Editorial Reviews. Unknown. “[Weiland] doesn't wallow in regret. Rather, the tales he sketches Not Dead & Not for Sale: A Memoir by [Weiland, Scott]. Lead singer Scott Weiland became an iconic front man in the tradition of Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and Robert Plant. Weiland has since made a series of stunning comebacks, fronting the supergroup Velvet Revolver, releasing solo work, and reuniting with Stone Temple Pilots. In the early s, Stone Temple Pilots—not U2, not Nirvana, not Pearl Jam—was the hottest band in the world. Then, when STP imploded, it was Weiland who emerged as the emblem of rock star excess, with his well-publicized drug busts and trips to rehab. Weiland has since made a.
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Not Dead & Not for Sale by Scott Weiland - The instant New York Times bestseller: the lead singer of the Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver delivers an. ALSO by DAVID RITZ BIOGRAPHIES:Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye Faith in Time: The Life of Jimmy Scott AUTOBIOGR. Not Dead and Not for Sale book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. As the lead singer of the Stone Temple Pilots ( .
Within hours, I watched the game of communal free will get stepped on, laughed at, and batted around like a Ping-Pong ball. One of my fellow patients was a rocker chick just turned twenty-one. She had a problem with depression. We met in the lounge and talked the night away, smoking cigarettes, exchanging words of comfort. I listened. When she was through, we hugged good night. She kissed me sweetly. She wanted more.
Not now, not here. What of it? Besides, who has sex in a Jacuzzi? That was inappropriate. So we stopped. Sixteen hours later, she sliced her leg down past the fatty tissue. She was a cutter. They took her out of the villa and put her in a psych ward. What can I do about it? There is no peace, not for an hour, not for thirty seconds.
Someone is always showing up with calculated suggestions and implied instructions. Meanwhile, the facts are these: It has been eight and a half years since I shot dope and nearly three years since I did coke. I still drink. A regular garden-variety boozer, I am like any other barfly or drink-alone kind of guy. My relationship to liquor is not romantic the way I once envisioned my love affair with dope.
How did I get to this point? One word could probably suffice— loss. There is a Stone Temple Pilots story to tell. There is a Velvet Revolver story to tell. There is a love story to tell. And a drug story to tell. Narcotic alkaloids. Derivatives of opium. I describe this stuff lovingly. I do so at the risk of high irresponsibility.
It is not my intention to mislead anyone looking to live a righteous life. God knows that the shit will kill you, inside and out, soul to the bone.
At the same time, I am committed to an honest assessment of the wreckage of my past. I loved opiates; I hated opiates; I am attracted to opiates perhaps the way John Keats was attracted to death. Is rock and roll the nightingale?
Not now, not here. A day later, I was approached by one of the counselors whom I considered a first-class shit talker. Rumor has it that the two of you were intimate.
Whats intimate? I asked.
She obviously has a crush on you. What of it? I heard you two had sex in the Jacuzzi. No Jacuzzi, I said. No sex. Besides, who has sex in a Jacuzzi? I want to know what happened, she insisted. We were flirtatious. That was inappropriate. So we stopped. This young woman was confronted at our next group session.
Sixteen hours later, she sliced her leg down past the fatty tissue. She was a cutter. They took her out of the villa and put her in a psych ward. What can I do about it? Minds squall, alcohol, heroin The man, the boy, the girl The little villa where you live You need to fill that pain inside Xanex, Valium, barbituratesthey ease the easy side Of all you fucked-up managerial types xvii prelude You love to rule by what you say Not by what you find Beautiful garden, Easter eggs, those that you never really had You stole our experiences and stole our baskets Thats how you found twenty-one out of fifty-seven that was last month.
This week Im home dealing with those who manage my business life, those who, for their own purposes, direct my moves. They are my partners, assistants, and drug coaches whom we call minders.
There is no peace, not for an hour, not for thirty seconds. Someone is always showing up with calculated suggestions and implied instructions. I dont know, but I think Ive done pretty well for myself, even during my long-lasting, narcotic misadventuresall without the protective bubble of paranoid employees, partners, and helperser, minders. Meanwhile, the facts are these: It has been eight and a half years since I shot dope and nearly three years since I did coke.
I still drink. A regular garden-variety boozer, I am like any other barfly or drink-alone kind of guy. My relationship to liquor is not romantic the way I once envisioned my love affair with dope. I struggle to stop drinking, but I dont see it as suicidal. In any event, Im not drinking today. Today Im inviting you into the middle of my life and the middle of my head.
My heart feels a bit closed off because Im realizing that there are few people, if any, that I fully trust. Thats an amazing statement to make and brings me to what may be the purpose of this book.
How did I get to this point? One word could probably sufficeloss. Im searching for explanations. There is a Stone Temple Pilots story to tell.
There is a Velvet Revolver story to tell. There is a love story to tell. And a drug story to tell. Narcotic alkaloids. Derivatives of opium. I describe this stuff lovingly. I do so at the risk of high irresponsibility. It is not my intention to mislead anyone looking to live a righteous life. God knows that the shit will kill you, inside and out, soul to the bone. At the same time, I am committed to an honest assessment of the wreckage of my past.
I loved opiates; I hated opiates; I am attracted to opiates perhaps the way John Keats was attracted to death. One hundred ninety years ago, the romantic poet wrote Ode to a Nightingale: I have been half in love with easeful Death, Calld him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, With thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Is rock and roll the nightingale?
Are opiates the key to unlocking the magical kingdom where colorful flowers fade to black?
Why should anyoneespecially a kid or a man who suspects that he or she may have talentbe drawn to such a kingdom? Except that the pull is visceral. It may also be an act of self-loating or anger against home or society or even the human condition in which the promise of death shadows us from those first fresh moments of birth.
I think of the young woman overwhelmed by a compulsion to cut herself. The compulsion is heartbreaking and bizarre, but maybe not bizarre at allmaybe its simply the most honest compulsion of all because it gets to the heart of the matter. My long opiate-dazed days and sleepless nights were all about cutting myself emotionally.
When I got high, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was party or interact with other human beings. I retreated to the dark corners of my room and my life. I stayed alone and disappeared down black holes where no one could find me. I couldnt find myself. I didnt want to find myself. I became invisible. Or, as I put it in the song Dead and Bloated, I am smellin like the rose that someone gave me on my birthday deathbed.
Dad Kent and me at age five Dad Dave and me at age three hy is the world so different now? I used to take my fishing rod and go down to the lake by myself.
Now the world is one organized playdate after another. In my childhood, I relied on my imaginationI could walk in the woods and be in Camelot, or Narnia, or wherever my mind envisioned.
I had a vivid imagination, and still do. Today, though, how can you compete with a computer that, with the touch of a button, gives you every answer to every question? I lost my name. I lost my father. I gained another father. Later I resented the hell out of my blood father, Kent, for not insisting that I keep his name.
I felt abandoned. Gave his name away, gave his son away. Meanwhile, I saw Kent as a cool dude who drove a Pepsi truck for a living but smoked dope at night and listened to the Doors and Merle Haggard. Kents the father I wanted to be with.
At age forty-two, Im still looking to connect with him. Im stuck on that nameChagrin Hills. Chagrin means distress, pain, anxiety, sorrow, affliction, mental suffering. Usually, idyllic suburbs have names like Pleasant Valley or Paradise Falls. Chagrin Falls makes no sense. In some ways, my childhood made good sense; in other ways, it didnt.
My childhood was green pastures and bee stings, learning to play baseball and football, living in a nice house, waitingalways waiting for the start of summer so I could go to California and see my dad Kent.
I was already a teenager when this dream started recurring. Its form changed slightly, but the basic structure stayed the same: Posters are plastered all over the cityon billboards and buses, in splashy newspaper ads and screaming TV commercials.
Its all over the radio and the Internet. Its tonight, its now, its what the worlds been waiting for. Its the ultimate Battle of the Bands. Midnight tonight at a great outdoor stadium. The witching hour. The dark night of the soul. The moment of truth. Its three years before Im born. Or maybe its the year of my birth, or the moment of my birth. Or maybe Im three years old. Or five. Or ten. Whatever my age, Im there. Im involved. Im engaged.
Im riveted by the battle. My life is at stake. My pulse is racing, my heart pounding inside my chest. The excitement has me crazy with anticipation. Two bandstands. The Rolling Stones versus the Kingston Trio. Over the Stones flies a pirate flag. Over the Kingston Trio flies the stars and stripes. Chaos versus Order. Nihilism versus Responsibility.
Crooked versus Straight. The crowd fills the stands. Half of them are fraternity boys and sorority girls, suits and dresses, blazers and loafers. The other half are freaks, punks, dopers, bikers, renegades. Im sitting in the dugout next to my mom. My father is introducing the Stones. He and Keith are dressed identically in psychedelic bell-bottoms.
He and Mick are sharing a joint. He calls the Stones the greatest rock-and-roll band in the world. My stepdad introduces the Kingston Trio.
Theyre all wearing buttondown blue oxford shirts and neatly pressed khaki trousers. My stepdad says, This is real music. This is harmony. This is beauty. My father shouts over to him, This is darkness! This is the real shit! Go out there, my mom whispers in my ear. Go out there and help. I run out onto the field. I look up and see a hundred thousand screaming people.
The bands have started playing simultaneously. Riffs of Satisfaction. Riffs of Tom Dooley. I run toward my dad, Kent, but hes disappeared into the crowd. Mick and Keith dont know me. Security is chasing after me. Im chasing after my dad, but I cant find him.
Im running up and down, running all over the stadium, but I cant find him, cant find him, crying hysterically, I cant find my dad.
My brother, Michael, was born to my stepfather and my mother when I was four and a half. On the day Mom came home from the hospital, I remember bright sunshine lighting our house. When I saw my baby brother, I was filled with wonder. He was fast asleep; he looked helpless, adorable, more doll-like than human. Whenever he squeezed my finger with his tiny hand, I felt flooded with love. I wouldnt feel that kind of pure love until the birth of my own children.
For the first time in my life, instead of worrying about being protected, I had someone to protect. Me and Michael 7 a t a l e o f t w o fa t h e r s The Scott-and-Michael story centers on two brothers to whom God gave musical talent.
Im the one who sought success; hes the one who feared it. We both fell into drink and drugs. When I got caught with a beer, our stepdad brought the wrath of the gods down on my head. When Michael got caught with pot, he said, Its Gods herb, and Father Dave just sort of shook his head.
Maybe the wrath did me good. Maybe the tolerance did Michael harm. Later, I gave Michael his first beer, his first shot of dope, his first hit of crack.