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 ( .

I don't think I'm alone in feeling this way, either, especially if you look at the shift in sales of ebooks versus print books.

It will be interesting to see if this represents a one-time phenomenon, or if it's the beginning of a trend. Regardless of how this plays out, this shift in sales led me to reflect on what makes print books so much more special than ebooks. Here are a few reasons that come to mind. Print books promote sharing. Print books on shelves in book stores or home libraries or office book shelves invite potential readers to browse and then to borrow and read and potentially to download.

Ebooks are selfishly hoarded by the owner on his or her reading device. Want to share your favorite ebook with a friend or family member? Not going to happen.

Physical books make more meaningful gifts. Some of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received were books. These were gifts I still remember today. Reading as a kid, and even as I studied my way through college and then graduate school, I never really noticed the incredible variety of fonts that books sport--until I discovered just how few fonts that ebooks offer. Whether I'm reading a novel or memoir or how-to book, the sameness of the font scrubs away one of the unique and defining features of print books.

That would be acid. I ran up to my bedroom, locked the door, threw some clothes into a gym bag, climbed out the window, jumped onto the garage roof, jumped down onto the driveway, climbed on my bike, and took off. Without telling me, they called the authorities. The first time I learned of their call, I was back at school. I was in music theory class. Our teacher was Mr. Otey who, at six foot four, was an imposing presence.

I was also in the choir and band, but, because I wanted to learn more, I signed up for theory. My mood was somewhere between anxious and bored. On this particular morning, the room was eerily quiet as two policemen and two paramedics walked in.

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The paramedics were carrying a gurney. I overheard them say my name. Otey called me to the front of the room. The room got even quieter.

I had no idea what the hell was happening. I had to follow them outside. It felt like every single student in school had his or her eyes on me as the cops and paramedics escorted me to a waiting ambulance. They put me on the gurney, strapped me down, and put me in back. We drove off. The nightmare was just beginning. Due to a mix-up, they took to the wrong mental hospital. Flat on my back, my arms and legs constrained by the straps, I heard all this confusion.

Finally we got to the right mental hospital. We went up a service elevator. All the while I was still constrained. Be cool. All I knew was that I was in a lock-down ward in a psych unit. Five days went by before I was even evaluated by a doctor.

I was there for three months. The setting traumatized me. Many of my wardmates were severely suicidal. The attending psychologists tried to convince me that I was an addict. I got out. Later my mother said she regretted that she and Dave sent me there. These were confusing times for everyone. The eighties were rough but fun. She broke up with me, only to make up and then break up again.

This destroyed me. I was certain that our love would be forever, but forever turned out to be little more than a year our first time around—and another year our second time. When Heather kicked me to the curb two separate times, I swore never to love again. The feeling of exposing my heart and soul—the sensation of utter vulnerability—scared me to death. She wanted to be free to explore the world without being tied to one guy. Whatever, I was crushed and vowed to cover my heart with black iron, never to be broken again.

We did so for a simple reason: One of the frat members dealt coke. The guy was six foot two, weighed pounds, and was the best bass player I had ever heard. He looked like John Taylor from Duran Duran. He was deeply steeped in the various forms of rhythm and blues.

He said one of his idols was James Jamerson, the fabulous Motown bassist and founding member of the famous Funk Brothers rhythm section. Jamerson liberated the bass from its previous role as a mere background instrument: He put it out in front, and he showed generations of musicians how the bass, as a creative force, could sculpt the shape of a song as significantly as the guitarist or even the vocalist. Robert blew in with the force of a hurricane and brought the wisdom of an oldschool teacher.

He was rooted in music that was righteous and real. Robert knew Led Zeppelin inside and out. We loved Robert. And then Robert disappeared. Nothing strange about that. Musicians jump onto the stage and jump off. We had our own thing going. I sailed through high school with a minimum amount of work. I enjoyed history and literature and did well in college-level courses. I had quit football, wrestling, and all other sports in favor of singing.

Soi-Disant was my main passion. My intellectual curiosity was keen. As a compromise, I enrolled in Orange Coast College, a community school. I dug it. I was a liberal arts major because that let me flow in several different directions—political science, philosophy, great books.

I took careful notes during lectures and got caught up in challenging books like The Closing of the American Mind. My grade average in high school was C plus; in college it became B plus. With its less restrictive atmosphere, Orange Coast was much more my style than high school.

Enrolled in music theory, poetry, and art, I was committed to the liberal arts. Still am. Ultimately, though, my commitment to music won out over college. It had to. I had to give music my all. If we were going to make it, we needed to get better, which meant getting better players. We decided to move up to Hollywood. Living there, we would have contact with good musicians. She was an art student.

The truth is that Mary Ann was a tough-ass chick from Orange County. I went through a quick training program and discovered I had the talent to put together a publication in a matter of hours. We moved into an apartment by MacArthur Park near downtown L. I had met Mary Ann at a club just after her boyfriend had moved to Paris. She was crushed, and I was determined to woo her. I loved her looks: She looked Irish but was mainly Lithuanian. I also loved her taste and talent for all things cultural.

She was an edgy chick with a fiery personality, a ballet dancer as well as a student in an arts college in L. My wooing worked.

Mary Ann and I hooked up. While I was trying to make progress in the rock-androll game, she was expressing her soul in paintings. Like me, she liked to drink to excess. She has since reformed, but when we lived together in L. Mary Ann was my first type A girlfriend: After the torching, I asked her why. You broke my heart. Glad to return to the challenges of rock and roll. I met Jannina, who had an Ecuadorian mother and Mexican father, when she was nineteen and I was twenty-two. My career was still on stall.

I was living off Wilshire Boulevard in mid-city L. The Red Devils, a group I dug, often jammed there. Sometimes you might see Jimmie Vaughan performing.

It was my kind of hipster scene. We drank, danced, and brought the party back to our place. She was short—five foot three—with a tight, beautiful body; long, deep darkbrown hair; deep-set dark-brown eyes; a Roman nose; a perfect bubble butt; a small overbite that I found alluring; and an aura of sweetness that drew me to her. At the end of the evening, I asked for her number. We had much in common: We liked the same kind of music and we were believing Catholics, both from good families, both interested in a long-lasting relationship.

Jannina had a good job selling makeup for Clinique at an upscale department store in Pasadena. Earlier in her life she had set her sights on going to the Olympics in gymnastics. A superb athlete, she came close, winning state and national championships. But at a critical point she lost on the balance beam and her dream of Olympic glory was dashed. I had to upgrade the quality of the musicians I was playing with. Cory agreed. At the same time, he agreed that we needed to recruit Robert DeLeo.

When I did, I put it to him plainly: Cory was cool about it. He sensed it was coming. He had tears in his eyes, but realized our ambition was greater than his. He felt duped. Eric Kretz, a superb musician, became our drummer. All we lacked was a killer lead guitarist.

Robert had only briefly mentioned his brother Dean. He never promoted him. He was a super-successful businessman who had married his high school girlfriend and bought a beautiful home. He was generous with his encouragement, but it took a long time to convince him to break out his guitar and jam. Once he did, though, our lives were never the same. He pushed us up to a heavenly plane. Whatever had happened to him in the past—however he had become disillusioned or disheartened—the power of the music we made together pushed him out of retirement.

And then, with one jam, he became an integral part of the band. This was the late eighties, but Dean was essential seventies, a guitar worthy of Zeppelin. Musically, physically, spiritually, he was perfect for the part. Genetically engineered to be a guitar player, he was a gangly guy with thick, unruly hair, an oversize mouth, oversize lips, thundering chops.

He was a skinny motherfucker, but he could play! Beyond what might seem like a stereotype, he was a real person whose charisma drew everyone— including me—to his side.

Jack Kerouac had his Dean Moriarty. I had my Dean DeLeo. Even during his crazy high school days, Dean maintained a sense of responsibility. From left to right: I fell for her, and then I fell for Mary Forsberg. Mary went away. Jannina stayed. Mary came back, only to go away again and then return.

All the while, filled with guilt and passion, I tormented myself, making one ill-fated decision after another. It was the dawn of the nineties. I had just turned twenty-three. I needed work and took a job as a driver for a modeling agency. Robert worked at a music store, right across the street from the agency. Words and stories started coming to me as well. On any given night, we could draw two hundred people. For an unsigned band, that was good. My job paid eight dollars an hour, not so bad for those times.

Before that, I was mainly being supported by my beautiful girlfriend Jannina. I never thought that driving models would lead to high drama. They let me off when I have a gig or have to rehearse. I like these people. The girls are beautiful. But models being interested in me? No way. They have a lot more going on than me. I was living with Dean in Highland Park, a funky part of L. It was a summer of barbecues and beer, a summer in a kicked-back Mexican neighborhood, a summer of possibilities.

That same summer we learned that Mighty Joe Young was the name of a blues singer who was still working. His management asked us to drop the handle.

Blues ethos required that we respect our fellow musician, so we began searching for another name. It was also the summer of my shrine, a makeshift holy spot lit by candles and surrounded by tchotchkes. It was a summer of waiting for the muse to bless us with songs.

In the center of the shrine I placed a can of STP oil treatment. It was there for comfort. As a kid, I had STP stickers on my bike. I loved the brand. I loved the way Richard Petty, a fantastic character, was rock-and-roll hell on wheels. He wore the STP logo. Those letters represented it all—rebelliousness, chance victory, going for broke.

I saw it as serendipitous. I loved the clarity and directness of the label. Maybe it could work for us. If it was good enough for Richard Petty—who, after all, was the Keith Richards of car racing—then hell, it was good enough for us. But what would it stand for? We worried, though, that the all-American macho males who were consuming this new brand of alt rock might not get the sarcasm. So the long process of searching for a name continued. The shrine I built to keep evil out.

I think it brought the evil in. Meanwhile, models had to be driven. One day I was told to drive a girl called Mary.

She was sixteen. She lived with a Vietnamese gay man, an agent with her agency.

Mary was stunning, a San Diego surfer girl aglow with the light of a cloudless sky. Long flowing natural golden brown hair with streaks bleached by the California sun. Her beauty was otherworldly, almost painful. She was painfully shy, said hardly a word. Our pain collided, but silently. She was fabulous and flamboyant and protective of her girls.

Her husband, David Bordeaux, had taken her name, a fact I found amusing. The modeling business moved on frenetic energy, the kind fueled by coke. It was all about free champagne and go-for-broke nightclubs. Nicole regarded me as just another would-be rocker in some unknown band.

You could find thousands of us on every block of Hollywood or in the pages of LA Weekly. Handle her with care. She wore no makeup, simple jeans, a white T-shirt. Her lips were large and sensuous, her sculpted cheekbones high, her eyes a deep, rich brown. She was no taller than five foot eight.

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When Nicole introduced her to me, I thought I caught the shadow of a smile. As I drove her to her gig, the silence held steady. I wondered if she was shy or simply had little to say.

I tried some easy conversation. She answered monosyllabically. I stopped trying. This was , and the record had started a tidal wave of things to come. The wave was glorious, but the tide brought destruction. I gladly complied.

Mary was feeling what I was feeling—at least I thought so. We started getting closer. She was just getting out of a relationship, and I was in one with Jannina.

I loved Jannina, but, having met Mary, realized that I was never in love with Jannina. I could answer with a single word—obsession. I see love, like art, as an obsession. Love burns me and confuses me. Mary had this light in her eyes; her eyes were filled with love.

She also had darkness. She kept a book of her modeling photographs that I took home and studied. I placed it in a drawer. Jannina found the book and asked me about it. I fumbled and fidgeted.

When I came to pick her up one morning, the front door to her apartment was open. Fresh from a shower, she had a towel wrapped around her body. I sat on the bed, embarrassed. It was all looks and gestures, nothing but sensuous silence. Putting on her makeup was the most sensuous moment I had ever experienced with her yet. Tenderly moving ruby red lipstick across her lips.

Powdering her cheeks. Slowly applying eyeliner. Wanting to kiss her. Wanting to hold her. Wanting to say something—and instead saying nothing. Later I learned that Mary also wanted to say something. Later she said that she too wanted to kiss me and hold me. She said she was waiting for me to make my move. But no move was made that summer. Stone Temple Pilots seemed to fit the bill. It sounded adventuresome; it sounded strange; it sounded like us.

It was a blazing summer of beer and pot parties. Our band was beginning to catch the wave of alternative energy sweeping over the music business. Our deal came as a result of three shows. The second saw us opening for the Rollins Band at the Whiskey. That was the gig where we had a few girls dress up in semibondage gear and blow bubbles. Mary was one of those girls. Our relationship, though, remained chaste. The third gig was the most important—the Shamrock, a dive in Silver Lake.

It was there the offer was made. How would you like to make a record for us? But of course we were going to make a record for Atlantic.

We were shocked into a state of manic bliss. Atlantic was the ideal label. We pinched ourselves, realizing it was a combination of blind ambition and musical talent that put us on the treadmill to big-time success.

We were ecstatic, but we were also dead serious about crafting and playing the kind of selfreflective rock that we respected. We thought we had an original voice, original stories, and an original sound.

We wanted to get to the essential elements of what we were all about—the core of our music—so we called the record Core. We had merged our musical sensibilities and forged something new. But the whole of STP turned out to be far greater than the sum of our parts; it turned out to be visceral—a little strange, sometimes lyrical, and always intense.

We loved Core. The critics hated it; the critics pulverized us; the critics loved pulverizing us. But back then, I cared. I was a serious musician looking for serious critics to take us seriously. Robert, Eric, and especially Dean, who was superserious about rock history, felt the same.

So when the writers dumped on us, it was a definite drag. I actually called Danny Goldberg, the president of Atlantic, to explain my plight and point.

I used to be the publicist for Zeppelin, and, for their first years, it was the same for them. The record started selling, and, some eight million copies later, has never stopped. Neither did the critics stop criticizing.

Some actually said that we were promoting date rape. Because the song was written in the voice of the deranged character, there were critics who presumed I was that character. The assumption is ridiculous. It was a big moment. After a few bars of the song clicked in, we saw the openmouthed, wide-eyed looks from all the shirtless macho men in the crowd.

We felt justified. Our message was getting across…AMEN! Halloween night. The tour consisted of us taking turns driving an RV while crisscrossing the country playing small clubs. Our first show was in Orange County with my Huntington Beach friends cheering me on.

On my twenty-fourth birthday, we were in the middle of nowhere, so we camped out for the night.

Robert made us tuna burgers, we got crazy drunk, and had a ball. The world was still young and fresh. We were still indestructible. Sometimes at our concerts we got concerned at the number of skinheads in the crowd. I hated that. Whatever energy we were exerting was not meant to stimulate them. But for now, we were just trying to score with the music industry. It pleased us because we were on the radio. And besides, the same thing was happening to Soundgarden and Nirvana.

If they could be confused for heavy metal, why not STP? Down in New Orleans, we found ourselves in the wrong neighborhood in the wrong hotel but were too dumb to know. We kept partying.

One night Dean drank too much and got sick all over the RV. When we got to the fancy hotel in New York, I vomited in the lobby.

Dean barely made it up to the room before he vomited all over the bathroom. It was chill and it was mellow, an acoustic statement still being played on radio stations some eighteen years later.

Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart

This is a story that seems to have a somewhat happy ending. It is a false ending, however, because my story only became more painful. The big break is here! Aerosmith wants you to open for them! We were nonstop traveling, promoting, selling records. This was our first tour outside the United States. She was now seventeen and emancipated from her parents after having left them in California.

Suddenly my discipline collapsed. I called L. I learned she had switched agencies and was working in Paris but, miracle of miracles, she happened to be in London at this very moment. My mind went crazy. This was fate. Fuck cupids!

A Memoir by Stone Temple Pilots frontman Scott Weiland: NOT DEAD & NOT FOR SALE

We were brought together by Aphrodite herself. She glowed. She kissed me on the cheek. The hotel had a private bar, small and intimate. Our chitchat was small and intimate. She explained how she had sued for her independence from her parents and was completely on her own. Mary looked sensational. In the year since I had seen her, she had traveled the world.

She had done shows in New York, Tokyo, and London. She was confident, she radiated sophisticated energy, she was irresistible. She asked me if I wanted her to walk me to my room. Our sexual connection was even more powerful than I had anticipated.

We became one. The heavens opened. At the end of the fifth day, she had to go back to work. I was in love with her, and I told her so. This was the Barbecue Mitzvah Tour. The tour was drug-heavy and sex-heavy. So we rolled into New York, where we stayed at the Royalton Hotel. There was something deadly decadent about the place.

What the Hollywood Hyatt House—the one called the Riot House—had been to an earlier rock generation, the Royalton was to ours. It was decidedly postmodern, low-key, high-energy sleek, a place where herointhin models melted into the dark walls and mirrors. Everything about the hotel made you— made me, made all of us—want to get high. 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.Its form changed slightly, but the basic structure stayed the same: Posters are plastered all over the city—on billboards and buses, in splashy newspaper ads and screaming TV commercials.

Rather than just listening to his music, I now know a little more about him as a person. Today, though, how can you compete with a computer that, with the touch of a button, gives you every answer to every question?

We both fell into drink and drugs. She was just getting out of a relationship, and I was in one with Jannina.

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