Scott Weiland

Let's now consider inelegant grifter Scott Weiland. This rock demigod can be relied upon to spew out hackneyed, over-emoted nonsense, to kick substance abuse and then relapse, to rack up DUIs, to boomerang nomadically from project to project, to alienate everyone who works with him to one extent or another. Weiland, then, exemplifies a persona that's quickly dying out in the music world: the addled, totally unpredictable dude-as-diva, with all the adherent rights and responsibilities that title carries with it. You never know what the guy's gonna do next. Will the Stone Temple Pilots reunion—he's their frontman, remember—remain afloat, grinding out reheated grunge hits on the touring trail? Will he and the other members of Velvet Revolver eventually kiss and make up? Will Happy, his upcoming album, be as fuzzed-out, deranged, electronic, and downright enjoyable as his 1998 solo debut, 12 Bar Blues? No way to tell—which is more than one can say about the likes of Ozzy, Axl, or Chris Cornell these days. In case you hadn't gathered as much, Weiland's foxy to us; is he foxy to you? All ages.
Sat., Jan. 31, 8 p.m., 2009

 
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