Free Not Dead & Not For Sale by Scott Weiland

although my contributions were mostly sounds and sprinkles in a Brian Eno–esque mode.

    Doug was an important contributor to the new STP album, which we would title No. 4 .
    All the songs were written together live. Brendan O’Brien, our brilliant longtime producer, urged us simply to put our hearts and souls on the line. What came out was, at least in my mind, a good record of generic rock. What kick-started things, though, was one single—“Sour Girl”—that turned into the biggest hit of STP’s career. The fact that we created a far-out video to accompany the song didn’t hurt. Since its release, everyone is convinced that it’s about my romance with Mary. But everyone is wrong.
    “Sour Girl” was written after the collapse of my relationship with Jannina. It’s about her. “She was a sour girl the day she met me,” I wrote. “She was a happy girl the day she left me … I was a superman, but looks are deceiving. The roller-coaster ride’s a lonely one. I pay a ransom note to stop it from steaming.”
    The ransom note, of course, was the fortune our divorce was costing me. And the happy state, which I presumed to be Jannina’s mood, was due to the fact that she had finally rid her life of a man who had never been faithful.
    “I Got You” is another song that has me musing on Jannina and how, time and again, she tried to save me from myself. I wrote, “I got you, but it’s the craving for the good life that sees me through troubled times, when the mind begins to wander to the spoon. And I got you because you’re there to bend and nurture me through these troubled times.”
    “And I don’t believe it,” says a song called “Church on Tuesday,” “is she really gone again?” It’s Jannina who is gone, Jannina whom I have pushed away, Jannina’s family who I visualize in church, praying for a man to honor their daughter in a way I never did.
    When No. 4 was finished, the logical move was to tour behind it and let our fans know STP was back and stronger than ever. The only problem, though, was that I was weaker than ever. I was still fucking with dope. I was in the midst of a firestorm romance with Mary. And, finally, I wasn’t available to support the album because, when it came time to kick off the tour, I found myself heading for jail.

    Better times

M Y PLAN WAS ALWAYS TO AVOID JAIL. Rehab was my only hope. The court said so, and I knew so.
    When I got to rehab, though, the emotional chemistry changed when a nurse slipped me a note that said, “Mary Forsberg is looking for you.”
    My heart started hammering, my pulse racing. Apparently Mary had been having drug problems of her own and wanted to join me at this recovery home. Part of me wanted her to check in. But a smarter part of me knew it was a terrible idea.
    I told the people running the rehab not to admit her. Mary found another place to recover but left after a few days. A week later, on my birthday, she sent me a card. All it said was “Happy Birthday, Baby!” That’s all it needed to say. It sent chills down my spine.
    I wanted to see her, and after moving to a sober living house I sought her out. At the time she was living at Charlize Theron’s place, which was under reconstruction. A few days later, I did what I had longed to do—move in with Mary. We were hopelessly in love.
    Hopelessly.
    A LITTLE WHILE LATER, we were living together in an apartment off the mid-city Miracle Mile in L.A. We were also doing coke together. This was before we were married and had kids. I was slipping on and off heroin when Mary and I went to a party where an old friend offered me a fix. I said yes. Mary was distressed; she begged me not to, but I couldn’t be dissuaded.
    “Well,” Mary said, “if I can’t stop you, I want to do it too. I want to know what it feels like. I want to know what you feel like when you do it.”
    “You once snorted it.”
    “But that didn’t do anything. I want to shoot it.”
    “One time only,” I said.