When you think of Eminem, hope­fully you think back to “Forgot about Dre,“and the Mar­shall Mather’s LP, and not, def­in­itely not the album where all he talks about is killing bitches with varying lengths of exten­sion cord (relapse?). I’m ser­ious, I’m not trying to dis­count all of Em’s work since then, but he was truly at his prime when shit was going down with Kim, cor­porate America (along with the rest of the nation) was on his back like a rabid monkey, and he was just plain pissed off. He spit out mean­ingful verses, laced with Vicodin and chronic, and kept a vibe that every middle-​school kid wanted in his album col­lec­tion, and every middle-​school kid’s par­ents wanted locked away in a vault. His shock value and his ability to make you a little bid scared, yet filled with wonder, were his key selling points, and the epi­tome of his talent. He empath­ized with every listener, pissed in the face of his com­pet­i­tion, and made flip­ping the middle finger the flag­ship symbol of his generation.

And then, he dis­ap­peared. Not only did he drop off the face of the Earth, but when he came back, he was sober. What the fuck? It seemed like the Real Slim Shady was a fraud lacking any real talent and inspir­a­tion without “a little help from his friends.” In all hon­esty, it just seemed like he made Relapse to slap him­self across the face, light a fire under his ass, and boot him­self out of a funk or depres­sion; just some way to keep him­self in the game.

But whatever that shit was, he’s fucking back. Eminem’s new album, entitled “Recovery,” is any­thing but Relapse pt. 2. He keeps his beats fluent, yet diver­si­fied; enter­taining but not main­stream. And his vocals, well, let’s just say he’s found some­thing to be pissed off about again. Which isn’t to say he rambles like a cranky bitch who just found your porno stash, he has drive, power, and above all, elo­quence. Yeah man, Em knows how to write. I can’t tell you how many times, while listening to this album, I would just smile at the wit­ti­ness and little quirks avail­able to his intel­li­gent listeners. And forget about that weird, Middle-​Eastern accent from “Without Me.” That shit, that was plastered all over Relapse, doesn’t make a single appear­ance on this album — its all from the heart, and its all fucking angry.

“So, pop a bottle, let your body wobble,” (or don’t, fuck I hate that song), and give this kid a shot — he really has made one hell of a comeback. And don’t be sur­prised if you start hearing his new shit all over the radio, its about to blow up. Hold on to your butts…