This week on The Rack, our unfortunate victim is a scapegoat. Sean "Puffy" Combs (now apparently known as "P. Diddy") is only the worst offender of a number of criminals charged with conspiring to the destroy the creativity inherent in music. He's known as a great producer, though I can't say I've been drawn to anything he's had a hand in (except maybe J-Lo). I'll leave the ranting and raving about this to my article on the subject. For here, I'll only briefly explain it. This man takes the hooks from old top 40 songs, adds a new beat to them, writes some unemotional self-promoting lyrics, and then sells a trillion copies. It's smart. Not respectable, but smart. Let me think of a formula for success: re-market songs that were popular years ago to kids that have never heard them. "Oh, Puffy's new joint is the bomb!" Of course it is, Jack Ass. It was a hit 25 years ago. It was good then, and it's good now. The difference is back then it was a hit for the person who actually wrote it. Now, it's a hit for some punk whose parents had a good record collection. I don't understand how some people see no problem with this. I guess I don't either, as long as Puff Daddy doesn't claim ANY artistic integrity whatsoever. He's like a one-man Rhino Records... every album he releases is essentially a greatest hits of the 70's/80's compilation. My big beef here is that a lot of the little thugs that listen to his crap think he wrote it. I'm sorry, but fuck Sean Combs. If you're going to make your money off other peoples' ideas, at least have the decency to let everyone know who ought to get credit. Why do people buy Puffy albums? It ain't the damn lyrics! It's the hooks! The hooks he didn't write. I mean, who couldn't do what he does? It takes no talent for Christ's sake! It took talent to write "Every Breath You Take". It takes no talent to talk over it. Oh, I'm not done. Somebody please rack this bitch; I can't stand the site of him anymore.

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