1001 Albums Summary

Shockingly awful

Whether this album decides to be pure unfettered fun, melancholic, or anything in between, it remains an absolute joy of a listen. I'll be returning to this often.

Mostly enjoyable, but only occasionally any more than that. A true model for the descriptor, "alright."

This album carries the eccentric momentum of a left-handed darkness. That is, until the abject failure of track 7, in which, we the listeners expereince extreme dissonance between jarring normalcy and arbitiary strangeness. From then on, the movement is lost. And while none of the remaining tracks are bad, per se, it still fails in ways, twin ways, to be exact. The first is not of normalcy, but rather routine, examining the qualities of the respective track and only thinking "That's Depeche Mode", and that's alright I suppose. The second is far more worrying to me. It is that of the music acting and moving in strange ways for the sake of strangeways. As if strangeness and 80s pop sensibilities are cohesive on their own. The materials of thoes first six tracks are clearly there, but there's a clear degredation. Still, the remaining tracks sound good, they just don't have that immense evocative appeal of the first six. Quite good overall, but it was to be far greater than it is. 3.5/5.

I'd go as far as to consider this flawless in an isolated sense. That said, I was never provoked by it's absolute commitment to sonic coldness. It was less cold like a starless winter night in a mechanical wasteland and moreso cold like a corpse. 2.5/5

Listening to this album, I was reminded of those talented authors that use the foundation of a greek tragedy to justify whatever power fantasies they wish to indulge in with a veneer of prestige. This comparison is a poor one, as fascinatingly, Eminem is completely aware of this persona being largely a juvenile power fantasy. It'd be more accurate to say that in this comparison, Eminem's fickle intelligence is that power fantasy, and this indulgent and grotesque caricature of a juvenile power fantasy is that veneer. It's disappointing really, as these flashes of brilliance clearly aren't just flashes, but rather the foundation of his art, which remains obscured by blood, semen, and shit. I hear a person curbed by their nature, fame, community, beginnings, and that which runs through all of these things, their masculinity, or that which makes them slightly more than just a person. I hear the twin, nigh- inseparable fantasies of a man and a boy, and seldom, they seperate, and I hear an artist.