Redemption for Stone Temple Pilots at Jones Beach

My boyfriend Jonathan has a habit that I used to find bizarrely endearing: Say we get pizza (a very serious matter in his Italian family), and it's not very good. The very next day (or maybe even later in the same day), he has to get good pizza to right that wrong and bring balance to the universe once again. It becomes his mission, maybe even his obsession, until corrected. At first, I didn't understand. Who would want to eat the same thing two days in a row? But when I saw Stone Temple Pilots, May 31st, PNC Bank Arts Center in New Jersey, it left a bad taste in my mouth.

And I needed it to be sweet again- not just because Scott Weiland was so loaded that he forgot a good portion of the words; not because I drove all that way and spent money; not because, due to his tardiness (and the state's late-night construction-work) we got home 4 hours later than we should have; but because STP is one of the very few constants in my life. I have loved them ever since I was young. Friends of my past, places I once dwelt, images of my past self: they have all come and gone. But Stone Temple Pilots are still one of my favorite bands.

I'll never forget how badly I wanted to see them when I heard they were coming to Ithaca, just in time for my 16th birthday. It was just after Shangri-La Dee Da had been released. I asked my dad if we could go, and he said "maybe" (the kind of maybe that meant 'probably not'). He looked for tickets for me, and said they were sold out. I was devastated for days. That is, until I came down for dinner one day, and noticed paper stuffed in one of the chocolate easter bunny boxes on the table. I further investigated, saw the words "Stone Temple Pilots," and let out a sonic yelp. My dad chuckled and mumbled something about hoping I wouldn't notice so soon. For my birthday, I saw what I still consider the best concert of my life- my first concert. We stood in a university gymnasium, and I was definitely one of the youngest there. Certainly the shortest. Though tall, bobbing figures blocked my sight and felt like pulsing walls all around me, we found a niche next to the mosh pit where I could kind-of see. Now I know why older girls wear high heels, I thought. I spent those hours in what felt like Shangri-La for an angst-ridden 16-year-old.

Fast forward to 2008. I am 22, fresh out of college, and still hoping to find Shangri-La. A little over a week after my graduation, I got to see STP again. I was excited to show them off to the man I love, who likes them too but had never seen them live. I was ready to be 16 again. Some say Scott Weiland showed up almost 2 hours late. I say he didn't show up at all. In that 2-hour wait, the crowd around us began booing him, chanting obscenities, throwing water bottles, brawling and lighting things on fire to pass the time. Jon and I were noting our exits and strategizing in case things got ugly.

The man who had the commanded the crowd so magnetically all those years ago was replaced by a man who stumbled on his words just as badly as he did on his feet. One of his most noticeable missteps was when he sang the lyrics of "Down" as "What's the message will you show me? What's the message will you show me?" His demons clearly were not behind him. Due to drugs, he was a mere shell of himself- both physically and mentally. It pained part of me to watch.

Leaving that night, I felt great loss: the loss of a memory, a hero. I found out they were coming to Jones Beach on August 6th shortly after I had purchased the tickets for PNC. I wasn't sure if I would want to see them again. I wasn't sure if he would even show up.

But Monday, as the day was approaching, I knew I needed to right the wrong, or at least try. After all, I couldn't control him. Despite my better judgment, I got us tickets.

If you listened to K-Rock 92.3 (who presented the show, as they did the Jersey one, but didn't promote it nearly as much, perhaps because of the last one) at all today, you may have heard the response to last night's show: "amazing," "it f***in' rocked," "He wasn't late this time," "it wasn't the same band." But it was the same band and same Scott Weiland that I remembered, though a little more drug-ravaged. His voice isn't quite the same, but not terrible by any means. So his drug-induced philosophical ramblings last a little longer these days. It still certainly was not life he was high on, but at least it was at a functional degree. He didn't forget the words. He showed up on time. I forgave him for Jersey.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club opened, and I overdosed on the 45 minutes of fuzzy guitar feedback. Then the roadies cleared the stage and set up the STP gear. In the back of my mind I thought, why are they teasing us? They probably already know he's not coming back from Shangri La anytime soon. But then the lights went down, the crowd roared, and he came back to take us with him.




Last night's set-list: Big Empty; Wicked Garden; Big Bang Baby; Silvergun Superman; Vasoline; Lounge Fly; Lady Picture Show; Sour Girl; Creep; Crackerman; Plush; Interstate Love Song; Too Cool Queenie; Coma; Down; Sex Type Thing; Dead And Bloated; Trippin' On A Hole In A Paper Heart.

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22K76UMoH8M