By Gili Malinsky
By Bob Ruggiero
By Hilary Hughes
By Peter Gerstenzang
By David R. Adler
By Devon Maloney
By Brian McManus
By Jessica Hopper
In Detroit, entire skyscrapers stand abandoned. One of those, the David Whitney Building, looms like a ghost a few blocks away from downtowns Comerica Park, visible from almost anywhere within the stadium. But onstage, luminary Jay-Z sounds a rare note of optimism: I know youve been through a lot, but Detroit has heart, and it will be back.
Its anyones guess how much of the vast, whiter-than-I-expected crowd Thursday night actually lives around here. Outside the park, a guy in line tries to convince anyone who will listen that Grand Rapids is the city of the future, that itll be bigger than Detroit in 10 years. Before the show starts, the highway traffic into the city is at a complete standstill, as guys selling bootleg T-shirts wander between the cars. Once you get out of the stadium/casino sector, downtown is a grisly, apocalyptic sight. But Detroit does have at least one thing going for it: The most popular rapper in the world calls the city home.
Tonight, Eminem is in town to co-headline this massive stadium show alongside Jay, his closest peer. Theyll do it again the following night, then take the show to Yankee Stadium September 13 and 14. Its an ambitious move for two rappers, taking over the public spaces once reserved for boomer-rock dinosaurs. This isnt like Summer Jam, where the entire rap universe throws itself a stadium party. Its just two guys, along with whatever guests they bring. Looking around, Jay-Z tells guest Young Jeezy, Look how far hip-hop has come. (Oh, shit, Jeezy offers.)
But when Ems onstage, the narrative doesnt have anything to do with rap conquering stadiums. Instead, its about Em conquering his own demonsthe same story at the heart of Recovery, the turgid mess of an album that has dominated the Billboard charts all summer. Before he takes the stage, a graphic flashes onscreen, talking about how he appeared unfocused in recent years, how hes been largely absent from the stage for years, how he spent time in rehab. Goddamn it feels good to be back, he later snarls. Not here. Back. Stadiums, then, are what Em sees as his natural habitat. This park was just standing here, waiting for him to get his shit together.
To these ears, Recovery doesnt work because it trades in the gleefully anarchic streak of Ems classic early albums for a sincere but artless compulsion to overshare. He wants to tell us about his addictions, his fears, his depression after the death of best friend Proof. He gives all this to us in frantic, virtuoso sprays of syllables, alongside face-palm punchlines like the one about shaking that ass like a donkey with Parkinsons. And through those word-clumps, I dont hear that devilish grin anymore. Ems rehab process has had the same deadening effect that Buddhism once had on sneering white-rap ancestors the Beastie Boys: a chaotic rush lost to noble impulses. But Em live is a different thing. Apparently, his newfound sobriety doesnt mean he cant do Purple Pills. And thats a good thing: Purple Pills is a great song.
Theres a nice symmetry to this mini-tour, Jay and Em trading off headlining duties in each others hometowns. But the two guys dont exactly occupy the same role in their own cities. In New York, Jay is a minor deity, beaming magnanimously down from billboards, a cool uncle everyone shares. His set is an absolute marvel of total-pro showmanship, one developed through years of road-dogging across arenas and festivals. His well of hits is just absurdly deep, and he uses them for maximum impact: U Dont Know into Jigga What, Jigga Who into 99 Problems, each one a euphoric peak. These days, he ends every show by pointing out individual people in the crowd, thanking them one by one. Hes built for stadiums.
Eminem is not, and I wasnt sure how hed translate. His rap style is dense, precise, almost Tourettictoo fast to pick out every word through the cavernous echoes. Jay is a generous presence, while Em is a ball of coiled energy: hood up, rocketing around the stage, punching air. Even at his most relaxed, Jay radiates a casual glamour. But Em wears a crappy plastic digital watch and sweats through his gym-class gray T-shirt within two songs. Midway into his set, he cedes the stage to 50 Cent for a few songs, a perfect opportunity for a costume change. But he returns in that same crappy, sweat-soaked shirt, an anti-glam move that verges on actual bad personal hygiene.
About that 50 Cent cameo: He emerges in a spectacularly gaudy jacket, all covered in tiny light bulbs, with lit-up sunglasses to match. (Tony Yayo, on obligatory hypeman duties, keeps the same old bucket hat.) Their 15 minutes onstage are the best possible 15 minutes we could get: Patiently Waiting into I Get Money into In Da Club. Its a minor triumph in stagecraft, and Em keeps that same all-thrills sensibility going throughout. Alongside his hometown-hero status, that keeps him from drowning in Jays oceans of goodwill.
Em mightve been away from the stage for a minute, but he still knows how to keep a show moving. During a D12 mini-set, the boy-band parody at the end of My Band gives us the first ironic display of fireworks Ive ever seen. The show moves fluidly from crack-ups to ballads to anthems, leaving room for superstar guests: Drake emerges to general chaos for Forever. And when the night ends with Lose Yourself, the stadium barely feels big enough to contain the song.
And then theres the one brilliantly shocking moment. Em starts My Name Is, but the song stops dead at the first mention of Dr. Dres name. Em starts screaming: Oh, no! Oh, shit! Dres name flashes huge on the screen behind him, the intro to The Next Episode plays, and Ems now-reclusive mentor enters via elevator, getting the biggest disbelieving crowd-roar Ive ever heard. Dr. Dre is only onstage for a few minutes, doing a couple of songs and looking like he cant wait to leave. As he tries to depart, Em forces him to stand there while the crowd chants Detox at him. Im coming, says Dre, unconvincingly. Its a shaky, uncomfortable appearance, but a great moment nonetheless. (For his part, Jay holds himself to one guest, Jeezy, but hell presumably host a ton more when the show comes to Yankee Stadium.)
Eminem isnt an ambassador for his city the way Jay is. Jay has Empire State of Mind, a song thatll make him synonymous with his hometown forever. The closest thing Em has is Welcome to Detroit City, a song he produced for terrifying Detroit D-lister Trick Trick, less a song about how Detroit is a great place and more a song about how youll fucking die if you fuck with Trick Trick in Detroit. But at home in his destroyed city, performing in front of a bandstand made out of crushed cars, Em feels like a symbol for, well, recovery. Hes a destroyed man who put himself back together. Even if his music doesnt have the kick it once did, that rebuilding means something in a once-great city that tore itself apart years ago. When Em brings this show to New York, that story might not mean as much. But itll still be a great show.
Jay-Z and Eminem play Yankee Stadium September 13 and 14