Not Dead and Not for Sale by Scott Weiland & David Ritz

Author:Scott Weiland & David Ritz [Weiland, Scott & Ritz, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography, Non-Fiction, Music, Biography & Autobiography
ISBN: 9781439199978
Google: DVBJB-qY6QMC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 10225109
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2011-05-17T00:00:00+00:00

Headlining at Madison Square Garden—Aerosmith joined us onstage

I LIKE PURPLE MORE THAN CORE. For all it strengths, Core was a little bit of a production compromise. Because we knew what we were doing in terms of song stylings and studio sounds, Purple was more honest and more autobiographical. It was also more heartfelt and heartsick.

“Vasoline,” for example, is about being stuck in the same situation over and over again. It’s about me becoming a junkie. It’s about lying to Jannina and lying to the band about my heroin addiction. “You search for things,” I wrote, “that you can’t see. Going blind, out of reach, somewhere in the Vasoline.”

“Unglued” hits the same theme. I’m hooked. “I got this thing,” I sing, “it’s coming over me. Moderation is masturbation … this confusion is my illusion … all these things I’m sick about … I kick about … always come unglued.”

“Pretty Penny” is still another drug story, a mother-daughter junkie team who are “blown away and lost the pearl and price [they] paid.”

“Interstate Love Song” was written about the phone calls I had with Jannina. She’d ask how I was doing, and I’d lie, say I was doing fine. Chances are I had just fixed before calling her. I imagined what was going through her mind when I wrote, “Waiting on a Sunday afternoon for what I read between the lines, your lies, feelin’ like a hand in rusted shame, so do you laugh or does it cry? Reply?”

And yet I sincerely missed her, sincerely felt for her. Those romantic feelings were expressed in a song for Jannina I called “Still Remains”: “Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine … take a bath, I’ll drink the water that you leave … if you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend, pick a flower, hold your breath, and drift away.”

The record also reflected my feelings about the mish-mash state of the music business. Everyone seemed to be living or dying but making real money.

When the record was finished, a music writer asked me, “Why did you call it Purple?”

“Because it sounds purple,” I said. “Besides, that’s a stupid question. Why is your rag called Spin?”

AFTER PURPLE WAS FINALLY FINISHED, I came home to Topanga Canyon emotionally distraught and incredibly needy. I needed something steady; I needed to be cared for. I took Jannina down to the beach and asked her to marry me.

She said yes and suggested that the wedding take place in her aunt and uncle’s beautiful home in San Marino, the exclusive old-money section of Pasadena where the streets are lined with mansions. The wedding was extravagant—family, friends, music moguls. I snuck off with the groomsmen to do coke in the limo. My friend Eddie Nichols, the singer for Royal Crown Revue, sang “Stormy Weather,” a good indication of what lay ahead.

Jannina and I went to the Greek isles for our honeymoon and stayed in an ancient white alcove in the side of a mountain. After a few days of drinking homemade ouzo, we flew off to Cancún and swam in the warm water.

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