The show started off quite well, actually. Creed had local favorite Local H open for them. Their music is fun, and when you see them live, they have a great energy level. They ultimately proved to be the absolute highlight of the evening because, you know, they’re professionals who actually show up and work for their money.
Local H finished up their all-too-short set. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. The lights were dimmed. People cheered. And still, we waited. The drunken assholes in the row behind us began getting belligerent and sexually harassing the pretty teenagers next to us. And still we waited. Then the police came to remove the drunken assholes. And then we waited some more.
I later learned through my family insider that the reason for the long wait was due to indecision as to whether the show was going to continue (which we were to soon discover was due to Scott’s “condition”). In fact, the police feared a riot would ensue if the show were canceled.
After more than an hour of waiting, FINALLY the band came out, sans Scott. They played some instrumentals for awhile. Morons on the floor bounced around happily until it suddenly dawned on them “Where the fuck is Scott???” Soon enough, there he was, in all his greasy douchebag glory, wearing leather pants, a button-down shirt with a wife beater beneath, and some heavy-looking boots.
Scott staggered around the stage for awhile with the audience morons cheering hysterically. He even attempted to sing, which largely amounted to him standing at the edge of the stage swaying with the microphone held out so the audience could do the singing for him. And for the most part, they did, at first not realizing he was too drunk/stoned/incoherent to remember the lyrics. At some points, he hung onto guitarist Mark Tremonti, nearly pulling him over. Though I gotta give props to Mark, who despite his bandmate’s poor form, didn’t miss a beat.
And then Scott left the stage, probably for about 5 minutes, but the band played on. Mark even sang in Scott’s stead. Scott returned, minus his shirt, staggered around some more, attempted to sing some more, and he was off again! His absence lasted much longer thing time, probably closer to 15 minutes this time. When he returned minus his boots (his socks had holes in them, btw), he repeated his staggering and his sad attempts at singing.
Soon he was off again! After another long break, Scott returned, this time minus the wife beater. He resumed the staggering yet again, wearing nothing more than his leather pants and holey (not holy) socks. When they busted out “Who’s Got My Back?” Scott could barely put two words together at this point. After nearly pulling Mark to the floor for the umpteenth time, Scott fell over, finishing the song splayed out on the floor, rolling around like a dog looking for a belly rub.
According to an interview Geoff Boucher of the LA Times conducted with Scott in November 2005:
Stapp's account of the night is that increasing tension within the band inspired him to turn and call out his mates while performing the aptly titled "Who's Got My Back." Seeing something in their eyes that was less than supportive, StappUm, yeah.
says, he plopped down on stage on his back and sang to the rafters.
After lying down on the job, he proceeded to get up and crawl off the stage. Again. This time, however, audience members no longer cheered. In fact, the once loyal masses turned on the band, booing loudly, throwing shit on stage at the remaining band members. Mark Tremonti finally stopped the band’s musical interlude and said something to the effect of “Scott’s obviously not feeling well tonight. We thank you for your patience. Let me go talk to him and see if we can finish this show.”
Really, I felt for poor Mark. He showed up ready to work. The rest of the band members were equally ready. And yet they were getting booed and pelted with plastic cups, bearing the brunt of an audience that had quickly turned on them due to Scott’s poor form.
Soon enough, Mark was back and said, “We’re going to try and finish this thing.” Queue the music! Scott was back! This time sans the holey socks but with a wet towel draped over his shoulders. It was apparently too much of an effort for him to stand even though he was no longer weighted down with clothes, so he staggered back to the drum set, sat himself down on the riser, and slumped over with the wet towel draped over his head. Ironically enough, they completed this sad spectacle with fan favorite “My Own Prison” all while Scott sat slumped under the wet towel. Something tells me the irony of that was lost on many.
I later found out through my family insider that when Scott was staggering offstage, he was getting juiced up by paramedics with fluids. They didn’t help.
And that, my friends, was The. Worst. Concert. Ever. Which was quickly followed by The. Worst. “Apology”. Ever. Which was subsequently followed by The. Best. Lawsuit. Ever. Even though the lawsuit ultimately went nowhere, at least they tried, which is more than we can say about Scott. But thanks to a bunch of wiley college kids, Scott got his in the end.