wife. Friends say he is now happiest at home, where the
couple tend to their 9-year-old daughter Hailie, Mathers' 12-year-old niece
Alaina and 2-year-old Whitney, Kim Mathers' daughter by another man.

Mathers has come to dislike travel, and though his breezy demeanor at last
week's Columbus concert was perhaps the loosest he's ever appeared onstage,
he had to be cajoled into tackling this tour, scheduled to complete its U.S.
leg Aug. 12 at Comerica Park.

But looming over all else, say some on the inside, is a fear that Eminem
could be musically spent. The making of "Encore" proved particularly tough,
as Mathers searched for new ways to cover the stock Eminem repertoire:
feuding with Kim, battling the establishment, cleaning out his family's
emotional closet -- all the familiar fare that has defined his public
character.

"This was a very difficult record for him to make," said a source in
Detroit. "Marshall really struggles to write for himself now, to speak
through the voice of Eminem. He knows as well as anybody that there comes a
point where you risk beating this thing to death."

There's an old cliche in the music biz: You've got your entire life to write
your first record; after that, you're at the mercy of the annual cycle. If
you're among those who score riches and fame, you may find yourself
straining to stay connected to an audience whose world you no longer
inhabit.

Some artists try to confront the dilemma with stylistic twists and turns, a
craft mastered by Madonna, another Detroit-bred star. Most, though, just
plow ahead, resigned to steadily dwindling relevance.

What's rare is quitting before the erosion gets a chance to kick in. It
requires a distinct kind of foresight, the kind that might belong to someone
with an acute self-awareness -- the kind that might be second nature to
someone who spent his formative years as a white outsider seeking legitimacy
in a black cultural form.

"Marshall isn't young anymore," said a staffer with Mathers' hometown
operation. "Throughout these six years, he's always stayed one step ahead.
Now it's knowing that he's at an age where teenagers might be ready to move
on to something else."

No matter how it goes down, no matter what the rationale, fans are likely to
be blindsided if 2005 is the last call for Eminem.

In Columbus late Friday night, concertgoers streamed out of the amphitheater
buzzing about the Eminem set they'd just seen, a spectacle featuring some of
the highest production values to hit a hip-hop stage. Against a three-story
backdrop layered with balconies and intricate lights, Em and Proof delivered
90 minutes of music punctuated by confetti showers and pyrotechnic flash.

But if anyone had picked up on the night's underlying angle -- Eminem's
potential career finale -- it wasn't obvious.

Greg Thomas, 24, had made the trip from Ann Arbor, the work of a die-hard
fan with a $90 seat down front. He had watched the onstage video and heard
the "Encore" songs. But he hadn't connected the dots. The notion that this
could be it, the end, left him in disbelief.

"That would be horrible," he said. "Eminem is the one who unites everybody.
Look around you here. He brings together white, black, Puerto Rican,
Filipino, everybody. If he were to give it up now, who would take over?"

Fans will always have their CDs. Around Detroit, though, an Eminem exile
would directly alter the lives of those who have been part of the ride,
enjoying everything from steady work to million-dollar paydays.

The members of D12, rappers who played barren Detroit dives with Eminem long
before they accompanied him in sold-out arenas, have already begun preparing
for the shift -- founding their own companies, taking on outside production
work, recording solo albums and scheduling solo tours.

Backstage in Columbus, Proof reflected on the past as he looked ahead to a
future that might find Mathers "doing some raps now and then."

"He's been like a gift and a curse at the same time," said Proof, who on
Aug. 9 will release "Searching for Jerry Garcia," the debut album for his
new Iron Fist Records. "He's the biggest rap artist of all time, so he
overshadows everything -- not just me personally, but all of hip-hop. Now
I've got a chance to get my label really cranking."

It was an affectionate comment, echoing the sentiments of many in the Shady
sphere. Whatever the personal impact of an Eminem fadeout, those closest to
Marshall Mathers say they would marvel in respect, admiring what could be
the brashest move of all by a friend who has long pushed the envelope.

"I would envy him for it," said producer Mark Bass. "Who knows if he'll make
another album. But he's worked hard -- he's been at the top because he's
worked hard. If he makes a break, he deserves to get a break."

Contact BRIAN McCOLLUM at 313-223-4450 or mccollum@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

*       Tracing the success of Eminem
<http://www.freep.com/entertainment/music/encore-box215e_20050715.htm>



*       PHOTO GALLERY:
<http://www.freep.com/photos/2005/eminem0715/index.htm>  From Marshall to
Eminem







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