Talib Kweli
I was on a dollar van on Flatbush Avenue the first time I heard Eminem spit a bar. There was a cassette with the words “The Slim Shady EP” written on it that I received at some music industry function floating around the bottom of my book bag. It was the only thing I had to listen to on my ride home. I was immediately shocked and awed by the casual way in which he referenced drugs and violence. Songs like “Murder, Murder” and “Just Don’t Give a Fuck” went against my sensibilities. I literally could not believe what I was hearing. Shock rap had been done before, but something about this felt more … honest.
When I got to the crib I immediately called my good friend JuJu over to play him The Slim Shady EP. As we rewound the punchlines over and over again in disbelief, we discovered something unexpected; this white boy could spit, and he was spitting it better than most of the MCs we were listening to. At the time I was fully immersed in underground battle-rap culture. My crew and I were among a group of MCs who would challenge rappers in the street and pray for the day we would be able to do the same on the national stage. Little did I know Slim Shady would soon be a part of this group.
There were many respected white rappers before Eminem: The Beastie Boys, Everlast, Serch and Pete Nice of 3rd Bass, to name a few. But none of them possessed Em’s lyrical prowess, and that is why the white rapper was never truly taken seriously until Eminem arrived. Serch and Everlast were battle ready, lyrical MCs, and the Beastie Boys, hip hop’s first platinum act, were certified down-by-law superstars, but Em entered during hip hop’s first internet era. Thanks to chat rooms and early online communities like 88hiphop.com, street battles and their accompanying legends were being shared across the globe as soon as they went down. All of a sudden hip hop fans in London and Capetown could listen to the Stretch Armstrong and Bobbito Show online rather than wait months for tapes to make it across the ocean. New York–based Fat Beats Records could now open stores in Los Angeles, Amsterdam, and Tokyo. All of this meant you no longer needed to be signed to a label to achieve global fame as an MC. The stakes were higher, and the battles became more vicious.
The film 8 Mile attempted to document Eminem’s early days in Detroit, learning how to MC. I witnessed Em battle, mostly impromptu, all over New York City. By this time he had made a name for himself in the D, and was now set on conquering hip hop’s birthplace. I saw Eminem get dissed badly over and over again, mostly for being white, and then come back and obliterate his competition with the next rhyme. He did it every time. There were a few on his level, but nobody better. From Wetlands to Tramps to SOB’s, showcase after showcase, New York City was watching Eminem come into his own. This was also around the time the difference between Eminem and Slim Shady was becoming less apparent.
By the time Eminem was booked to do a show with my group, Black Star, in Vermont in the winter of 1999, he had signed to Dr. Dre’s Aftermath Records. The month of the concert, Rolling Stone put him on the cover—with a new blonde ’do. To be honest, my first thought was that Rolling Stone would’ve never put a brand-new hip hop artist who had never released an album on their cover if that artist was black, regardless of buzz. I still feel like that, but that is not Eminem’s fault. Eminem worked hard for his recognition. However when Em took the stage that night in Vermont and all those white boys went crazy, I got it. White America had its first authentic spitter. THAT was the story.
If I ever doubted that Eminem fully understood white privilege and the role he plays in it, those doubts were erased when he compares himself to Elvis Presley when he spits in the song “Without Me” that both of them used “black music so selfishly” to make piles of money. That bar was brilliant; he was critiquing his criticizers and acknowledging the validity of their critique in the same breath. It was the same tactic he used when he brought Elton John on stage with him to perform “Stan” with him at the Grammys during the height of the “Eminem is a gay basher” fury. Em has never apologized for who he is, who he was, or where he comes from, but he has always exhibited growth and creativity when it comes to dealing with these issues. “White America” is one of his most honest songs, and it actually can be considered conscious hip hop. Macklemore, who had to have been inspired by Em’s success, took this idea a step further in his song “White Privilege.”
There is an elite group of technical rhymers that I look at as the master class of flow and rhyme. It contains superstars like Jay-Z and Nas, and lesser-known but no less incredible artists like Jean Grae and Pharaohe Monch. Eminem is the heart of this group of spitters. In order for him to be accepted and respected when he got in the game, he had to be better than damn near everybody. As he grows, his subject matter and interest will undoubtedly change, as it should. But his dedication to technique will remain the same regardless of what he raps about. I knew this to be true when I took my daughter to the BET Awards a few years ago. She was eleven at the time and she really knew nothing about Em as an artist. But when he took that stage and rocked “Not Afraid” with a gospel choir, she turned to me and said, “Daddy, he rapped better than everybody.” I responded, “Yes, babe. That’s Eminem.”
Talib Kweli is the acclaimed rapper whose work includes Mos Def and Talib Kweli Are Black Star and (with Hi-Tek as Reflection Eternal) Train of Thought and Revolutions per Minute. Among his solo albums are Gravitas, Prisoner of Conscious, The Beautiful Struggle, and Quality.