D12's chart performance was never destined to be dictated by the quality of this record any more than Eminem's popularity amongst suburban 13-year-olds is likely to be hit by the hysterical outrage he courts in the pages of the Daily Mail.
So it shouldn't come as a huge surprise to discover that D12 neither sound as good as Eminem or are fortunate enough to get their hands on the kind of 'Class A' Dr. Dre product that's served their mentor so well. In fact, the beats that Dre contributes to 'Devil's Night' sound like they could be prototypes designed back when he was still finding his way out of the G-funk hole and developing that now familiar sample-free sound.
The D12 boys drop rhymes like: "Niggas want pussy and I want cash / So Ma, get out there and start selling your dirty ass." Each member is as indistinguishable by his equally calculated obscenities as the next is by his identikit Eminem-derived style.
The album never betters the subtle bounce that made the agonisingly juvenile 'S**t On You' strangely irresistible. The alleged humour of Eminem is nowhere to be seen, buried under irritatingly childish (the number of references to onanism are no coincidence here) nonsense that makes Fred Durst sound like Seamus Heaney. As executive producer, Eminem contributes many of the productions, revealing a paucity of ideas that might give an indication of what we can expect from his next album.
Ultimately, D12 have made the fatal mistake of reducing themselves to the pitch that probably won them their deal: "think horrorcore rap, Gravediggaz-style, mixed up with middle-everything baiting lyrics even more extreme than Eminem." And that's not enough.
