The instant New York Times bestseller: the lead singer of the Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver delivers an exhilarating memoir of scaling the pinnacle of rock stardom, plunging into the chasm of addiction and incarceration, and then clawing his way back to the top again and again. In the early 1990s, Stone Temple Pilots—not U2, not Nirvana, not Pearl Jam—was the hottest band in the world. STP toppled such megabands as Aerosmith and Guns N’ Roses on MTV and the Billboard charts. Lead singer Scott Weiland became an iconic front man in the tradition of Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and Robert Plant. Then, when STP imploded, it was Weiland who emerged as the emblem of rock star excess, with his well-publicized drug busts and trips to rehab. Weiland has since made a series of stunning comebacks, fronting the supergroup Velvet Revolver, releasing solo work, and reuniting with Stone Temple Pilots. He has prevailed as a loving, dedicated father, as well as a business-savvy artist whose well of creativity is far from empty. Not Dead & Not for Sale is a hard rock memoir to be reckoned with—a passionate, insightful, and at times humorous book that reads with extraordinary narrative force. "Fascinating . . . Weiland's story isn't over, but the four decades' worth of material he crams into "Not Dead & Not for Sale" makes for a compelling and worthwhile read." --"Associated Press" Scott Weiland has been nominated for six Grammys, winning two along with numerous MTV, Billboard, and American Music Awards. His work with Stone Temple Pilots has sold more than 18 million records, and his first Velvet Revolver was the bestselling rock album of 2004. David Ritz is the only four-time winner of the Gleason Music Book Award. He has collaborated with Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, Etta James, and Don Rickles. He also cowrote, with Gaye, the song “Sexual Healing.” PRELUDE E VERY TIME I TRY TO CATCH UP TO MY LIFE, something stops me. Different people making claims on my life. Old friends telling me new friends aren’t true friends. All friends trying to convince me that I can’t survive without them. Then there are the pay-for-hire get-off-drugs professionals with their own methods and madness. They help, they hurt, they welcome me into their institutions … and, well, their madness. Welcome to my life. Two years ago, my life was self-restricted to a sober living house, meaning that I walked through the doors of my own free will. Within hours, I watched the game of communal free will get stepped on, laughed at, and batted around like a Ping-Pong ball. One of my fellow patients was a rocker chick just turned twenty-one. She had a problem with depression. We met in the lounge and talked the night away, smoking cigarettes, exchanging words of comfort. “Am I pretty?” she asked me. “You are beautiful,” I told her. “Everyone says I smell because I haven’t showered.” “Everyone can get fucked,” I told her. “When you’re depressed, you’re not exactly in the mood for a shower.” She told me a story of grief and confusion. I listened. When she was through, we hugged good night. She kissed me sweetly. She wanted more. “We can’t do this,” I said. “It’s not right. Not now, not here.” A day later, I was approached by one of the counselors whom I considered a first-class shit talker. “Rumor has it that the two of you were intimate.” “What’s intimate?” I asked. “Sex.” “No!” “She obviously has a crush on you.” “Okay. What of it?” “I heard you two had sex in the Jacuzzi.” “No Jacuzzi,” I said. “No sex. Besides, who has sex in a Jacuzzi?” “I want to know what happened,” she insisted. “We were flirtatious. That was inappropriate. So we stopped.” This young woman was confronted at our next group session. Sixteen hours later, she sliced her leg down past the fatty tissue. She was a cutter. They took her out of the villa and put her in a psych ward. What can I do about it? I write a poem, “The Little Villa and Painted Egg.” Minds squall, alcohol, heroin The man, the boy, the girl The little villa where you live You need to fill that pain inside Xanex, Valium, barbiturates—they ease the easy side Of all you fucked-up managerial types You love to rule by what you say Not by what you find Beautiful garden, Easter eggs, those that you never really had You stole our experiences and stole our baskets That’s how you found twenty-one out of fifty-seven THAT WAS LAST MONTH. This week I’m home dealing with those who “manage” my business life, those who, for their own purposes, direct my moves. They are my partners, assistants, and drug coaches (whom we call “minders”). There is no peace, not for an hour, not for thirty seconds. Someone is always showing up with calculated suggestions and implied instructions. I don’t know, but I think I’ve done pretty well for myself, even during my long-lasting, narcotic misadventures—all without the protective bubble of paranoid employees