The band remained alt-rock pariahs, albeit chart-topping ones. As a result, STP sought to assert their previously absent alternative rock bona fides. Eventually, Weiland even ditched the grunge-rock vocal stylings that propelled the band to the top in favor of a grating nasally whine, a sound that surely contributed to the band's demise. Itchy Wigs, a groovy interracial fusion band which sounds something like the Crusaders circa , has finished its set, and is taking its pay in beer. And when he told me how he got the thing, I was tweaked.
While the cause of death of Scott Weiland is uncertain, his legacy and the legacy of his band is unmistakable. And so in , rock journalists and diehard grunge fans knew exactly who Scott Weiland and STP were, and they hated them for it. Gazing out from the stage into the empty club, he snakes out an arm and grabs the closest mic stand, enjoying the feeling of the cool metal against his palm, enjoying its heft. Inside the Nick, Weiland is a happy man. Eventually, Weiland even ditched the grunge-rock vocal stylings that propelled the band to the top in favor of a grating nasally whine, a sound that surely contributed to the band's demise. The roadies have gone on to the topless bars, Patrick to his hotel room. More importantly to the story of STP and Scott Weiland, it was on that tour, thanks to the members of the Butthole Surfers, he picked up a heroin habit which might have contributed to his early demise today. Still Core was a solid LP and it hit me right in my alternative rock-loving heart. Right off the bat, we were hooked. As a result, STP sought to assert their previously absent alternative rock bona fides. San Diego was away from, as Weiland says, the tag-team wrestling for a record deal, the minimum-wage jobs on Melrose, and the pay-to-play shows on the Strip. Thanks to endless airings, their look is etched into the consciousness of every fledging Beavis and Butthead across the country. The year was , the peak of grunge, and Weiland and the rest of STP had just broken into the mainstream, scoring hit singles with "Plush," "Creep," and "Sex Type Thing. Up on the Orlando stage, singer Weiland, cherry-red crew cut gleaming in the spotlight, wheels around between choruses, arms akimbo like a hardcore kid in a slam pit. The grunge blueprint itself was really no more than the combination of Led Zeppelin's blues rock with the sludge of Black Sabbath, but with the anti-sellout edge of the '80s hardcore punk scene. Weiland rejoined the band that made him famous for a time before getting kicked out or leaving, depending on who you ask, most likely during yet another period of relapse. Much of Velvet Revolver's consistent meh-ness was likely the product of the fact that when he partnered with Slash and Co. He lunges forward into the crouched position of all lead singers everywhere, straightens with explosive force, and spins around as if he were performing again in front of 20, sweaty, straining dues. As stations were prone to do back then, Rock played STP's debut in its entirety. I remember the first time I heard Core. But for those that remember, they will always be phonies. As good as their debut disc Core is — and it's a solid slab of muscular pop — there was no question that Weiland and his cohorts had committed the most egregious sin in rock 'n' roll: Weiland may not be performing at the Nick tomorrow night, but he can always wonder. However, even then we could hear the clear nods to already established grunge acts. The music takes over the whole experiences. It is no minor industry in Los Angeles, pretending to nurture bands toward record contracts, and there are dozens of pay-to-play nightclubs, hundreds of middlemen, scores of magazines, schools, and self-help groups dedicated to separating the aspiring musician from his dough. But it seems like the people around me have changed.
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