Stone Temple Pilots fans are a lot of things: faithful, patient, forgiving.
What they are not: diverse. The 5,000 faces at the MTS Centre last night filled a narrow demographic -- mostly male, mostly within a few years of 30. For our generation, the Stone Temple Pilots meant endless repeats of Plush on big black Discmans, a pilfered mickey of rye and a boom box in the bush.
Man, that band was awesome.
Then Scott Weiland fell to pieces, and kept falling. Haunted by drugs and drama and DUIs, he wouldn't write an album sober for over 15 years. And so the STP story ended with a whimper, a record nobody listened to, and a 2003 greatest-hits package,
Thank You.
Then came spring 2008. Mere days after Slash and Duff booted Weiland, 42, from Velvet Revolver for "erratic behaviour" (having presumably had their fill of, ahem, challenging mic jockeys), the singer's STP cohorts gave him his dusty old job back.
Now, a year and change into the reunion, with a new album on the way, Winnipeg got to see if the STP resurrection truly lives.
A decade has passed since we last saw Weiland, drummer Eric Kretz and the DeLeo brothers (Robert on bass, Dave on guitar). Not that you'd know that from looking at the set list. With three exceptions -- including '99's seductive
Down, a highlight -- it was like everything after
Purple ('94) never happened.
Instead, shortly before 8:30 p.m., the quartet made a subdued march onto stage and banged out oldies
Silvergun Superman,
Wicked Garden,
Vasoline, and
Big Empty in quick succession. The sound was tight, the performances eerily pitch-perfect. We might have been listening to our big black Discmans again.
But something wasn't quite there -- and it stood tensed in the middle of the stage. Slick and skinny in a white vest and blazer, Weiland looked feline, taut for a pounce that never actually came. His ripped-raw voice sounded like gold, but his body rooted like lead, and the DeLeos flanking him were hardly more energetic.
This wooden delivery could explain why the crowd was awfully quiet for the first hour. Occasionally, a robust "STP" chant rose from the floor, which Weiland coaxed. But between less-zeitgeisty tunes like
Army Ants and
Sour Girl, you could hear sneakers shuffle. There was head-bobbing where a thrashing floor pit should have been.
So, while they're definitely not half the band they used to be, they might be about three-quarters. Still, STP did finally get the amps to 11 almost an hour into the set, when the bombastic
Crackerman and its accompanying video,
Road Warrior, blew up the party big.
The Pilots then hit cruising speed with meaty performances of
Plush and
Interstate Love Song before skidding to an encore close with
Trippin' On A Hole In A Paper Heart, the only real glimpse into '96's
Tiny Music: Songs From The Vatican Gift Shop.
Too bad about that part: All this show needed to be great was a big bang, baby.
