NAKED CITY: WHY IS SLIM SHADY STILL SO SHITTY?

On the eve of his sellout Australian tour we have to ask – why is Eminem still so sour faced? Admittedly, way back in his distant youth, he had a less than favourable upbringing but these days he flies in a private jet, has bundles and bundles of money and is surrounded by sycophants and yes men – not to mention the unlimited jewel boxes of bling. With all that loot he should be smiling 24/7 and spreading a message of universal love like Andre Rieu or the late Barry White.

Yet ironically the last thing the thousands of fans, who have snapped up tickets to his Australian shows in record time, want to see is a cheesy on stage smile. Some have even parted with $300 for a premium spot in the “Lose Yourself Moshpit Zone” and the sado masochistic pleasures of being pushed, pummelled and pounded throughout the entire evening. It’s a helluva price to pay for a bunch of bruises and a ripped t-shirt at the end of the night. After all a good Sydney dominatrix will rough you up for half the price and at least a happy ending is guaranteed!

Then there’s the $599 VIP package, moneywise a mere bagatelle if you old man is a company director and your mum is dropping you off at Acer in the Lexus SUV. Mind you if we were forking out that kind of dosh we would at least expect an anger management session with Eminem and his posse, a joy flight in the private jet, a doggy bag of the back stage rider, a bear hug from the bodyguards and the opportunity to fondle some of that precious bling.

With his fortieth birthday rapidly approaching surely now is the time for Eminem to reassess his career, shed himself of the baggage of urban angst and the alienation of youth, and embrace the joie de vivre of somebody like Andre Rieu. Forget about the mean streets of South Central – give us a musical landscape to rival the grand ballrooms of Vienna and a sedentary boat ride down the Danube.

Hey Marshall – sack the DJ and hock the turntables and get yourself a funky fifty piece string section. Turn the moshpit into a giant hot tub where both young would be punks and middle age couples can luxuriate and writhe to a gentle patter of love and exaltation – no bitches, whores or mutherfuckas here!  Why pump your fists in mock anger when a state of the art bubble machine can coat the entire audience in a sensuous film of universal belonging and intergenerational engagement.

Let’s face it – in another twenty years you could be playing the Rewind Festival or trawling the club circuit like Suzi Quatro. Now is the time to ditch the fury and embrace the “luv”. It was George Eliot who once said “wear a smile and have friends, wear a scowl and have wrinkles”. Mind you, that was long before somebody thought of Botox!