Admittedly, my attempts at "keeping up" have been erratic. After being enchanted by Public Enemy, Tribe Called Quest, and De La Soul as a teenager, rolling my eyes at harder-than-thou Dr. Dre, and alternately enjoying and cringing at Mobb Deep, I just got bored. I stopped paying attention.
Until he began showing up. Everywhere. I'm talking, of course, about self-proclaimed Renaissance Man, Sean "Puffy" Combs.
I started to pay attention again.
Back in 1997 -- when Puffy's solo release No Way Out debuted -- it seemed as if he had single-handedly taken over New York City's fickle social stratosphere, the music industry's A-list of producers and young executives, and the entire goddamn media. Throughout 1998, his puffiness continued to higher levels of intensity, as he supplemented his hype machine, creating a persona and a culture of Puffy that loomed like a bubble.
He was Puffy on the covers of magazines, profiled exhaustively. He was Puffy on the radio, while selling millions of records. He was Puffy on Hot 97 billboards, looming and smirking over New York City. The darling of MTV News and the New York Post, he got more press than a Kennedy. Even his name was full of irresistible implications: How could someone who called himself "Puff" avoid strutting and preening for the cameras... with his chest puffed out with pride? Impeccably groomed, flawlessly tailored, diamond-encrusted, and positively glowing (make no mistake: that's sheen, not sweat) -- he was shoving himself into mainstream America, hailed as a sharp businessman who was "re-defining" the notions of hiphop music.
But with Puff Daddy, is it really about hiphop anymore? His music alone isn't significant enough to garner all the adoration and analysis. He has a knack for catchy phrases, sampling, and inventively recycling familiar hits, but it's trite. His producing résumé includes names like Mary J. Blige, Mariah Carey, Aretha Franklin, Lil' Kim, Notorious B.I.G., DMX, Smashing Pumpkins (!), and the Lox. But his real claim to fame?
Stuff. Owning and acquiring stuff -- fancy cars and real estate, his own business conglomerate (Bad Boy Entertainment), upscale restaurants (Justin's in NYC and Atlanta), a magazine (Notorious), a clothing label (Sean John), and other toys -- is a huge part of his fame. He lets himself be seen actively doing stuff: attending glamour-soaked parties with entourage in tow, or nabbing photo ops with corporate heavyweights Donald Trump and Ron Perelman. Doing stuff is just as important as having stuff, and ensures his reputation as the Guy Who Knows Everybody (where would our Puffy be without the VIP section?). This is Puff Daddy's true strength and savvy.
My favorite example of "Puffy Stuff" to date? During the summer of '98, Puffy successfully united his personal hiphop nation with the well-bred, filthy-rich-Manhattanite getaway known as East Hampton. With his newly purchased $2.5 million Charles Gwathmey mansion and crisp summer suits, Puff Daddy tweaked the tennis & chardonnay (read: white) culture of the Hamptons: livin' large, throwing socialite-studded shindigs, and running a celebrity auction to benefit Daddy's House, his charity for inner-city youth -- at the Bridgehampton Polo Club, no less. It was an unusual scene -- "Rapper Rubs Elbows with Martha Stewart" -- and the paparazzi loved it. Very clever, very Puffy.
The rapt attention and admiration he's received from the mainstream press has been focused on his wealth, excessive luxury, and social prestige among elite white folks -- elements that don't exactly blend with the "traditional" values of hiphop. When Puffy grabbed the industry's reins, it seemed as if, according to him, hiphop's inclinations no longer leaned toward hardship, resistance, and authenticity. (This is the man who boasts about being "ghetto fabulous.") Why bother "keepin' it real" or being a badass muthafucka, when you could have more fun being a millionaire mogul with a yacht and private plane?
Public Enemy swept an entire generation into social consciousness with their passionate anthems. Ghetto poverty, harsh realism, and the struggle were the topic of choice among numerous rap artists for years. But one of Puff's early trademark songs? An emphatic ode to the hundred dollar bill ("It's All About the Benjamins," which tributes Cristal and skiing in Aspen), where he proudly insists, "Fuck bein' a broke nigga," and brags about "Five carats on my hand."
What was once de rigeur among rappers -- layer upon layer of baggy-saggy clothes, very specific sportswear, and a bulky, street-inspired style -- has since been challenged and upstaged by "Puffiness": a trim, slim figure swathed in designer labels, with GQ elegance and good taste. Puff Daddy doesn't need pounds of garish gold chains or a menacing sneer to flaunt his power; he prefers carrying a sleek, purring cell phone with Tommy Mottola on speed dial, accompanying Jennifer Lopez (and her Pilates-toned ass, interestingly not as puffy as it used to be) to red carpet functions, and being on the March '99 cover of Forbes (the Power Celebrity Issue, of course) as his armor. His fancypants lifestyle even prompted some to follow his lead, and "puff up" as well: a polished Missy Elliott, glossed 'n' coifed in Gap commercials -- right around the time she joined the Lilith lineup in '98; Busta Rhymes, with a new footwear label, his "entrepreneurial venture"; even the already-super-rich Russell Simmons, hiphop's CEO/Original Mogul, has caved in to bigger clout desires, selling his pioneering Def Jam to the Universal Music Group this past year for an obscene $100 million.
Puffy's fixation on prestige and "going corporate" has inevitably resulted in some backlash: The whole cred vs. clout thing will always plague him, and his music is constantly accused of being fluffy and rehashed. But in his insular, stuff-filled world, wrapped in his cocoon of celebrity friends and cult-like staff, he dismisses his critics and accuses them of being jealous of his gleaming role in pop culture.
With his latest release, the 19-track Forever, Puffy responds (and baits career backfire even more) with a decidedly unhappy, defensive record that smacks of over-the-top arrogance (referring to the rest of us as "mere mortals"). He rubs our faces in his martyrdom right away as "Forever (Intro)" begins -- a brief, weird reference to his involvement in this past April's much-publicized PuffDrama, in which he and his loyal sycophants stormed into the office of Interscope executive Steve Stoute, angrily beating him up over a disagreement about Puffy's role in a Nas video. (Puffy had changed his mind about being portrayed as a Jesus-like figure in the video, nailed to a cross; Stoute couldn't help him, the production was done.) It was a huge PR misstep, reinforcing one of the most negative stereotypes of African American men: If things don't go your way and you get pissed, bring in your boys and fuck shit up. Not even Armani can cover up the sheer insecurity and immaturity of a narcissistic man who can't fight his battles alone.
In the meantime, he continues to flex his industry muscles. Bad Boy Entertainment now has a film division, and Puffy would like to nurse his young marketing consulting firm to wild success. His magazine Notorious -- despite being glaringly thin and riddled with copy errors -- is enjoying its "re-launch," with its "redefined mission," according to Puffy's Letter from the Publisher. Forever will probably sell just fine, and spawn at least a few lavish videos.
But what about Puffy Daddy, the Man? How long will he be able to effectively remain a cultural force? Some other Next Big Thing may come along and steal some thunder, and the press will inevitably turn on him and flick him off his pedestal; but will this affect his comfortable, puffy world, the venerable (self) love-in he has crafted for himself and his "Bad Boy family"? Probably, amazingly, not. The bubble -- for now -- is still intact.
