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In the early 1990s, Stone Temple Pilots - not U2, not Nirvana, not Pearl Jam - was the hottest band in the world. STP toppled such megabands as Aerosmith and Motley Crue on MTV and in the mainstream charts. Lead singer Scott Weiland became an iconic frontman in the tradition of Mick Jagger, David Bowie and Robert Plant. 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 series of stunning comebacks, fronting the supergroup Velvet Revolver, releasing solo work and, most recently, reuniting with Stone Temple Pilots. He still struggles with the bottle, but he has prevailed as a loving, dedicated father, as well as a business-savvy artist whose well of creativity is far from empty. Weiland's memoir explores his early years as an altar boy, along with his first experiences with sex and drugs. He discusses his complex relationships with his parents, stepfather, siblings, and the love of his life, Mary Forsberg Weiland. Readers learn the fascinating stories behind his best-known songs, and what it was like to be there at the beginning of the grunge phenomenon - as Rolling Stone proclaimed on its cover, the year that punk broke. Not Dead & Not for Sale is a hard rock memoir to be reckoned with - a passionate, insightful and at times humorous book that reads with extraordinary narrative force.
- Sales Rank: #560655 in Books
- Published on: 2011-05-17
- Released on: 2011-05-17
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: .90" h x 6.40" w x 9.00" l, 1.15 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 288 pages
Review
* A fascinating account in which Weiland recalls, with startling honesty and in surprisingly poetic prose, the story of his life. Record Collector * with startling honesty and in surprisingly poetic prose unknown
About the Author
Scott Weiland has been nominated for six Grammys, winning two along with numerous MTV, Billboard, and American Music Awards. His work with Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver has sold more than 40 million records. In May 2010, Stone Temple Pilots�released a highly-anticipated self-titled album, immediately the #1 rock album in the country.
David Ritz is the only four-time winner of the Gleason Music Book Award. He has collaborated with Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, B.B. King, Aretha Franklin, Etta James, Smokey Robinson, and Don Rickles. He also cowrote, with Gaye,�the song “Sexual Healing.”
Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PRELUDE
EVERY TIME I TRY TO CATCH UP TO MY LIFE, something stops me. Different people making claims on my life. Old friends telling me new friends aren’t true friends. All friends trying to convince me that I can’t survive without them.
Then there are the pay-for-hire get-off-drugs professionals with their own methods and madness. They help, they hurt, they welcome me into their institutions … and, well, their madness.
Welcome to my life.
Two years ago, my life was self-restricted to a sober living house, meaning that I walked through the doors of my own free will. 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.
“Am I pretty?” she asked me.
“You are beautiful,” I told her.
“Everyone says I smell because I haven’t showered.”
“Everyone can get fucked,” I told her. “When you’re depressed, you’re not exactly in the mood for a shower.”
She told me a story of grief and confusion. I listened. When she was through, we hugged good night. She kissed me sweetly. She wanted more.
“We can’t do this,” I said. “It’s not right. 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.”
“What’s intimate?” I asked.
“Sex.”
“No!”
“She obviously has a crush on you.”
“Okay. 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?
I write a poem, “The Little Villa and Painted Egg.”
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, barbiturates—they ease the easy side
Of all you fucked-up managerial types
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
That’s how you found twenty-one out of fifty-seven
THAT WAS LAST MONTH. This week I’m 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 don’t know, but I think I’ve done pretty well for myself, even during my long-lasting, narcotic misadventures—all without the protective bubble of paranoid employees, partners, and helpers—er, 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 don’t see it as suicidal. In any event, I’m not drinking today. Today I’m inviting you into the middle of my life and the middle of my head. My heart feels a bit closed off because I’m realizing that there are few people, if any, that I fully trust. That’s 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 suffice—loss.
I’m searching for explanations.
Someone recently gave me a T-shirt that said, I’M IN LIKE SEVEN BANDS.
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.
AMONG MY GREAT LOVES is that category of substances called heroin. 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,
Call’d 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 DEATH THE MUSE? Is rock and roll the nightingale? Are opiates the key to unlocking the magical kingdom where colorful flowers fade to black? Why should anyone—especially a kid or a man who suspects that he or she may have talent—be drawn to such a kingdom?
I don’t know. 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 all—maybe it’s 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 couldn’t find myself. I didn’t 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.”
� 2011 Scott Weiland
Most helpful customer reviews
130 of 144 people found the following review helpful.
the worst Rock n' Roll Autobio I've ever read
By STP fan
I am a huge STP fan, and have been looking forward to this books release since Mr. Weiland first began speaking of it 5-10 years ago. Given that much time to write the book and working with a talented co-author in David Ritz I felt like this was going to be a great read, from the point of view of a man that has lead one hell of a crazy life. instead all we are given is an extended recount of every article that is written about scott. There is almost no incite into the inner-workings of any of Scott's bands, or even expanded interpretations of well known story's of his life.
The book will take most people 1.5-3 hours to read, and approx. 10% of that is lyrics from songs he's written. It's 238 pages but reads like a 100 page book due to the "art", blank pages, and huge page breaks. so How do you cram great incite into the life of someone who's sold 40 Million records, been in rehab countless times, and been a permanent fixture in rock news for 20 years in 100 pages? You don't. Weiland's ex-wife Mary Forsberg's book released last year was much better written, much more informative, and much more interesting then Scott's book. Almost everything printed in this book was covered with more clarity in Mary's book.
If you really want to know about the history of STP, or Velvet revolver or Scott's solo work, there is much more information on-line then is offered in this book. It's incredible how little he delves into this actually. I haven't gone and actually counted but I'm sure the name Eric Kretz (STP drummer) only appears in the book 3 times. surely in 20 years of STP's history, Scott and Eric had SOME sort of note-worthy interaction. It almost seems that he purposely left all the interesting details of his life out. As if he started off with the intentions of baring his soul on paper like Anthony Kiedis did in his autobio, but quickly decided that he'd rather not have any information that wasn't already public knowledge released.
I have no doubt that the Story of Scott Weiland would be a compelling read, unfortunatly it appears that Scott figured out AFTER signing his book deal that he wasn't ready to let the world in on his private life.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Why NDANFS is this Generation's NOHGOA
By Michael P. Naughton
No lack of substance here (literally). True, some readers, reviewers and fans might be disappointed by the terse, tenuous and to-the-point chapters of Scott Weiland's autobiography. However, I found his memoir insightful and edifying. I think he was wise to say just enough and the rest can be gleaned from his lyrics and his vast contribution to music, which is most important.
This bio is fast paced, like the author's tempestuous lifestyle, and supports the fact that some of our most gifted artists are often our most troubled (see also my review on Andy Warhol Was a Hoarder). It is sometimes a mixed-blessing, curse or nature of the beast. Like the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once said: "If my devils are to leave me, I am afraid my angels will take flight as well.”
Akin to Jim Morrison's biography "No One Here Gets Out Alive" (NOHGOA), "Not Dead And Not For Sale" (NDANFS) follows a similar trajectory and classic Three Act Tragedy as we watch The Bow Drawn, The Arrow Flies, The Arrow Falls.
Scott Wieland was a self-professed chameleon. He was immensely talented, intelligent, instinctive and most of all deeply sensitive. You can see his influence and "stamp" in all projects ranging from STP, Velvet Revolver and The Wildabouts. He was also a colossal loss, and his lifestyle serves as a cautionary tale.
In the final analysis Rock and Roll, at its best, is a circus show of a business, as dangerous as it entertaining. Scott Wieland took it to the brink as he once wrote in "You Got No Right:"
"I've took it farther on the outside
I've took it nearly to the brink
And if you've seen me on the outside
You would have barely seen me breathe..."
Addiction is one hell of a demon to slay, and it took a lot of guts to share personal issues of abuse and personal struggles and his bipolar disorder. It is a constant source of frustration, disappointment and devastation to those close to the addict, especially true friends and band mates. He got up close and personal with the hard stuff. Jim Morrison, as it was often reported, steered clear of heroin and that substance might have eventually killed him in Paris, albeit accidental or speculative.
Unlike NOHGOA, there is no mystery with Scott Weiland's death and how the Arrow Falls, the hero and author of this tragedy dies on a December 3, 2015, to the world's shock and sadness. He outlived Mr. MoJo Risin' by 21 years (July 3, 1971).
Unfortunately, the dragon or demon known as addiction won in the end with Scott Weiland. He leaves us with great insight and three decades of music to enjoy, resonating and/or relating without having to experience the pain ourselves.
As Jim Morrison once wrote: "There Will Never Be Another One Like You..."
That applies to both Morrison and Weiland.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
BUY THIS NOW!!!
By Ann Harenda
“Not Dead and Not For Sale” was amazing! I literally could not put it down. I’m a huge Scott Weiland / STP / Velvet Revolver fan so when I saw this, I really had to get it. Admittedly, I bought it after he died.
Anyways, Scott did a great job of bringing me in to his life. I already knew quite a bit about Scott’s life and his tumultuous relationship with his wife, Mary.
What I wasn’t expecting was to actually feel BAD for Scott. I gained a better understanding of why Scott (and Mary) was the way he was.
It was a tragically phenomenal book.
A total inside-look at the “reality” of rock ‘n roll … coupled with the horrid life a person with mental illness suffers.
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