Clive Davis: The monster who made Diddy

As the allegations against Sean “Diddy” Combs become ever more sickening — the latest is that he raped a 13-year-old girl with another celebrity, while a female star watched — one might start to wonder just how he accrued so much power and influence in the first place.

Put bluntly: How did an exceedingly average rapper with no discernible talent become one of the most influential figures in hip hop?

The answer? Clive Davis.

Unbelievably, Davis never spent a single day behind bars. The elites don’t just play by different rules — they write them

Call me Daddy

Diddy didn’t rise through musical genius or visionary skill. He wasn’t Tupac, whose words carried the weight of a generation, or Dr. Dre, who transformed the genre with his beats.

No, Diddy’s real talent lay in playing the role of a figurehead, and the man pulling the strings behind the scenes was Clive Davis. It was Davis who saw Diddy’s malleability, his willingness to play the game, and his lack of real power.

Diddy wasn’t chosen for his musical prowess — he was chosen because he was controllable. Davis needed a puppet — someone only too willing to bend over and take it like a "man." Diddy fit the bill perfectly.

To many readers, the name Clive Davis might not be immediately recognizable. But within the music industry, he holds a reputation comparable to that of Harvey Weinstein in Hollywood. And the comparisons to Weinstein are fitting in more ways than one.

The 92-year-old’s career is riddled with corruption, criminality, and exploitation, all meticulously avoided by sanitized hagiographies that celebrate Davis as the music biz's benevolent elder statesman.

One cannot discuss Davis without discussing his notorious involvement in the so-called "drugola" scandal while president of CBS Records in the early 1970s. A sleazy update on payola — the practice in which record companies bribe radio station DJs to give certain songs more airplay, artificially inflating their popularity — drugola added heroin and cocaine to sweeten the pot.

The scheme unraveled when David Wynshaw, a CBS executive, was arrested in connection with a heroin ring tied to the mafia.

Wynshaw cooperated with federal authorities, revealing that Columbia had paid $250,000 in bribes to radio stations, particularly those catering to black audiences, to boost the airplay of its artists. This revelation implicated Davis in a wider network that combined corporate interests with criminal activities.

Davis’ proximity to organized crime became increasingly evident as more details emerged. Wynshaw's testimony revealed weekly payoffs to Kal Rudman, a powerful figure in radio promotion, and Davis himself was accused of misappropriating over $94,000 of company funds for personal use.

Davis’ ties to the Genovese crime family further entangled him in a world where music and mafia operations collided; the Brooklyn-born executive kept up appearances by funneling his dirty money through a maze of shell companies.

Unbelievably, Davis never spent a single day behind bars. The elites don’t just play by different rules — they write them. And in Clive Davis’ case, he’s the one holding the pen.

That’s my boy

In 1993, Davis took the future Diddy (then going by Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs) under his wing, launching Bad Boy Records and making the then-24-year-old the next big name in hip-hop.

And Diddy never, ever forgot his daddy.

His endless praise for Davis — his talk of “forever gratitude” and “LOVE” — is more than just flattery. It’s a confession.

Without Davis, Diddy would be nothing. It was Davis who gave him the industry muscle to launch Bad Boy Entertainment. Every step of Diddy’s rise, from his multimillion-dollar empire to his rather impressive lube collection, traces back to Davis’ early investment.

Of course, as is clear now, Diddy’s success had its casualties. Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes of TLC, a group that skyrocketed to fame only to go bankrupt — thanks to Davis siphoning off their earnings — was one of them.

Always outspoken, Lopes was reportedly gearing up to confront Davis and demand her share. But before she could make a move, Diddy allegedly tipped off Davis, shutting down her plan. Soon after, Lopes died in a car crash in Honduras. Officially ruled an accident, her death left many wondering if it was more than that — a message about what happens when you challenge the wrong people.

Who shot ya?

In truth, Diddy's entire career has been characterized by dark moments that mysteriously go unpunished. In 1991, at a City College event he organized, a stampede left nine people dead after warnings of overcrowding were ignored.

The tragedy should have destroyed him, yet Diddy, much like his mentor, managed to emerge from the chaos unscathed. The same could be said for the unsolved murders of the aforementioned Tupac and the Notorious B.I.G.

Eminem recently reignited rumors linking Diddy to the murders of the hip-hop heavyweights on his track “Fuel.”

The "Rap God" first hinted at Diddy’s involvement in Tupac’s death on his 2018 dis track “Killshot." But last month, he took things up a notch, suggesting that Biggie’s murder was also directly tied to Diddy.

With lines like, “Puff’s? Till he’s in police handcuffs, guilty, will he step up?” Eminem makes his accusations clear. With the two biggest names in rap eliminated, Diddy's path to the top of the musical mountain was cleared.

A path paved by Davis, a man whose influence extends far beyond his perverted protégé.

Collateral damage

Take his relationship with the late, great Whitney Houston, for instance. Publicly, Davis claimed the singer was like a daughter to him, but when she was found dead in the Beverly Hilton, Davis carried on as if nothing had happened.

To be clear, he partied the night away as Houston’s lifeless body lay just a few floors above. Like so many other artists, Houston was a pawn in Davis’ larger game, discarded when she was no longer useful to him.

Why has Davis remained so untouchable? The most logical explanation, I suggest, is that he’s a protected government informant. How else could one operate with such impunity?

The partnership between Davis and Diddy reveals the ugliest truth about the music industry: It’s not about art or talent — it’s about power and control, subterfuge and sabotage. Diddy wasn’t a visionary — he was a sycophantic stooge. Lisa Lopes and Whitney Houston weren’t just stars who burned out too soon — they were collateral damage.

Diddy might be a monster, but never forget Clive Davis — the mastermind who created him.