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I can be lectured at length about the rise and fall of one Nasir Jones, but the first few acts of his story are just that to me; stories. I was seven years old when Illmatic made music history and a mere twelve when Nastradamus did the same, for largely opposite reasons. I never experienced that portion of Nas’ career as it happened—only afterwards, removed from the sentimental attachment that develops when a listener lives through an artist’s career.

My generation has grown up with Eminem’s music. In a way, Eminem is “ours,” just like The Beatles “belonged” to my parents. We take pride in his successes and are doubly offended by his failures. When Eminem tried to force feed us the shit sandwich that is Encore, we wouldn’t swallow. We were hurt that Marshall would pull something like this on us. It was like your best friend sleeping with your girlfriend, then trying to blame it on your girlfriend being a slut. The man who had mocked the entire world suddenly became a parody of himself. The joke was no longer on those that deserved it, but himself. It was depressing, and only made worse because were were active participants.

Now I understand why those who lived through the Nastradamus days are still wary about any Nas release and haven’t completely forgiven his past indiscretions. They realize that a king can become a beggar in an instant, and even if they reclaim their throne, they could lose it again just as easily.

All this exposition in necessary when discussing “No Apologies”, from the mixtape Shady/Aftermath compilation, Eminem Presents The Re-Up. Upon first listen, I thought: “This is an old song.” I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t—believe that in 2006 Eminem has decided to try again. He sounded bored on Encore. Heck, I’m still waiting for him to reveal that that album was a joke all along, an ingenious piece of self-deprecation that was meant to comment more on America for buying six million copies of it and less on him.

Anyways,“No Apologies”. The production is undoubtedly Eminem’s; it’s the sort of simple, plodding beat he perfected around The Eminem Show. The beat is built around a somber piano loop indicating that this is Eminem being serious. There’s even church bells that could have been directly lifted from “The Way I Am”.

But fuck it, it’s not about the beat. With Eminem, it’s really never been. Moving away from that god-awful sing-song flow which may have been technically proficient but was entirely deficient of any emotion, and back to a more familiar delivery, Eminem sounds like his old, pissed-off self. ‘Em has always been able convey feeling better than his beats have; “No Apologies” is no different. His penchant for making words that shouldn’t rhyme rhyme (as Weezy recently said in the booth on Rap City: “I can say don’t rhyme, and it’s gon’ rhyme”) provides a foundation for his fluid metaphors (“In my mind, I’m a fighter / My heart’s a lighter, my soul is the fluid / My flow sparks it right up, an arsenic writer”) and ruminations on his career (“This song isn’t for you, it’s for me / A true emcee, it’s what I’ll do just to see / If he still has it, and if he skill’s mastered / He’s able to spill raps long after he’s killed, that’s / A real emcee”). This is Eminem at his best; vulnerable but guarded, witty but earnest, angry but mostly just sad. And thankful. His passion for hip-hop is expressed in one line: “I’d be a savage beast / If I ain’t had this outlet to salvage me.” The same applies to a lot of your fans, ‘Em.

Some have said that the first verse of “No Apologies” is from an old freestyle that Eminem once spit with Proof, while others claim it's an old, shelved 8 Mile OST-era song. His reference to Nelly, and the fact his vocals sound nothing like they do on the rest of his appearances on The Re-Up, might help place “No Apologies” somewhere around 2002 or early 2003. If it really is an old song, we should be thankful for finally being able to hear it.

There’s a chance that “No Apologies” is recently recorded. Eminem can yet regain his dignity as an artist—Nas did. And if that happens, it’ll be that much sweeter. But I'm not holding my breath; that's the price you pay when you grow up concurrent with an artist.