He sits in the cluttered studio office, at a desk strewn with over-the-counter pharmaceuticals – Aleve, 5-Hour Energy – and Ziploc bags of minipretzels. It’s a rainy afternoon in October, three days before Eminem’s 38th birthday.
“What up, man,” he says softly by way of introduction. He bears little resemblance to the foulmouthed, bleached-blond Slim Shady who once made it his mission to terrorize America. His features are delicate, nearly feminine, and his hair is a deep, natural shade of brown. He’s dressed in black cargo shorts and a gray T-shirt, and a diamond crucifix hangs from his neck. A dozen years into his career, he remains one of pop’s most bankable stars – a rare feat for any artist, and, for a rapper, almost unprecedented.Īfter half an hour, Eminem emerges from the vocal booth, where he’s working on tracks with Dr. A large painting of Biggie and 2Pac graces one wall, while a plaque leaning against another celebrates Eminem’s status as SoundScan’s Artist of the Decade: 32 million albums sold in the past 10 years, trouncing runners-up the Beatles. The studio is a grown-up play land: Punisher comic books, lucha libre masks, a popcorn machine. Only after you have proved to not be a threat will you be escorted past the security cameras and heavily reinforced metal door and into the place Eminem calls “my second home.”
“Can I help you, sir?” he’ll ask, in a tone that does not suggest an eagerness to help.
Upon arriving at Eminem’s recording studio – an anonymous gray hit factory in suburban Detroit – a first-time visitor will be met at his car by a large, possibly armed man named Big 8, who will have been watching from an alley across the street.