STP at Jones Beach
Wednesday, August 7th, at the Nikon Theater at Jones Beach, four friends meandered through the crowds, which were buzzing with the anticipation of seeing The Stone Temple Pilots. Rumors of the the disastrous PNC Bank Arts Center performance loomed over the Tri-State Area. Many of the members of the crowd were in attendance at the PNC show where Weiland made them wait for hours before coming out. When he did finally grace them with his presence on stage, he struggled to make it through his own songs. Earlier in the week, Scott had crashed into his band mates' drum set, at which point they needed to pick him up and place him back at his mic. At Nikon, no one knew which Scott Weiland they would be seeing.
Earlier that evening, those concert-going comrades discussed the "good ole' days" of seeing big name acts such as Bush, No Doubt and The Foo Fighters playing in smaller venues. They yearned for good music; awe-inspiring performances that were ticket-worthy and made you feel liberated, inebriated with bliss, existential, and, above all else, satisfied.
From the moment the band took the stage the crowd knew they lucked out and they were in for the Rock show they hoped for... That night was the first time in a long while that they were able to see the type of show where memories are born.
The set list included all of the classics--Interstate, Plush, Cracker Man, Creep and Sex Type thing just to name a few. Weiland's banter in between songs was, at last, coherent and witty. He was sober enough. They put on an amazing show, for which is all that anyone could ask. The good behavior could be credited to the fact that it was bass player Robert DeLeo's son, Duke's 3rd birthday. For whom the crowd more than willing sang.
One of the highlights of the show was when the band broke into their own version of Redemption Song by Bob Marley. It seemed fitting and intimate, like an apology to the masses.
By the end of the night, the crowd was pregnant with appreciation for the old school Stone Temple Pilots. They were greatly missed. The crowd lumbered out of the stadium high on life (some high on other substances) and stuffed with the musical nourishment they had missing. Those four friends made their way back to the car with smiling, fuzzy with that satisfaction that they had been denied one concert past. This was the stuff that dreams are made of; stuff that left them feeling hopeful of a music industry still loyal to the interests of real music lovers. --Chris
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