If You Can’t At least Acknowledge and Somewhat Appreciate The Artistry of Eminem’s New Album, Please Don’t Ever Call Yourself An Artist Near Me
Eminem’s now few-hour-old album “The Death of Slim Shady” is the exact rebirth I’ve been waiting for, on a silly amount of levels.
I’ve spent more years of my life defending Eminem’s music in one fashion or another than I have spent not having to do so. Of not feeling obligated to, with every release. Whether it was to an activist or an active clickbait blogger trying to make a name for themselves, criticizing a master at the craft a genre I’ve loved for as long as I can recall, and, for doing the precise thing they can only do awfully—a fact they’re proving to you within their open criticisms, about the said master's craft.
Listen, if you don’t want your twelve-year-old hearing the album or artist I’ve spent the last five hours listening to basically on repeat, and for the last twenty five years altogether in total, I get it. Because that’s precisely what I was doing at twelve and few decisions I’ve made on my own throughout my life would I dare to consider general recommendations meant to be consumed by the open public for as long as the server that hosts it lasts throughout the rest of…
