on The Last Great American Rock Band
August 20, 2010
9:15pm
Charter One Pavilion, Chicago
The crowd is a rousing mix of laughter and anticipation. There’s a group of people on our left; old enough that I’m certain must have, at some point, by dare, decision, or pressure, taken some hallucinogenic before homeroom back in the ’70’s. Some of them pass around a flask while the rest huddle amongst themselves to protect the lighter, ensuring the joint is sparked without issue. A distant chant of, “STP! STP! STP!” soon rips through the crowd like a wildfire until the entire venue screams in unison. Stagehands break down old equipment, move in new guitars and test drums and mics. The distorted, chaotic opening act Cage the Elephant have stopped playing and retreated to the back, maybe even a bit earlier than planned, making me believe they are probably decent men on some level. While I commend them for their efforts, I came to see the greatest band of all-time: Stone Temple Pilots.
It is approximately 9:15pm when the overhead lights dim and the stage goes completely dark. There are cheers and clamors, all intended to exclaim a sort of thank you to this band who, in a world where we are owed nothing, came to give us a fucking show.
The band comes out, each member heading to their respective instrument. Though only for a few seconds, I can’t help but think about my dad. He would have loved to be at this show. I would have loved to be here with him. After my parents split, I would see him on weekends. We’d drive up and down Lake Shore Drive with the windows down, blasting Q101 (the last great rock station of Chicago; when the station went off the air, a part of me died with it). Thankfully, since most music in the mid-to-late 90’s sucked, Q101 played tons of STP. My pops and I were fans. The hooks, Weiland’s melodies, the solos, all of it. The drummer motions that he’s ready.
1, 2, 3 and JEEEE-ZUS! Weiland’s waiving his megaphone as the LED wall begins streaming psychedelic effigies in the distance. The stage lights are up full blast as the band blasts through the setlist. Once a blur in black latex jumpsuits and fur coats, Weiland prefers to sport ties, suits, and sweaters these days. It is a surprisingly chilly night in May. The wind picks up as the group next to me spark up another joint. I pull out my flask, pour out a spritz for Pops, and rip a swig of Jameson. Weiland seems to be everywhere, all over the stage, all at once. Dude can still contort his body into a series of major-league fastball windups, one position after another, while still holding the melody. Halfway into Vasoline, I begin to understand that every band I have ever believed to be blowing my mind when I was a teenager was simply a scrawny, half-assed messenger delivering a wadded note from Stone Temple Pilots, from whatever booze-fueled, charcuterie board of drugs-themed orgy they might have been that night.
This is not my first time hearing the band live. They played here in 2008 after having reunited earlier that year. I was a confused 18 year-old then, in the middle of trying to win an ex back, with two options: spend the last of my money on tickets to this concert or save my money for a hopeless date night with said ex. I decided to save my money, settling for getting as close I possibly could to the outdoor venue and listening to the band from the lake with my buddy Joey.
I think about this until the beginning chords of Plush ring out. I sing along, but the temperature is steadily dropping so I drink more Jameson. Said ex is texting me, asking how the concert is. We have broken up again, but this time I am not a confused 18 year-old. I am more sure of myself at this time than I have been at any other point in life. Could have been the Jameson. Could have been the secondhand inhalation of smuggled herb rolled into a RAW paper. I’m not sure, but I do know that this experience is nearing religious territory. I am almost paralyzed by this band. Damn-near in tears, similar to what a housewife at a Tom Jones concert in Vegas must look like. I apologize inside to myself for every solitary moment of this life I have ever wasted feeling sorry for myself.
At 21 years old, the two people I wanted to share this with most cannot be here. By choice, kismet, or karma, this experience is meant for a different group: my knucklehead friends who have supported me at my worst and brought me to my best. I understand how lucky I am. One more pour for Pops, one more sip for each of us. The whiskey is smooth.
After the band sing the last lyrics and hit those final, precious chords, they gather at center-stage and bow. They reach out and shake hands, thanking us for coming out. The lights go out and a digital facsimile of music plays from a CD through the house speakers. My friends and I make our way past crowds, through gates, and hop into a taxi. I can still feel the static from the guitar rattling around inside my head. Any possible excuse I have ever considered for future use has been stripped away by what just happened. Like I’m going out into the world to try again, apologizing to myself and God for any amount of blood coursing through my veins that I ever took for granted.
The taxi stops at a red light directly outside of my office. I sit there at the base of the building looking up and thinking: I go in here every day and sit in one tiny square of that glass grid and keep my head down. I count the stories up, trying to figure out which square in the grid is mine. Because of the way the building is flanked by two shorter buildings, one could argue that it looks like an extended middle finger, and therefore spending all day there could essentially pass for a rebellious gesture. Like, me showing up on time and looking at my computer all day is, in its own quirky way, flipping the bird to “The Man.”
We arrive at our destination, right off of Armitage and Sheffield, and enter the building through the side gate. I allow everyone to enter before me and walk down the pavement towards an auspicious glow, hands in my pockets, Weiland forever screaming in my head.
Setlist
Crackerman
Wicked Garden
Vasoline
Heaven and Hot Rods
Between the Lines
Hickory Dichotomy
Still Remains
Cinnamon
Big Empty
Dancing Days (Led Zeppelin cover)
Pretty Penny
Silvergun Superman
Plush
Interstate Love Song
Huckleberry Crumble
Down
Sex Type Thing
Dead & Bloated
Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart