I live in a rural county outside Roanoke, Va., the "Star City of the South." My grandmother's house, in nearby Lynchburg, is a five-minute walk from Jerry Falwell's. This is the region where Appalachia borders on the South, and Roanoke is significant for being the cultural and financial center of a famously poor, backward region. As a reasonably wealthy railroad town between historically downtrodden cultures, it's also a remarkable mix of traditions, ideas and classes; a fascinating study in the vast divides between people.

I went to a small alternative school in the city. Because it discouraged competition, I had to play county sports, where, three seasons a year, there was more than a little Slim Shady in everyone around me.

The Roanoke Times, the local newspaper, recently ran a four-part series on being gay in Roanoke. They were essentially sympathetic but hardly strident pieces, making a plea for tolerance mostly through the example of nonjudgmental observation.

The series was met with a torrent of criticism from people appalled that the paper would defend tolerance. The newspaper ran a follow-up piece addressing the reaction. An editor wrote:

Many readers, though, said they would have been happier with no stories at all.

"Roanoke is a conservative town," one woman said. "To dedicate the number of pages to the gay lifestyle is disgusting."

Other readers said the series painted a false picture of the Roanoke Valley. They said it made Roanoke appear more accepting of homosexuality than it truly is, and they worried that the stories would attract more gays and lesbians to the region. Some even worried that it would drive away residents offended by the gay lifestyle.

Welcome to deepest, darkest America. It's this America that Eminem, in the tradition of great Southern realists such as Dorothy Allison, illustrates vividly and accurately. This aspect of his art is the one that most of his critics, in their rush to gain the moral high ground, have missed or ignored. "The Marshall Mathers LP" sheds a scary light on a phenomenon both rural and urban, Southern, Northern and American: for lack of a better word, white trash.

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His critics accuse Eminem of making this, um, lifestyle cool (a charge given an ironic credence by fawning rock critics). Yet he's much smarter than that. You don't have to have a degree in semiotics to recognize that an album with three multilayered, untrustworthy narrators -- Eminem, Marshall Mathers and Slim Shady -- can hardly be charged with the straight-up advocacy of anything.

Anyone waiting for the real Slim Shady to stand up is going to be there awhile. If you missed this in giggling about Jennifer Lopez impregnation fantasies, however, he also shows a humane side. In "Stan," a beautiful song that reads like a good short story, he writes to a fan:

And what's this shit you said about you like to cut your wrists too?
I say that shit just clownin' dawg, c'mon, how fucked up is you?
You got some issues, Stan, I think you need some counseling
To help your ass from bouncing off the walls when you get down some

Or, more pithily:

A lot of people think ...
That what I say on record
Or what I talk about on a record
That I actually do in real life ...
If you believe that ...
Then I'll kill you
("Criminal")

Here he's doing what he does best -- calling people out. He's as bad as you imagine him to be.

Yet we have every right to be scared by Eminem. We're not worried about rock critics and essayists abusing their girlfriends because of this album, any more than we're worried about Yale students reading the Marquis de Sade. We're worried about dumb people listening to this album. And we should be. If Eminem doesn't scare you, visit some of his fan sites. On antimusic.com, Mechelle writes:

"Eminem is the bomb. If you agree you rock. To all ya out thiere that hate him, you suck peoples penis! you guys are gay pussys! hes the hottest mother f*cker out thiere!"

She signs it, "Peace."

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