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Eminem appears to be quite the angry, violent hip-hopper, but one can’t help but wonder where his limits lie. After seeing graphic images of a bloodied ballroom and pretty young ladies taking bullets to the chest, a question of censorship came to mind.

And after I delicately lifted out both the album and the bonus CD (containing three additional tracks), the case revealed an image of Eminem with the gun in his own mouth.

And after listening to the CD, I knew someone must have taken great care to snap that shot right after
Eminem realized he was going to release a piece of crap.

However hard I tried to convince myself that Encore was not a waste of $10 (plus tax), I could not ignore my own grotesque face. I saw the same feelings reflected in my roommate’s expression as I skipped through the tracks in our dorm room.

“Come on,” I thought, “we’re only halfway through the CD; there’s still time to redeem yourself, Eminem.”

But by the 20th song, I knew I would only listen to maybe two or three tracks (on purpose) ever again.

Maybe I’m getting old and don’t want to let go of the Eminem that blasted in my room back when my hair was some awful shade of blue. Maybe his style has just changed for the times and I can’t accept it. I’m not sure anymore. I’m just not sure.

Will my younger brother and his generation appreciate Eminem’s hideous voice alterations and realistic puking sounds any more than I do?

I know I don’t find anything particularly musical or talented about throwing a fart sound out in the middle of a line. If Eminem’s goal with Encore was to achieve a repulsive level of immaturity, then he succeeded.

Sure, Eminem’s first record, The Slim Shady LP, was nothing close to mature, but at least it had fun beats and crazy lyrics that people could party to.

Encore skimps on such quality, crazy lyrics. Track 11 (“Big Wienie”) comes briefly to mind, since it’s comprised of four-and-a-half minutes of Eminem calling someone a “meanie” and an “idiot.”

Am I the only one who thinks that’s a little weak?

His beats sound exactly like something you would hear on a Dr. Dre CD. That shouldn’t be surprising, since Dre is the executive producer of Encore.

The change might be acceptable if Eminem had a voice remotely similar to Dre’s and could pull off slower, heavier lines in his lyrics, but he certainly doesn’t sound much like Dre when he says, “You make my pee-pee go doing, doing, doing.”

Overall, Encore was an extraordinary disappointment. At least I got something worthwhile out of my trip to Target: the candy bars.

Thinking back with a smile, to “My Name Is” and the Eminem hits that have surfaced since then, it’s hard for me to admit that his 15 minutes might be over.

His older work was much more fun, and, somehow, more shocking (hey, he rapped about murdering his guinea pig and sticking it in the microwave).

Maybe Encore and Eminem’s new style will grow on me, but I know at least the first five times through the album, I felt like I wanted to, wellčfind the title of track seven and you’ll know.