Reviews of new releases from Eminem, The Makers, and Dave Jasper returns to blow kisses at Poison.

********************************************************** Eminem
The Eminem Show

Eminem is back … and just as irascible as ever. He's bashing his pill-popping mother, exploiting his young daughter by shoving her face first into the spotlight and objectifying women to the point where they're barely worth satisfying his sexual desires. In the process, however, Eminem proves with awe-inspiring bravado that he is the most skilled rhyme slinger in the game and the most interesting performer inhabiting the current pop market. Why? Because he's a method actor on par with Hollywood's finest. He slips in and out of the various roles he creates with balanced aplomb, making each of the 15 tracks on his latest, most realized effort, volatile slices of brilliance.

On Without Me, an MTV-friendly jaunt loaded with broad-range humor, Eminem dons the Slim Shady mask that he perfected on his debut disc. For White America and Square Dance the great Caucasian hope of hip-hop demonstrates that he is undaunted by post-9/11 sensitivities and points his razor sharp quill at the realities of our country's hypocritical political and social systems. On Cleaning Out My Closet Eminem plays the part of Marshall Mathers, the victimized youth driven to violence and drug abuse by his bastard father and dope fiend mom. Hailie's Song allows the 28-year-old superstar to step into the spotlight as the sensitive father, the universal archetype of the outlaw with the heart of gold. On the disc's final cut, My Dad's Gone Crazy, which features his daughter, Hailie, on vocals, Eminem exasperates his contradictory image by concluding the song with a memo to his most adamant critics: I don't blame you/ I wouldn't let Hailie listen to me neither. It all may sound contrived, but Eminem executes each number convincingly, whether he's being sincere or sending up his own homophobia.

The gripping force of Eminem's booming bass, sharp snares, smooth rolling synthesizers, piercing strings and searing guitars serve as the perfect backdrop to Eminem's venomous lyrical content. Like him or hate him, Eminem is one of the most interesting, thought provoking entertainers and wordsmiths of any genre — rock, rap, mainstream or underground. Dr. Dre's protege is a gifted student of the game and well aware of what he's doing each calculated step of the way, spelling out his platinum-selling formula best on Without Me with the lines: Though I'm not the first king of controversy/ I am the worst thing since Elvis Presley, to do black music so selfishly/ And use it to get myself wealthy. (Aftermath/Universal)
—Wade Tatangelo

The Makers
Strangest Parade

Longtime band's band The Makers broke out of their garage-icon status with 2000's ambitious concept album Rock Star God; Strangest Parade finds them once again refusing to go back into their pigeonhole, but in a different way and with far less satisfying results. The disc is introspective, maudlin and bare-boned, exposing a soft white underbelly that's not nearly as interesting as their tough-as-leather exterior. Ironically, the best material here, the searing Laughter Then Violence and Addicted to Dying, recalls earlier Makers, back when they were channeling Bowie and Jagger with swaggering ease. Of the slower stuff, only the endless Hard to be Human and psychedelic Suicide Blues really connect — everything else suffers from an over-amped melodrama reminiscent of Doctor Frankenfurter's lyrical woe at the end of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. When they're at the top of their game, The Makers build a compelling fuzz-toned strut, but it just doesn't happen often enough to make Strangest Parade worth the price of admission. (Sub-Pop)
—Scott Harrell

Poison
Hollyweird

Jesus Fucking H. Christ. At first, you might want to thank VH1 and its cornball programmers for this hoary nostalgia act's bid at a comeback. Hell, VH1 is sponsoring the tour for this album. But I think I have figured out the truth of the (doesn't) matter. According to lead singer and aging Vince Neil impersonator Bret Michaels, Poison went to all this trouble for the fans — e.g., we stay true to our style, true to ourselves and true to our fans. Obviously, we have the fans to blame for such malfeasance as Get Ya Some, and atrocities like the butchering of The Who's Squeeze Box. And now I have something to say to the fans: If I've told the three of you once, I've told you a quadrizillion times: STOP asking Poison to make new music. C.C. DeVille is back on board; yeah, I didn't know he was gone either. Speaking of Hollyweird (a title that stinks … of originality!), C.C. DeVille looks worse than a chimpanzee's ass-hair after Michael Jackson gets through hittin' it: Bubbles you look good when you back that azz up, I can almost hear Michael saying in his breathy Mike Tyson squeak. Speaking of Michaels: I love how Bret Michaels — haven't you wanted to kick the ass of every Bret you've ever known? Dropping one of the t's doesn't make us like you any more, Bret, it just calls more attention to your name and makes us want to do you harm even more. Anyway, I love when Bret says things like, C'mon Bobby, to Bobby Dall. Next time maybe he'll say, C'mon y'all, shut up, and let's give up on this rock 'n' roll pipe dream. Pipe? Did someone say, 'pipe'? C.C. will say before collapsing into another decade-long stupor of Elysian bliss. There may be some kitsch value here, but it can't match the CDs kick value, as in Kick it, C.C. Yeah, right. (Cyanide)
—David Jasper