A SONG I NEED TO WRITE:
It concerns a stripper I dated after I had broken up with Jannina and was on the outs with Mary. The moment I came home, this accommodating lady fell on her knees to pleasure me. A half hour later she was throwing plates at my head. I have the title—“Flame Thrower”—but the melody remains locked up somewhere in my imagination.
WHEN MARY AND I DID GET PAST THE FIGHTS and pledged to stay together, drugs were always in the mix. After her initial fix, it wasn’t long before we were getting loaded all the time. Our atypical form of domestic bliss was interrupted when I was court-ordered to live in a sober living house. During the day, though, I’d leave the house to hang out with Mary so we could get high together.
HERE IS AN EXCERPT FROM MY JOURNAL that I wrote in that period:
As heated as the passion is between us—passion that borders on mutual obsession—we do everything together, and everything is an adventure. It’s Bonnie and Clyde, rock and roll. Hell on Wheels. We know we’re gonna crash, but we keep on going. Get a place in Hollywood. Spanish Moroccan chic. Perfect for who we think we are. We’re off on a run of speedballs—heroin and coke—of legendary proportions. Mary’s new at it, but I’ve never seen anyone escalate to such a high level in such a short period of time. Mary is my match, my equal, my heart, my soul, my love, my drug. The run takes us from coast to coast, jet-setting with her fashion friends in New York, hanging with movie stars in L.A. But what goes up has to come down—and it does. Hard. After a while, we’re the only ones who think we’re looking good and doing well. We can’t keep appointments. We go through hundreds of thousands of dollars. Our friends start questioning our every move. Some friends walk away. We start questioning ourselves. It’s alright for me to despise myself, but I can’t stand seeing Mary do that to herself.
SICK AND TIRED OF BEING SICK AND TIRED, I decided to kick once and for all. The sober living house wasn’t working, so I went to a doctor for pills. He gave me the wrong medicine. The stuff he prescribed sent me into an immediate and violent seizure. Chills, heat, sweat, shakes. I was puking and shitting my brains out. I called Mary and said, “Take me to a hospital.”
The hospital doctors tried overriding the bad pills with morphine and liquid valium. My skin was crawling, my stomach rumbling; I couldn’t stop puking, shaking, and shitting. While the doctors frantically looked for ways to keep me in one piece, Mary slipped out of my hospital room to the car, where she shot speedballs. It was one of the craziest nights of our crazy life.
Next morning, when the nurse came into my room, she saw Mary lying on top of me, both of us passed out from dope exhaustion. They put us in wheelchairs and rolled us out. A counselor, who had treated Mary and me, was standing there with her hands on her hips. She sighed and said, “Mary and Scott, what in the world am I going to do with you two?”
The hospital called the head of the sober living house, who called the judge to report my deviant behavior. I was given a court date, and I was sentenced.
Mary and I, two junkies passed out on top of each other on a hospital bed.
Romantic, isn’t it?
We may have been side by side in wheelchairs, but I was the one going to jail to get clean. Mary, at least for the time being, kept getting high. She found a friend and got fucked up.
THE JUDGE GAVE ME A YEAR, which was reduced to five and a half months. Fortunately, I avoided the downtown county jail and was put into a drug program that was run in a former Japanese internment camp in California. We slept in barracks rather than cells. We were put on work details, given no privileges to speak of, but were lucky enough to have therapy sessions. A twelve-step model, with which I was already familiar, was used. I understood the concept of admitting the unmanageability of my addiction, recognizing a higher power, and the necessity of turning my life over to that power, as opposed to my own broken-down willpower. I needed to surrender my willfulness, my ego, and my need for control. The question was: Could I?
I could get along with the other inmates. We were more afraid of the tough-ass counselors than we were of one another. The one thing we wanted to avoid was being sent to the Mainline—the general jail population. The counselors had the power to send you there in a heartbeat. They didn’t need a reason. I worked hard not to give them a reason, and I succeeded.
Mary wrote me practically every day. Hers were letters of extreme passion and longing. I answered her with equally impassioned words of love. My loving mother wrote as well. So did my stepdad and even my blood father, Kent, but no one really knew what to say. The truth was that after fucking up countless times I had landed in jail.
The salvation was music. When Christmas 1999 came rolling around, I organized a musical program. In our singing group we had blacks, skin-heads, and Latinos, but harmony ruled.
Inside jail, I felt okay. It was great being off drugs, exercising, participating in therapy, reading books, and putting together a choir. It was great being straight. My goal—as always—was to stay straight. My goal was to put the nightmare of opiates behind me. I had everything to live for. Mary and music were waiting for me.
What could go wrong?
Wedding dance to “At Last”
Mary envisioned this moment from the first day she met me.
“Celebrate the immoral youth that wasted you
Peel the skin back from all the lies that blistered you”
—FROM “REGENERATION”
OUT OF JAIL, READY TO ROCK, ready to re-promote No. 4, I joined up with STP to relaunch the record. The campaign was twofold: First, Dean and I went around the country, playing acoustic versions of the songs for select radio stations. Second, the full band went on tour, co-headlining with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I’d been a big fan of the band in their early days and was thrilled to be on a bill with them. Most of the reviewers thought that we dominated the shows. The Peppers weren’t happy about those articles, but a little friendly competition among rock bands is good for the fans. Being that close to a group as powerful as the Peppers certainly brought out our best.
I MARRIED MARY FORSBERG IN 2000 at the Little Door restaurant in Los Angeles. Some 120 people attended. Because I was divorced, a Catholic priest wouldn’t marry us, but a liberal rabbi, with deep respect for all loving theologies, officiated and suggested we write our own vows. I said that I had been in love before, but my heart was broken. I was married once before, and I thought I knew what love was about. But it was Mary who taught me the meaning of love, true love. I said that she was my soul mate, my everything.
Birth announcement for Noah
MARY WAS EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT with our son, Noah. We were at the restaurant Sushi on Sunset in L.A. Mary and I got up and went to the unisex bathroom. As we went in, some frat guys followed us. We closed the door behind us. Impatient to use the bathroom, the guys loudly banged on the door. I went out to quiet them down. “Come on,” I said, “show some respect.” They called me a fag. I told them to get fucked. They came after me. One guy head-butted me. Hearing the ruckus, Mary emerged from the bathroom and punched my attacker full in the face.
MARY GAVE BIRTH TO OUR SON, NOAH, IN 2000. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I had been clean for eighteen months, a minor miracle. The major miracle was Noah. When he made his grand entrance into the world, I was right there in the hospital room to greet him. My heart swelled. I’ve never experienced such joy. On the next Stone Temple Pilots record, Shangri-La Dee Da, I sang “A Song for Sleeping” for Noah:
Will you tell me the little things?
What does God look like?
And angels’ wings?
I don’t remember these things
So would you teach them to me?
For the moment
I’ll watch you breathe
Me and Noah
With Usher and Clive Davis
Take a bath with consecrated water from the shrine and wash away the mud of all the miles you left behind
Triplicates and wedding rings both
lethal to obtain
So batten down the credit cards, the devil’s in the den
—FROM “TRANSMISSIONS FROM A LONELY ROOM”
NEW TUNES, NEW RECORDS, new marriage, new son.
By then, Doug Grean was my steady and stupendously creative sidekick. He helped me and the other Pilots put together a suite of songs that eventually became Shangri-La Dee Da. This time, as opposed to the more commercial approach of No. 4, the four of us agreed that we wanted to break on through the other side.
When we were done, the suits wanted us to put out, as the first single, a more pop-oriented song, “Days of the Week.” Well, to satisfy our core following, we had always led off with a rock single. We wanted “Coma,” a song that said, “Tar and feather hide your feelings, if you even know the meaning, your high road is overrated, you left your guru out there hangin’.”
Well, the suits prevailed and we were left out there hangin’ with “Days of the Week.” Our fans were disappointed and our sales flagged. No matter, we hit the road again in support of this, STP’s fifth studio record in less than ten years. If you throw in my 12 Bar Blues, that makes six, a lot of music from someone with a screaming and demanding addiction.
Writing the music and lyrics for Shangri-La Dee Da was a continuation of my attempt to understand that addiction. The song “Dumb Love,” for example, tells the story:
Alcohol, it’s a lie, stimulate a needle in your eye
Let it bleed, blow your mind
Touched myself, nearly went blind
Couldn’t find a way to live through the pain …
Couldn’t get outta bed
Ten-ton bricks layin’ on my head
Persecute the crucified
Kill a man for losing his mind
Couldn’t find a way to live through the shame …
“Hello It’s Late” has a Burt Bacharach vibe and is deeply sorrowful. My marriage to Mary was young but our fights felt old. It’s a song about doubt and fear for the future. “It’s just a game we used to play,” I wrote, “and I didn’t think we’d take it all the way. It kills me just because it can’t be erased. We’re married.”
“Wonderful” has me dreaming about my death. In the next world, I envision Mary as my guide:
If I were to die this morning
Would you tell me things that you wouldn’t have?
Would you be my navigator?
Would you take me to a place where we could hide?
… I wanna ask you to forgive me
I haven’t been the best with all that I had
Wish I’d only laid beside you
I think I spread myself too thin
WHEN MARY’S DEPRESSION HIT HER HARD, she’d say that her “black clouds” had returned. During those times when we were able to comfort each other, our bond was beautiful. In that spirit, I wrote “Black Again” for Mary:
When you’re fed up and lonely
And nothing else seems to matter really
I’ll be waiting for you
I’ll be here to hold your hand
When you’re tired and lonely
Hold your breath underwater
And know you’ll rise to the surface slowly
Think of me as a ship that might hold you
Carry you to the shore when you’re tired and lonely
The most distinctively non-love song on Shangri-La Dee Da was “Too Cool Queenie,” written with Ms. Cobain in mind. Mary and I happened to run into her in New York at a time when she was feuding with members of Nirvana. In an offhand fashion, I told a fanciful version of the story of her and Kurt:
There was this girl who lived not too long ago
As a matter of fact I think she lives still
She knew she could do no wrong just singing those songs
That we all knew
She would always crash the party, it was no surprise, it was for her
Too cool Queenie
There was this boy, he played in a rock ’n’ roll band
And he wasn’t half bad at saving the world
She said he could do no right, so he took his life
His story is true
… And now this girl, she got real famous
And she made lots of money and some of his too
But still she thinks she can do no wrong just playing those songs
She’s all too cool
The sales for Shangri-La Dee Da weren’t especially cool, and neither was the tour to support the record. However, the reviews were great. This was a new era when rock fans were going Napster. The whole band was partying hard, me included, but Dean was hiding that fact and blaming all mishaps on me. Meanwhile, I came down with a lung infection and was coughing like mad. At one point, I lost my voice. Onstage, whenever my voice failed, Dean looked over at me as if to say, “Why are you fucking up again?”
I quickly had my fill of his passive aggression.
“What’s the deal?” I said, confronting him backstage.
“You sound like shit,” he retorted.
“I sound like shit because my lungs are congested. What’s the worst thing that happens to you—you get a little blister on your finger?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you!”
We were about to get physical when our sober coach—a man with a thankless task—stepped between us. There had been fights between Dean and Robert in the past—I remember them throwing chairs at each other—but Dean and I had never come to blows. This time we were inches away.
This time I also realized that I hadn’t gotten past the built-up resentment of being publicly dissed during their press conference on the Tiny tour. This time I realized that, once again, I wanted to retreat and find my own way.
Shangri-La Dee Da, a title that flippantly referenced a place that was supposedly heaven on earth, turned hellacious in a hurry. Still, I think of it as our most adventurous work.
My magnificent daughter, Lucy (or Louie!)
AFTER THE SECOND BREAKUP OF STP, I went back out on junk. Understandably, Mary was disgusted with me. Mary was clean and, not only that, Mary was pregnant with our second child. I desperately wanted to be clean and present for our daughter’s birth. I went into rehab ahead of schedule so I could get out in time. But things got screwed up and the counselors were late letting me out of treatment. Mary also gave birth ten days early. I missed the birth by thirty seconds, and I’ll regret it forever. But Lucy, beautiful Lucy, was in my arms that day, in the arms of her mother, Mary, in our arms forever.
That same year at Christmas we experienced a miracle. Compared to the dark spirits that haunted me during the reign of cocaine, this spirit of light came to our family as an absolute blessing and reminder of the power of faith.
My grammy, my mom’s mom, was sick with an infection of the brain—encephalitis. Her memory was gone. She barely recognized any of us. On Christmas Eve she was released from the nursing home and came home with us. The doctors said her chances to recover were nil.
That night we put the kids to sleep, trusting that visions of sugarplums would dance in their heads. Santa Claus did his thing, and early in the morning we gathered around the tree to open presents. Somewhere around eight a.m., Grammy came downstairs and began to call our names. She recognized every one of us—her husband, her daughter, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. She had perfect clarity, perfect recall. A nurse, whom I had hired to stay with her, said in all her professional life she had never witnessed this kind of recovery. Two days later, Grammy and Grandpa drove back home to Oceanside. Grammy was fine.
I learned that God and the angels of the Lord can turn around everything and revive life. Miracles happen. Of that I had no doubt. In some ways, my own nuclear family was a miracle.
It was 2002, and I seemed to have it all:
The woman I loved, the children I loved.
I was motivated to do everything I could to save the family, the marriage, the life I had long dreamed of.
I was determined.
I was committed.
The Cleaver Christmas family photo
Dad Dave, Scott, Mom, Michael, Grammy, and Grandpa
SLIPPING AND SLIDING, PEEPING AND HIDING.
Basically, the story was that Mary had cleaned up and I hadn’t. I was strung out and fucked up. Mary wanted out of the marriage—the agony of our divorce went on for years—but Mary still took an interest in my career. Always has. Always will. Ka-ching. Ka-ching.
She said she’d been hanging with Susan McKagan, a former swimsuit supermodel and wife of Duff, the bass player with Guns N’ Roses when the group was at its height. Susan told Mary that three guys from GNR—Duff on bass, Matt Sorum on drums, and Slash on guitar—had formed a band. Initially, Izzy Stradlin was in, but soon opted out. David Kushner from Wasted Youth took his place.
“Sounds like a lot of egos,” I said. “Sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“They put some songs on a CD that they want you to hear,” Mary said. “They think you’ll like what they’re doing.”
I didn’t. It sounded like Bad Company–styled classic rock. And I never liked Bad Company. But being a nice guy, I said, “There’s some stuff that’s okay, but just send me another disc when you have a few new songs.”
A week or so later, another CD arrived with songs custom-designed for me. The tunes had STP written all over them.
Duff called and said, “Hey, man, just drop by the studio.” I knew Duff from the gym, and I said I’d try. I still wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hook up with these guys.
“Look, Scott,” Duff said, “there’s also soundtrack stuff we’ve been asked to do. And the money’s great.”
Not Dead & Not For Sale Page 7