Read Online Not Dead & Not For Sale by Scott Weiland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Weiland
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found myself riveted. I wrote a song using that title. The lyrics are obscure, but reading them today, I see my desire for a strong, powerful woman to come along and cure me of everything. “You play the game,” I wrote. “I’ll masturbate and play a lullaby. You ran the race. I’ll pay the miles. You sing the pin love fuzz and dance the musty queer. I’ll stay at home ’cause I’m the mouse. So high that I can’t fly …”
I was really grateful—and honored—when Sheryl Crow came in and played on “Lady, Your Roof Brings Me Down.”
When I wrote “Where’s the Man,” I was living alone in a rented apartment—split from Jannina—and filled with regret. “Where’s your man, he’s lost and gone again. What’s your name? The name behind the shame.”
I was awash in shame. I was still hooked on heroin. I wanted out but didn’t know what that meant.
12 Bar Blues wasn’t a hit by any means. It didn’t sell anywhere near the numbers of STP, but it was critically acclaimed. I wasn’t surprised because so much of it sounds like it’s from outer space—my home address at the time. Talk Show, the band the other Pilots had formed with Ten Inch Men singer, Dave Coutts, suffered the same lack of success.
I was bummed but decided to tour anyway. I formed an all-male band called Scott Weiland and the Action Girls. When we played New York, I went downtown to score dope in my old Lower East Side stomping ground, but by then, unbeknownst to me, the game had changed. There were no more hassle-free easy-access drug sales. Walking out of one of those nasty tenements with a fresh purchase in my pocket, I was nailed by a couple of cops. The Atlantic Records publicist bailed me out. I was so sick that someone suggested I try what’s called an overnight opiate detox. They put you under and you wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a Mack truck. Problem was, the fuckers didn’t give me enough to keep me under. I awoke in full withdrawal, shitting, puking, cramping, and screaming, “Help! Help!” A nurse came in and said nothing could be done until they got hold of the doctor. It took thirty minutes of agony before he got there.
I went back to L.A., where still another rehab awaited me.
T HAT WAS THE QUESTION DEAN ASKED ME over the phone.
“Not sure,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”
“A raw rock record. Nothing fancy. Just balls-out rock and roll. Back to basics.”
I liked the idea. I did not, however, like the absence of an apology from either Dean, Robert, or Eric for trashing me in public. I still harbored big-time resentments. But I was practical—as were they. If my solo project had gone through the roof, or if their Talk Show record had sold millions instead of thousands, we probably wouldn’t be talking. But Dean did call with this idea that seemed pretty sound.
“Besides,” he said, “we’re building a legacy. It’s important we stay together and not let shit tear us apart.”
So we got together and started jamming. My plan to continue working alone was trumped by a chance to put out a strong STP record and make good money.
The truth about working alone is this: Even during those periods when I was estranged from my bands, I often fell in with another collaborator. In that regard, no one has been closer to me than Doug Grean, soul brother to the bone. When I met him, I was in the process of putting together my recording studio and Doug had some equipment I could use. He presented himself as an engineer, and in that capacity we started working together.
Didn’t take long before I saw that, more than an engineer, he was a superb guitarist, trained in the rich soil of New Orleans funk, capable of playing in any genre. Beyond playing, though, Doug proved to be an ace composer. In short order, we hit it off and became a team. Doug took on different instruments—various keyboards and the tricky lap-steel guitar—enlarging our musical palette. I also started toying with keyboards,
I was really grateful—and honored—when Sheryl Crow came in and played on “Lady, Your Roof Brings Me Down.”
When I wrote “Where’s the Man,” I was living alone in a rented apartment—split from Jannina—and filled with regret. “Where’s your man, he’s lost and gone again. What’s your name? The name behind the shame.”
I was awash in shame. I was still hooked on heroin. I wanted out but didn’t know what that meant.
12 Bar Blues wasn’t a hit by any means. It didn’t sell anywhere near the numbers of STP, but it was critically acclaimed. I wasn’t surprised because so much of it sounds like it’s from outer space—my home address at the time. Talk Show, the band the other Pilots had formed with Ten Inch Men singer, Dave Coutts, suffered the same lack of success.
I was bummed but decided to tour anyway. I formed an all-male band called Scott Weiland and the Action Girls. When we played New York, I went downtown to score dope in my old Lower East Side stomping ground, but by then, unbeknownst to me, the game had changed. There were no more hassle-free easy-access drug sales. Walking out of one of those nasty tenements with a fresh purchase in my pocket, I was nailed by a couple of cops. The Atlantic Records publicist bailed me out. I was so sick that someone suggested I try what’s called an overnight opiate detox. They put you under and you wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a Mack truck. Problem was, the fuckers didn’t give me enough to keep me under. I awoke in full withdrawal, shitting, puking, cramping, and screaming, “Help! Help!” A nurse came in and said nothing could be done until they got hold of the doctor. It took thirty minutes of agony before he got there.
I went back to L.A., where still another rehab awaited me.
T HAT WAS THE QUESTION DEAN ASKED ME over the phone.
“Not sure,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”
“A raw rock record. Nothing fancy. Just balls-out rock and roll. Back to basics.”
I liked the idea. I did not, however, like the absence of an apology from either Dean, Robert, or Eric for trashing me in public. I still harbored big-time resentments. But I was practical—as were they. If my solo project had gone through the roof, or if their Talk Show record had sold millions instead of thousands, we probably wouldn’t be talking. But Dean did call with this idea that seemed pretty sound.
“Besides,” he said, “we’re building a legacy. It’s important we stay together and not let shit tear us apart.”
So we got together and started jamming. My plan to continue working alone was trumped by a chance to put out a strong STP record and make good money.
The truth about working alone is this: Even during those periods when I was estranged from my bands, I often fell in with another collaborator. In that regard, no one has been closer to me than Doug Grean, soul brother to the bone. When I met him, I was in the process of putting together my recording studio and Doug had some equipment I could use. He presented himself as an engineer, and in that capacity we started working together.
Didn’t take long before I saw that, more than an engineer, he was a superb guitarist, trained in the rich soil of New Orleans funk, capable of playing in any genre. Beyond playing, though, Doug proved to be an ace composer. In short order, we hit it off and became a team. Doug took on different instruments—various keyboards and the tricky lap-steel guitar—enlarging our musical palette. I also started toying with keyboards,
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