Scott Is Not Dead

I'm about to reveal myself as an educated guesser.  I really try to get my facts straight when it comes to music and movie reviews...  and I suppose this isn't really a music review.  It's more of a cry for help on behalf of Scott Weiland.  And I get really edgy about arguing music minutiae.  But I can take it.  So, if I get some of this half-correct, please be nice if you feel you have to correct me.  

Alrighty.  Marky and I were driving, listening to Q101 ostensibly, on December 19.  The DJ was talking about "Twisted XV," the concert which featured several bands over the course of a few days.  Scott Weiland was doing a solo thing the final night, since Velvet Revolver and STP won't have anything to do with him.  There was a big poster onstage, listing all the names of the bands.  According to this DJ, the band names were all cattywompus and mushed together.  Very rock 'n' roll.  Well, three of the bands feature some form of the word "death."  There were Eagles of Death Metal, Theory of a Deadman, and Hollywood Undead.  After three nights and eight bands, Weiland comes out to the stage (30 minutes late, reportedly), and sees this poster.  He freaks out and starts ripping it down, later admittting that he thought the poster said "Scott is Dead," or some crap like that.  Seriously, Weiland?

The DJ reported this, not with a laugh, not sensationally, just kinda concerned-like.  If Scott Weiland was a cat, he'd be on the seven or eight lives, by now, and I think the children of grunge are all bracing for a Layne Staley-type of ending.  His death still bugs me.  

One of my bandmates pointed out recently that one of the great misconceptions in life is the image versus the real life of a jazz musician.  He told me this after wearing a $3 thrift store jacket to play a concert that people paid hundreds of dollars to see.  I was watching the UFC reality show, wondering why Ken Shamrock is missing a tooth.  Can one of the coaches on UFC really not afford a tooth?  What's it like when the cameras stop rolling?  Then I got to thinking about the creative process.  If I didn't have enough strife, never had my heart broken, would I be able to sing the blues?  And if I really wanted to sing the blues, but I had a pretty great life, would I need something like heroin to fuck me up enough to get in that mindset?  And if I decided to clean up, and didn't have that wow factor, would anyone be interested in me?  An oversimplified version of the addict-musician lifestyle, I know.  But that's basically it.

Then there's the solitude factor.  The only people who want to be around junkies are junkies.  And junkies don't last very long.  And they're tough to save.  And saving them is a thankless job.  It looks to me like no one is interested in saving Weiland, least of all himself.  I would like to announce that as much as I love watching Scott Weiland slither around in tight leather pants and listen to his unmistakeable growl, I would sacrifice hearing his voice again if it meant he could clean up and kick the habit.