Before anything, I’d like to say that I am a fan of one Sean “Puff, Puff Daddy, Puffy, P. Diddy, Diddy” Combs. Supposed suspect business practices aside I’ve been a fan of the guy ever since I saw him pop locking in the old video for Father MC’s “I’ll Do For You,” which I still enjoy listening to every now and then. Sure he’s long since traded in any and every musical aspirations for a career in acting, reality show hustling and alcohol shilling, but formally  introducing The Notorious B.I.G. to the world will always get respect from me.
I don’t even know if he does anything over at Bad Boy anymore, yet he still collects a check from there. Bossy.
Like his West Coast counterpart (and a person he’d eventually collaborate with) Dr. Dre, Dids has seemingly eschewed the rap game for the same business endeavors most “urban artists” do when they start making a bunch of money: starting an overpriced and oversized clothing line, opening a couple diners in the hood, pretending to own a signature brand of bum wine when in actuality you’re nothing more than a corporate shill disguised as a “brand ambassador,” expensive headphones that don’t fit inside your ears and so on. And like Dre, Puff’s musical output has suffered greatly from it, save for a couple Rick Ross-written raps every now and then.
So when he starting talking about – then delaying, and delaying – his supposed “final” album, Last Train To Paris, I didn’t really care too much about the damn thing because his auditory expertise has atrophied so much it would make 50 Tyson, Reh Dogg and Bangs the next Biggie, Jay-Z and Nas. I mean he linked up with two random-ass women – one from the annulled experiment that was Danity Kane – to basically serve as background singers for the album. Add in the Euro-pop influence hip hop is suddenly in bed with, and Last Train To Paris comes across as a messed up mishmash hybrid of the throwaway Total sessions re-envisioned as Puff’s take on a Black Eyed Peas album. And yes, it’s as doofy as that description sounds.
Any and every semblance of Puff from the No Way Out era ceased to exist once he did that God-awful song with Keyshia Cole, and that style of music has transferred over to this experimental train wreck (pun wholly intended) of an album. What I’m most saddened by is the fact that, while I still hold a modicum of respect for Puff, he simply does not have it in him to make another “It’s All about the Benjamins” anymore. But I figure with the headphones, Sean John and Ciroc money he doesn’t need to anymore.
I’m not mad at his ad takeover over at the main hustle, though. He’s helping me put my unborn niece through college.
 I’m well aware Mister Cee found him first. But without Puff there would be no Ready To Die. Keep it real.