TO: Scott Weiland
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career advice
I get mad at you, Scott Weiland, and I don’t get mad at many people. There you are, genius songwriter, rock god, wearer of mascara, and the same hair dye my wife, Mitzi, swears by. Yet you constantly, constantly sabotage yourself. Stone Temple Pilots could have been the biggest band in the world, but you wanted to get high instead. So you break up. You clean up. You work with Daniel Lanois. You practically join Guns n’ Roses. Contraband: best hard rock record of the decade. Libertad: not so much. You get yourself fired from Velvet Revolver, you rejoin STP, you put on some really good shows. Then you put on some really bad shows, stumbling around, ranting and raving.
What’s wrong, Scott? I’m worried about you. Remember the cookout we had up in Kennebunkport back in ’94, when Mitzi took off her housecoat to show you the STP tattoo on her hindquarters? Remember the hootenanny we had that night around the bonfire, when you took the guitar and played “Interstate Love Song” for us? Remember how much you laughed when Mitzi and I played the All in the Family theme right afterward? I wish you’d think about that night next time you get the urge to secure some China White or act abominably in some other way.
Yes, I’m mad at you, Scott, but I also have some ideas that could help you redeem yourself. Want to hear them?Â Here you go:
- Rename your new solo record. “Happy” in Galoshes?Â You’re kidding me, right? This isn’t a Garanimals ad, it’s a record by a rock star. A genuine rock star. Possibly the last of your breed, man. Rename the thing. It’s not too late — no one has bought it yet. You debuted at #97 with, what, three thousand copies? Six thousand? In any event, it’s basically your mom and your fan club, so you can still change the name without too many people noticing. Only this time, name it something cool — Reanimator, or Defibrillator, or something else with “-or” on the end. Smackinator. Or just call it Scott Weiland II. But “Happy” in Galoshes? It’s almost like you don’t want a career.
- Produce the next Limp Bizkit record. Speaking of shitty titles, you couldn’t talk Fred Durst out of Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog-Flavored Water? Either way, Durst put his ball cap back on and Wes Borland apparently found a bunch of badger costumes and face paint he likes, so Limp Biz is getting back together again. Get in on it, Scott. Produce the record. Sing on it. Tour with them. It’ll be the biggest thing going in the next year, when all the late-’90s kids realize they can’t get jobs anymore and need something to remember their childhood with.
- Stop doing drugs. Jimi Hendrix did Electric Ladyland under all manner of narcotics. Jim Morrison produced Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman while stoned, drunk, or both. Dylan wrote Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde on Blonde on speed. Lou Reed did Transformer on some combination of cough syrup and bat urine. All great records. Scott, you cannot do the same thing. You don’t have it in you. Drugs make you do stupid things. Stop taking them. Please.
- Fake your death. If you really can’t stop dosing yourself for your art, you can still probably pull off a really faux demise. You’ll be lauded in the press. You’ll be missed by your bandmates. You can move somewhere with whomever is close to you and leave the rigors of rock god-dom behind. Do it healthily — don’t take a stash with you. Watch as people come up with all sorts of good things to say about you. Slash might even be moved to do it, too. Heck, people might even buy “Happy” in Galoshes.
All the best,