For a self-described dance-pop album, J. Lo has lots to live up to. After all, the genre has been around as long as rock itself, and albums such as Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall have long since set the standard for what a good dance-pop album should live up to. Not to mention the competition – pop music’s songstresses have been belting out dance-floor tracks for years: for every “I Will Always Love You,” after all, there’s Whitney Houston or another diva belting out an “I’m Every Woman” anthem. This implies, of course, that Jennifer Lopez has some pretty stiff competition – when not vying for attention alongside vocal powerhouses like Mariah Carey, she’s got to battle for the spotlight with Generation TRL’s pop princesses (Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears). And since Lopez lacks the voice power of singers such as Carey and Houston, it means she better be well-produced.

Thankfully, for Lopez fans, 15 tracks on J. Lo are well-produced, fun numbers. There are the radio-ready “I’m Real,” “Play,” and “I’m Gonna Be Alright,” as well as the Latin numbers, “Cari-o,” “Dame (Touch Me)” and “Si Ya Se Acab–” – all of them catchy, fun, upbeat numbers.

So, what ruins the other eight tracks? After I listened to the album once through, I gave the liner notes a second look. Of the eight that are just downright shitty, seven are produced by none other than the artist (cough) formerly known as Puffy – now Sean “P. Diddy” Combs. Once upon a time I liked some of Puffy’s production skills for artists like Faith Evans, but P. Diddy’s productions, as of late, are muddled, confusing affairs, attempting to appeal to every corner of pop music. Outkast’s “Bombs Over Baghdad” is fresh, raw and fun; P. Diddy’s attempt at sped-up syncopated beats on “Walking on Sunshine” is messy, although one of his better productions.

This album will almost certainly sell millions of copies, and for those who liked Lopez’s last album, you’ll be sure to dig this one too. Just skip through the P. Diddy tracks, and, hopefully, by her next album, she’ll have a new boyfriend with some skills in the mixing booth, or, better yet, she will have taught herself. Then when the songs are good, we can give her the respect she deserves, and if they suck, stop blaming Puffy. I’m sorry, P. Diddy.