DISGRACELAND - Scott Weiland: Psych Wards, Demonic Forces, and a Kidnapping in Paris

Episode Date: February 27, 2024

Scott Weiland was sent to a psych ward when he was just 16 years old. Thirteen stints at rehab within the span of three years. In and out of two huge rock bands, Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver. On and off drugs. Addictions to heroin and cocaine that put him in harm’s way, not least of which were three muggers in Paris who abducted and tried to kill him. Addictions that also caused him to hallucinate “demonic forces.” Forces that Scott Weiland fought off, physically and mentally, thanks in large part to his robust survival instinct – one that served him well but could only hold all that trouble and evil at bay for so long. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including suicide. If you’re thinking about suicide, or are worried about a friend or loved one, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠www.disgracelandpod.com⁠. This episode was originally published on February 27, 2024. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monjou, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most

famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information.

Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Scott Weilin are insane. He was sent to a psych ward at the age of 16. He went to rehab 13 times, 13 times in three years, for addictions to heroin and cocaine. Those addictions caused him to hallucinate, quote-unquote, demonic forces, forces which he claimed tried to harm him in his own house. Not unlike the real forces of evil.

three muggers in Paris who abducted him and nearly killed him. Scott Weiland, of course, did not die at the hands of French thugs, but instead by the grip of his own habit, which took his life at the age of 48, leaving behind great music. Music made as the frontman of Stone Temple Pilots and later Velvet Revolver. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show,

that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Sentimental Shuffle, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Jeannie in a bottle by Christina Aguilera. And why would I play you that specific slice of Rub Me the Right Way cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on August 13, 1999, and that was the day that Scott Weilan was sentenced to a year in prison for repeatedly violating his probation on an earlier heroin possession charge. On this episode, psych wards, rehab, Parisian muggers, demonic forces, and Scott Weilan.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. The buzz coming from the other side of the door was splitting his skull in two. Everything was shaking, the floor, his hands. Hands that were holding the door in place, even though it was shut tight and locked. He wasn't taking any chances. Not now. Not with those things out there. He watched their feet pace the gap between the bottom of the door and the hardwood.

The dog saw them too. Otis, his golden retriever, standing next to him, losing his shit, barking his head off. From the other side of the door, muffled voices talked amongst themselves. They knew he couldn't hide in the bathroom all night, and they knew he was responsible for this, for them. He brought them here, his actions. And if he was why they were here, then only he could send them away. Back to hell or wherever it was that they came from.

Only then would he survive. That's what he told himself. He clenched his eyes shut, and the buzzing sound grew louder. concentrate think of strength think of power think of the words think Scott Weiland opened his eyes he was outside the wind was brisk it carried away the sounds raging inside his head just like the memory of being locked inside his bathroom was now being carried away with his breath in the cold December air 2008 Paris the place where Scott Weiland was now alone doing some soul-searching and getting his shit together.

He was on the ropes, but he had thick skin, a tough, leathery exterior honed by years as the frontman of two popular rock and roll bands. First, Stone Temple Pilots, and then Velvet Revolver. You don't work at that heightened level of success. Sell millions of copies of albums year after year without taking your fair share of licks. For every dude who called him a rock star, someone else called him a poser. Wylan could take his licks, though, but now he was a little worse for the wear. On and off drugs, in and out of rehab. His marriage was ending.

Stone Temple pilots were already over for now. And the same drama that played out with that band was now playing out with Velvet Revolver. A drama in which Scott Weiland spiraled so far. out of control that he eventually spiraled himself right out of the group. He put his life in Paris's hands, specifically in the hands of the three dudes he'd just met on the street. They figured him for an American, in his basic denim and his North Face jacket. He wasn't sure if they knew his true identity. They simply promised a party, a great party, not that far from where they were standing. Pretty good chance to score some weed. Wylan knew what the guys in his band or his soon-to-be ex-wife would want

to say. But it's not like it was cocaine or heroin. It was just a little weed. We'd never hurt anyone. We'd never trapped him in a bathroom while some unholy force tried to break down the door. Well, you didn't want to think about that right now. Right now, it just felt nice to be wanted. So Scott Weiland accepted the invitation and got in the car. The driver tore out of the Pagal District where they originally met up. The red lights of the sex shops retreating behind them. They took a left and then a right and another left. They said it wasn't too far now, just a little more, and pupe. But that wasn't exactly true, because now they were taking an on-ramp to a freeway.

The car lurched forward into the road ahead, and the lights of Paris sizzled on the dark horizon. Scott asked how much longer him, no one answered. He was getting nervous now, but kept his cool. Eventually, the car pulled off the freeway and into a neighborhood, tract housing, nondescript. Weiland had completely lost his bearings at this point. The driver turned again and again, and now they were on a dirt road, middle of nowhere.

They were fucking with him, purposely confusing him. They'd rob him, beat him, kill him even. They didn't care. Scott Weiland, on the other hand, cared very much, not necessarily about his bands or his marriage, seeing as he'd done a pretty good job fucking those up. His motivation was a primal one. That basic human instinct to survive.

It kicked in, hard. He had to do something. He had to escape. He grabbed the hands of the door next to him in the back seat and wrenched it open. And the chilly December air hit his face, cold and unrelenting. The car was going at a fast clip. It was now or never. Don't even think about it.

Just do it. Just jump. 1995, Pasadena. Scott Weiland's body, the pavement with great force. He didn't so much feel the impact of the fall as he felt that similar gnawing sensation continued to burn deep inside. Jesus Christ, he needed a fix.

Bad. So bad, the jumping from a moving vehicle seemed like a good idea. He had no other choice. He had begged her to stop, just swing him by a payphone so he could call his guy and score. But she refused. Janina, his wife, kept driving. She was on a mission, a mission which began with her paying 10 grand to bail him out of jail, and which ended with her taking him directly home.

Do not pass the dealer. Do not collect more heroin. But that's exactly what he was thinking about. It was careless thinking, the type of thinking that got embusted earlier that evening during a deal gone bad. Now he was surely facing time for two pieces of crack and a little junk. That was a problem for future skin. Scott Weiland to figure out, though.

Current Scott Wilden, present Scott Weiland, was in withdrawal. Nothing was coming between him and more dope, not even his wife's lead foot. He picked himself up off the street, watching Janina and their car recede into the distance. He knew what would happen next. First, walk however many miles it took to find his dealer. Second, blow through what little money he had on him to cop dope. And third, stumble home high as shit, where Janina would refuse to let him back in.

And to think, things had actually been well for once. Stone Temple Pilots were just back from a tour supporting their sophomore studio album, Purple, a huge record, number one on the Billboard album chart for three weeks. Even more than a commercial success, it was vindication. It was a great comeback to all the critics who dunked on their debut. The ones who took pleasure in humiliating them, called them Low Rent Pearl Jam.

But STP wasn't grunge. STP was more glam, less punk, more pop, less sludge. Great band, the DeLeo brothers, Dean and Robert on guitar and bass, along with Eric Kretz on drums. They were a dual-engine full-throttle rock and roll machine. Vaseline, Interstate Love Song, Big Empty, Purple was all massive earworms, undeniable. Those already on board with STP knew, and those who weren't were quickly catching. on. It was big music for everyone. Unlike the album's cover artwork, which was an inside joke for a select few, a wink and a nod to those who braved the shittier parts of downtown L.A., looking for

their man. The illustration of a smiling baby riding a dragon in the clouds was the exact same illustration that graced the baggies of China White that Scott Weiland had grown partial to. In his eyes, heroin and rock and roll were linked. The Stones did it. John Lennon did it. And if it was good enough for them, then it was good enough for him. There was a direct connection between his idols, between musical creativity and shooting dope. Or so, he thought. It was a false assumption, just like the false assumption that STP were JV hacks who deserve to be shit on. In reality, heroin, cocaine, it was all just a conduit for the worst angels of his nature.

It brought demons to his door. In his mind, they were real. And they even took physical form. And they entered his house. They trapped him inside his bathroom. And they were patient because they knew, just like those three thugs in Paris knew. Three thugs now circling back for their prey.

The scrawny American junkie who bailed from their car. That guy, he couldn't hide forever. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And Rule 2, never mess with her friends either. We always say that, trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends...

Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed I will be his last target.

He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me

and they want to be an actor or whatever, and my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do. Rather be. Because-pointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb.

And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance. Like he's about to attack me. Like making karate noises. And his entire, the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleep walking. David O'Yellow-O. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy.

or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kimman broke up with Keith Urban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over?

Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things. Tena, Mongeau, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver. And more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude.

They're letting too many people in there. That's another film, great by got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites.

New episodes drop every week on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The car skidded to a stop. Scott Weilin on his ass in the middle of that Parisian road after having just bailed from the car of his would-be captors struggled to his feet. There was no time to think. Not about how this wasn't the first time he'd jump from a moving vehicle. And not about anything. There was only time for action.

One of his would-be captors was out of the car now, screaming in French and running toward him. Scott bolted, legs full stride, heart pumping. Not fast enough, though. Two hands grabbed him from behind and spun him around. Frenchie kicked out him with his feet, but Scott managed to block him. He didn't know what he was doing exactly. He was simply reacting. All instinct.

Frenchie swung his entire head forward and spatched it directly into Scott's face, some WWE shit, and Scott's mouth was wide open when it happened. and one of his teeth sank into Frenchie's forehead, it pierced the skin, blood splurded, Wylan ran his tongue across his teeth. At least one of them was gone. The two other guys were out of the car now, coming for him, and they were on him fast, knocked him to the ground, one holding a pair of pliers in his hand, snapping them open and closed, lunging for Scott's balls trying to snap his dick off with dirty metal.

Scott scraped himself across the dirt and launched an elbow, caught the dude's nose. He managed to get to his feet, hands grabbed on his arm. under his North Face jacket. He let the guy pull and wriggled right out of it. Never mind that the jacket had his wallet and his passport. He couldn't worry about those things right now. Right now, he had a getaway and he was off, running so fast that one of his shoes came off and he didn't stop. He ran harder. He leapt over bushes. He slid down an embankment. He wound up in a forest and he covered himself in leaves. 20 minutes passed, he was freezing. He didn't know where he was or what he'd do next. He just knew that he was not going to die. Not here. Not in Paris.

Not at the hands of three psycho-fuckers and not buried in dead leaves in the woods. That was most definitely not Scott Weiland's purpose. 1984, Huntington Beach, 16 years old and ready to find purpose, true purpose again. Just like wearing the robes and lighting the candles once gave him purpose during Mass. But Scott Weiland was no altar boy. at least not metaphorically speaking. His purpose involved new rituals these days. Rock and roll came easy, especially when your best friend at Edison High played guitar that well.

Scott didn't need to know guitar or any other instrument for that matter. He had confidence that was 90% of it. You could be the best singer in the world, but if you didn't know what the hell you were doing up on stage in front of a packed house, what was the point? And furthermore, what was the meaning of his high school band's name? Swadizant. It didn't matter.

The true point and the true meaning for any rock and roller was the music. Yes, but also the sex and the drugs, both of which just came as easily. But unlike rock and roll, you had to hide that other stuff. You hide it. And then like any good Catholic boy, you pray to God that they both remain hidden. Prayer didn't help. Not in this situation. Scott's stepfather branched right into Scott's room while he and his girl were in the middle of it.

Freaked the girl out. Piss Scott off. At dinner that evening, stepdad Dave still wasn't over it. Scott's defiant attitude annoyed him to no end. So stepdad Dave overturned the dinner table and lunged for his stepson. Scott escaped out the window, laid lower to friend's house for five days. They got stoned and listened to records. And Scott searched for the clash, Queen and Duran Duran for meaning while stepdad Dave searched his room for contraband.

Scott didn't know that his stepfather had found his weed and his coke until days later at school. Sitting in class when the door swung open, and two paramedics walked in with a gurney. Beeline straight to Scott, strapped him in, legs, arms, the whole damn thing, right in front of the class. The place was dead silent. Everyone just watched his Scott was wheeled through the room like a fucking lunatic flat on his back, unable to turn his head, staring up at the water leaks in the drop ceiling like there were ancient ruins in need of interpreting. Turns out stepdad Dave had called the cops after finding Scott's stash. He and Scott's mom had him committed.

Three months of lockdown in a psych ward. Three months in which he was made to feel like a criminal. Every day. At just 16 years old. And they weren't going to let him out unless he admitted it. To the hospital staff and to himself. Scott didn't believe it. Not then.

But he desperately wanted out so he told him what they so desperately wanted to hear. I am a substance abuser. As the years went on, Scott Weiland's one-time bogus admission, became truth, a self-fulfilling prophecy or something like that, which meant that he saw this kind of place with alarming frequency, rehab, detox, hospitals, even prison. It was hard to keep track or keep count, but in 1996, by his math, he'd done rehab 13 times in a three-year span. This was the year of tiny music, songs from the Vatican gift shop, Stone Temple Pilots' eclectic follow-up to purple.

and their third LP overall. Once again, the band was riding a high of critical and commercial success, with three singles Big Bang Baby, tripping on a hole in a paper heart and lady picture show topping the mainstream rock chart. But though STP was strong, Scott was a liability. Strung out one moment, high the next, hopelessly addicted, clinging to that false assumption that dope equal creativity. He was jeopardizing the whole operation.

STP wasn't a lark for the other guys. It was a job, a business, their income, and they worked too hard for it. Robert DeLeo, STP's bass player, had already played that game where he lived out of his Volkswagen Rabbit, and he wasn't going to do it again. And if Scott fucked things up,

he'd fuck it up not just for himself but for everyone else. It was now December. Just after Christmas, Robert's brother Dean, STP's guitarist, was preparing for the band's New Year's Eve show in Alaska. His phone rang. It was Scott.

Dean, Scott said. I'm fucking up. I need help. The next day, Scott checked himself into a treatment center in Pasadena, the same town where he'd been busted a year earlier for trying to score. STP show in Alaska was canceled.

As were two more shows the following weekend in Hawaii. 30,000 fans left in the lurch. 40 people on the payroll without a check in one rock and roll band looking for. her purpose. Three years later, it was the same thing all over again. Another new record, followed by another canceled tour. This time, the knives came out. STP wanted Scott to personally foot the bill for the cancellation. One million dollars of his own money. And it wasn't just his band that was leaving him. Janina, his wife, the one who bailed him out after his drug bust,

only to have him bail out of her car, she wanted a divorce. Those things weighed heavy on his mind now, as he stood in front of a judge at an L.A. County Courthouse, August, 1999, almost 10 years before Paris. Scott Weiland hoped he looked somewhat respectable, respectable like that solo record he put out the year prior, 12-bar blues, the one with cover art that paid homage not to downtown L.A. dope baggies but to John Coltrane, a respectable musical icon if there ever was one in his classic album, Blue Train. But no suit and tie combo and no callback to suit and tie jazz was going to help Scott Weil in now. The judge, like his band and his wife, told Scott that he'd run out of chances, too many probation violations following a previous conviction for heroin possession. The judge had no other

choice, so the gavel came down. One year in prison, but not just prison, a medieval dungeon, a concrete coffin, a place which took the minds of sane men and twisted them beyond recognition. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends.

I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of The Girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands.

I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the Girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark.

When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance, like he's about to attack me, like, making karate noises.

And his entire, the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleepwalking. David O'Yello. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole is. broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear,

not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu. Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app,

Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the criterion closet? Go ahead, dude.

They're letting too many people in there. Okay, that's another film grape I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites.

New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. Scott Weiland entered the notorious men's central jail in downtown L.A. as inmate number 615-8735. Deemed at risk in the general population, which was a mass of violent, hardened criminals, some of the very worst in the greater Los Angeles area, Scott was ushered into a protective custody cell. Might as well have been solitary. One room the size of a closet, one bunk, one toilet, one toilet, One wash basin and no windows.

No bars on the door. And when that door shut, there was nothing. No voices coming from other inmates or from other guards just dead silence. The white noise inside your own head building like a thousand crickets from a great distance. It was like that for hours. Four blank walls. Time at a complete standstill. Time merely an illusion.

a con that you had fallen for for years, when really there was no time, just a moment, an eternal loop that went on and on and on. And when the lights went out at night, time didn't move any faster, but gradually the noises did begin again. First, the click-clack scattering of roaches, popping out of cracks in the corners, and those ship-brown bodies crawling all over you. Then the sound of rats doing rat things, gnawing, clawing somewhere inside the walls, down in the pipes that connected to the toilet, or maybe it was all just coming from inside your own head. Reality, it was hard to tell anything on the inside. You lost sense of it all, sense of yourself. No wonder they found guys hanging from a noose, their body's stiff with rigor mortis. The urge to do the same, to succumb to the sensory deprivation, the hope to be able to. deprivation. It was overwhelming. One of the many temptations circulating in the stale air at Men's Central.

Like the temptation Scott received from a neighboring inmate, Mexican mafia affiliate, or so he claimed. Best to just take a guy at his word on the inside. And this guy got a piece of paper to Scott. They called it a kite. Ficked if he knew how it worked, but again, for a guy at risk, a guy in a protective custody, probably better not to know. This kite was a fan mutter. Ombre knew Scott's music. Ombre wanted Scott's John Hancock. In return, he'd get the mother load. China White.

Shit that would take you far away from the reality of your surroundings. Hell man, it would warp your reality. If only for a little while. A little while being better than nothing. In the end, though, that's what Scott asked for. Nothing. He gave the guy an autograph but turned. turned down the dope. He couldn't believe he was doing it. Cold turkey was hard. Not quite as hard as

overnight opiate detox or rapid detox, but then few things were that bad. At least the way he experienced it. This was on the Lower East side. Back when he was touring 12-bar blues with his band, the action girls, which was all dudes, by the way, but that doesn't matter. Point is, he was busted, trying to score, bailed out by his Atlantic Records publicist. One of those, Too many chances the judge was referring to at his sentencing. Now, back at that time, Scott was dopesick. He couldn't get a fix. He couldn't find a dealer and he needed something, someone, a doctor.

A doctor who might put him under sedation and flush all that evil shit from his system while he was out. That was the plan anyway. But this doctor that he found either underestimated Scott Weiland or didn't give Scott enough juice because Scott woke up in the middle of the whole thing. and he woke up in full withdrawal, aches, cramps, the worst pain, puking and shitting his insides out. And the nurses didn't lift the finger. They weren't breaking a sweat for him, not for a dope fiend. They told him he was going to have to sweat it out for half an hour until the dock returned.

30 minutes of pure agony. It was enough to make you feel like you were a different person on the other side. But the feeling at Men's Central was even stronger. He was someone else. he was a different person, someone with renewed purpose, that was the thing. At Men's Central, he was a man transformed even, not unlike the kid transformed by rock and roll at just 16. Five days later, he wasn't just transformed, but transferred. From Men Central to an inmate drug treatment program at Bis Kaluz Recovery Center, a former Japanese American internment camp

where routine was king. Up and out of him at 5 a.m. 10 minutes. to piss and throw on regulation threads. Then, single file, no talking, to the mess hall for the first of three disgusting meals of the day, a day which consisted of chores, group therapy, and plenty of time spent alone. Scott Weiland did this for about five months, just under half his original sentence, which is when he was released on early parole, clean, sober, and ready to put the demons behind him for good. He crawled out from the pile of dead leaves, and began to walk through the woods. Cold, shivering.

His north-faced jacket long gone. His wallet and passport, too. All of it left in the hands of three guys who would gladly ring his neck if given the chance. His bloody, ragged t-shirt that he was wearing was no match for December in Paris. Still, he pressed on. He emerged from the woods and made his way to a neighborhood,

tiny houses, Christmas lights. He chose a house at random and knocked on the door. One thing on his mind, getting out alive. The stranger who answered the door took Scott Weiland at his word. He was without money, without a passport, no direction home and all that. And Scott had the forces of good to thank for getting him back to his hotel that night. And once he was there, it was easy enough to apply for a new passport and get some more cash. But the trauma he just endured, this night, this city,

It made him desperate for more than just a passport and cash. It made him long for the thing he said he wasn't going to seek out here in Paris. The thing that, against his better judgment, he already went searching for when he accepted the ride with those three thugs. Thugs who certainly were not representing the forces of good. They were with the other forces in this world. Call it karma or an occupational hazard if your occupation is a rock star, or more to the point, a john. The very thing Scott Wilden professed to be back when he was 16, before he even knew what he was truly saying. Every time he put a needle in his vein or the pipe to his lips, every time he felt the burn

slide down his throat and waited in nervous anticipation for the hide-ahead. Every time he surrendered himself to dope, to junk, to rock, he was at their mercy, the mercy of forces of evil. Demonic forces. They conspired against him. They pulled at him like that French asshole pulled at his North Face jacket. He saw them with his own eyes. Just recently during a relapse back at his home. He locked himself in the bathroom.

Otis had his side. Pure, uncut, grade A hellspon trying to exploit his sickness, his weakness. Banging on the door. Holy shit, do not let them in. He was holding the bathroom door shut now. The deadbolt rattled. The wood vibrated against his hands. That buzzing sound rang out and split his head into. Otis was at his side, barking, clawing at the feet they both could see through the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. On the other side of the door, they had manifested themselves, and they walked, and they talked.

Nothing he could actually understand, but they made noises. They were real. A legion of evil. Evil that didn't have a name, but now had a shape, a physical form, summoned there by. his lack of control, his lack of willpower. He shut his eyes again, and the buzzing sound grew louder. Concentrate. Words spoken while you made the sign of the cross. He tried to speak, but the forces were too powerful. And they wouldn't let him.

So we thought of the words instead. Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, mother of God, of Blessed Michael, the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul. And all the saints, the door was shaking harder now. Something was trying to get through, and he resisted. Otis howled.

Keep thinking of the words, the prayer. Keep saying it in your head. And powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil. God arises, his enemies are scattered, and those who hate him flee before him. As smoke is driven away, so they are driven. as wax melts before the fire

so the wicked perish at the presence of God. More feet now, appearing at the foot of the door, more pressure, the buzzing incessant, non-stop. We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies, and sex. God the Father commands you, God the Son commands you, God, the Holy Spirit, commands you.

The noises, too. Everything was still. Everything was quiet. Even Otis. But Scott Weiland was tired. On his last nerve, perhaps. But thankfully not on his last breath. He had thick skin.

STP, velvet revolver, more stints in the white-walled rooms that he cared to remember. And all of it only made you start. stronger, as cliched as that saying was. Just as cliched as a rock star on and off dope. Toughness, though, only matters so much. It's the fatigue that gets you. And unlike those Parisian thugs, the forces of evil would circle back once again.

Deep down, he knew this. And they kept coming, because he kept using. He couldn't hide from them forever, not in a bathroom, and not in a tour bus outside of Minneapolis, which is where Scott Weiland's body was found on December 3rd, 2015, finally caught by his demons while sleeping. Cocaine, ethanol, MDA at his body,

a small quantity of coke by his side. Stripped of life, denied true purpose. Such a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan. And this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member,

thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad-free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod,

and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod. Rock a roll. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific colonel artist. They take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever,

and my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yelloo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu.

Camilla Morone. Carrie Kenny Silver and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast,

I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marcia Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed.

Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.