By Jacob Katel
By Karli Evans
By Jose D. Duran
By Pablo Chacon Alvarez
By Kat Bein
By Abel Folgar
By Laurie Charles
Puff Daddy & the Family's No Way Out is as stunningly slack a piece of work as has ever been issued by a major rap act. Puff Daddy, born Sean Combs, has one of the weakest verbal flows of all time; he mouths wan rhymes in a pinched monotone that sounds more like a microphone check than a final take. From a musical perspective, the songs are just as lackadaisical, and Combs's lyrics exhibit all the cleverness of a textbook for second-graders. In short, the disc is totally undeserving of mass acceptance -- which may explain why it's become such a blockbuster.
Yes, it's true: No Way Out has spent the three months since its release at or near the top of the Billboard sales chart, with more than two million copies sold. And Combs's influence hardly stops there. He has replaced Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds as the producer of the moment, putting his aural stamp on tunes like Mariah Carey's "Honey." But unlike Babyface, Combs isn't content to let artists with whom he works keep the spotlight for themselves. In the "Honey" video, the primary focus is on Carey's breasts and bootie, but Combs is there too, pushing his mug in the lens at every opportunity. His camera-hogging has gotten so out of control that it was the subject of a gag during a recent episode of the Chris Rock Show on which Combs guested. After Rock finished interviewing Arsenio Hall, he screened the "Puff Daddy remix" of the conversation, which consisted mainly of Combs standing in front of the other two men.
Far less amusing is Combs's continuing effort to get mileage out of his relationship with the Notorious B.I.G., the Puff Daddy discovery who is the subject of the CD's most recognizable track, "I'll Be Missing You." No Way Out's booklet includes an oh-so-sincere letter written by Combs to B.I.G. Puff wrote, "Not a second passes that you're not on my mind.... I would do anything to turn back the hands of time and bring you back." But rather than renouncing the gangsta lifestyle and macho posturing that probably contributed to B.I.G.'s murder, he celebrates it in "What You Gonna Do?" which sports lines such as "What you gonna do when you can't take no more?/You gonna cry like a bitch or take it nice and slow?" Puff's sensitivity is thereby revealed as mere marketing -- a canny move that has effectively broadened his demographics. In the eyes of millions of music fans and mainstream media outlets like Rolling Stone -- whose ridiculously one-dimensional Combs profile was timed to coincide with No Way Out's release -- he's not just another hip-hopper. Rather, he's a heartsick friend trying to find a way to carry on in the wake of a tragedy. And that perception has been good for business.
The cynicism at the heart of this approach gives Combs's current run of luck a bitter flavor. But his ascendancy has a significance that goes far beyond his stardom. With only a few exceptions, hip-hop has been in a rut of late, in large part because gangsta rap is so clearly played out: After all, how many ways are there to talk about murder, drug running, getting high, and banging the nearest ho? Nothing has come along to supplant the style, however -- until now.
Despite Combs's attempt to cultivate an outrageous image, he's a deeply conservative music maker who believes in the Brill Building verities: melodies, hooks, accessibility. He wants people to dance to and hum along with his music, and consumers have responded in huge numbers. He may be thoroughly unimaginative, but he's managed to tap into the public consciousness. Thanks to Combs, we are entering a new phase: the return of hip-hop pop.
This term is not as incongruous as it might seem. Those of you who are familiar with the rise of rap in the mid-Seventies know that it wasn't invented in a vacuum. It evolved from the rhythm and blues and funk of folks like James Brown, who spent years cutting away the extraneous elements of his music until only its sheer propulsiveness remained. Furthermore, early rappers weren't terribly interested in making statements with their songs; their words were chosen more for their rhythms than for their actual meanings. In the beginning, rap was music made for dancing, not thinking, as "Rapper's Delight" by the Sugarhill Gang illustrates. The first rap song to become a Top 40 staple (it peaked at number 36 in 1980), "Delight" was about nothing but fun. "Good Times," the name of the Chic song that serves as its sonic foundation, would have made an apt alternate title.
Soon thereafter, substance began to sneak into hip-hop. Although Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five were labelmates of the Sugarhill Gang, they were considerably more militant. Flash's "The Message," an early Eighties classic that's easily among the two or three most important tracks in the history of hip-hop, was an angry, evocative screed that avoided exploitation by virtue of a strong undercurrent of social consciousness, while "White Lines (Don't Do It)" argued persuasively that cocaine was an integral factor in the oppression of ghetto dwellers.