By Chris Copeland
The Marshall Mathers LP exemplifies literary tragedy. One can’t help but feel the sense of loss on the record.
Listen: The Way I Am
The original version of this article ran to almost 10,000 words. In order to submit it to a well-known music magazine (an overture that was subsequently rejected by said magazine), I cut the length in half. Some of what landed on the cutting room floor was a long, wandering, personal reflection on my own experience with the album in 2000 and 2001, completely unnecessary reading and not at all germane to the quality of the album (the rest of what landed on the cutting room floor was just plain awful writing). However, I like the longer version for the context it sets—one can much better appreciate Eminem juxtaposed against the glamourous madness that was the pre-9/11 music business, and I happened to be young, callow, and living in the nexus of the glamour during those two years. I offer here the uncut version, for those with too much time on their hands (the extra material runs from pages 2-8): Losing Slim Shady, the director’s cut