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

Summary

DISGRACELAND Podcast Summary

Episode: Scott Weiland: Psych Wards, Demonic Forces, and a Kidnapping in Paris
Host: Jake Brennan
Date: September 19, 2025

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Episode Theme & Purpose

This riveting episode of DISGRACELAND plunges into the tumultuous life of Scott Weiland, the iconic frontman of Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver. With a narrative blending biopic-worthy incidents with gritty, lesser-known truths, the episode explores Weiland's struggles with addiction, brushes with death, psychological torment, a violent kidnapping attempt in Paris, and the demons—real and imagined—that haunted his life. It's a story pulsing with human vulnerability, chaotic highs, and the tragic costs of fame in the music world.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. Weiland’s Troubled Adolescence and Early Addiction

• Psych Ward Commitment at 16:

  • After his stepfather found drugs in his room, Scott was committed to a psych ward for three months—strapped to a gurney in front of his classmates.
  • (19:26) "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."

• Admission Becomes Destiny:

  • Forced to admit he was a substance abuser to get out, Weiland lived into this label, spiraling into a cycle of addiction and rehab.
  • (21:05) "As the years went on, Scott Weiland's one time bogus admission became truth. A self-fulfilling prophecy."

2. The Addict and the Artist: Creativity, Drugs, and Destruction

• Heroin Culture and Music:

  • Weiland saw heroin as intertwined with rock legacy, inspired by figures like the Rolling Stones and Lennon.
  • Album art from Stone Temple Pilots’ "Purple" linked to the China White heroin baggies he favored.

• Addiction’s Fallout:

  • Multiple stints in rehab (13 times in 3 years), canceled tours, band tensions, and his wife’s eventual demand for divorce.
  • (23:55) "By his math, he'd done rehab 13 times in a three-year span."

3. Encounters with Evil: Demonic Hallucinations and Real-Life Threats

• Demonic Hallucinations During Withdrawal:

  • Weiland believed he was visited by literal demonic forces when in withdrawal—a recurring, metaphorical motif for his inner battle.
  • (06:58) "His addictions caused him to hallucinate demonic forces, forces which he claimed tried to harm him in his own house..."
  • (37:47) "[He] saw them with his own eyes...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..."

• Paris Kidnapping Attempt (2008):

  • Alone and vulnerable in Paris, Weiland is lured by three strangers with a promise of a party. Realizing the danger, he bravely escapes from their moving car, chased and attacked by the men, and barely manages to evade them by hiding in nearby woods before finding refuge at a stranger’s house.
  • (08:24–11:15) Dramatic retelling of the kidnapping and escape.
  • (18:51) "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."

4. Legal Troubles and Incarceration

• Probation Violations and Prison Time:

  • After repeated drug offenses, Weiland gets sentenced to a year in LA’s notorious Men's Central Jail—depicted as a psychological hellscape almost as torturous as withdrawal.
  • (25:31) "The judge, like his band and his wife, told Scott that he'd run out of chances. Too many probation violations...One year in prison. But not just prison. A medieval dungeon, a concrete coffin..."

• Resisting Temptation Behind Bars:

  • Even in protective custody, Weiland is offered heroin in exchange for an autograph but declines, determined to detox.
  • Reflects on even more brutal withdrawal experiences—like waking mid-detox, doctors and nurses unsympathetic to his agony.

5. Perpetual Cycle: Relapse, Survival, Demise

• Haunted by Demons and Addictive Compulsions:

  • The episode repeatedly blurs the line between real-world dangers and the psychological “demons” of addiction, culminating in Weiland’s repeated relapses.
  • Despite moments of heroism and recovery, the narrative recognizes the inevitability of his struggle given the cycle of addiction and fame.

• Final Days and Tragic End:

  • Weiland’s death at age 48 (2015) on his tour bus in Minneapolis—substances found nearby, a stark conclusion to a life marked by gifted artistry and unyielding demons.
  • (39:38) "He couldn't hide from them forever. Not in a bathroom and not in a tour bus outside Minneapolis, which is where Scott Weiland's body was found on December 3, 2015, finally caught by his demons while sleeping."
  • (39:56) "Stripped of life, denied true purpose. Such a disgrace."

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

• On the Price of Fame and Addiction:
  • "Music made as the frontman of Stone Temple Pilots and later Velvet Revolver..." (05:25)
• Paris Ordeal:
  • "Scott Weiland accepted the invitation and got in the car...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...He had to do something. He had to escape." (08:24–11:15)
• Demonic Forces Manifest:
  • "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 in two. Otis was at his side, barking, clawing at the feet...He saw them with his own eyes." (37:47)
• Prison Despair:
  • "No voices coming from other inmates or from other guards. Just dead silence...No wonder they found guys hanging from a noose, their bodies stiff with rigor mortis." (28:08)
• On Survival and Mortality:
  • "Still, he pressed on. He emerged from the woods and made his way to a neighborhood...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." (35:25)
• Final Reflection:
  • "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...He couldn't hide from them forever...Such a disgrace." (39:56)

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Timestamps for Key Segments

| Timestamp | Segment Description | |--------------|---------------------------------------------------------------| | 04:43 | Weiland’s early years, psych ward commitment, teenage addiction | | 06:58 | Demonic hallucinations and real dangers intermingle | | 08:24–11:15 | Detailed Paris kidnapping and escape (2008) | | 19:26 | Stepdad discovers drugs, psych ward scene | | 21:05 | Explanation of self-fulfilling prophecy of addiction | | 23:55 | 13 times in rehab over a 3-year period | | 25:31 | Court sentencing: one year in LA County jail | | 28:08 | Prison experience: isolation, sensory deprivation | | 35:25 | Aftermath of Paris escape, search for survival | | 37:47 | Vivid depiction of demonic hallucinations and struggle | | 39:38 | Weiland’s final days and death in Minneapolis (2015) | | 39:56 | Closing reflection on tragedy and disgrace |

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Summary Takeaway

This episode delivers a relentless, immersive journey through Scott Weiland’s chaotic existence—a portrait not only of the high cost of rock stardom, but of addiction as a personal apocalypse. With dramatized, pulse-pounding storytelling, Jake Brennan peels back the sanitized layers, exposing how Weiland’s best intentions, artistic triumphs, and moments of survival were fated to collide with forces—psychological, chemical, and real-world—that ultimately defined, and ended, his life.

If you crave the full, raw, and at times hallucinatory truth behind rock legends, this episode is a must-listen.

Transcript

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Disgraceland.com 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 Weiland are insane.

[Co-host/Producer]

He was sent to a psych ward.

[Jake Brennan]

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 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.

[Co-host/Producer]

Music made as the frontman of Stone.

[Jake Brennan]

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 Genie 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 Weiland 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 Weiland. 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 in 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.

[Co-host/Producer]

Off from the other side of the door.

[Jake Brennan]

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.

[Co-host/Producer]

He was on the ropes, but he.

[Jake Brennan]

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. Weiland 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 it. 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 his band, or his soon to be ex wife would want him 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, he 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 Pigall 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 pew. 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? And 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, non descript. 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 backseat and Wrenched it open. And the chilly December air hid 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 hit the pavement with great force. He didn't so much feel the impact of the fall as he felt that similar gnawing, since the 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 ten 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 him busted 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 Scott Weiland to figure out, though. Current Scott Weiland, 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 DiLeo 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 LA 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 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 deserved 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. They even took physical form when 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.

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[Jake Brennan]

The car skidded to a stop. Scott Weiland 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 jumped 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 at 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. Frenchy swung his entire head forward and smashed 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 Frenchy's forehead and pierced the skin.

[Co-host/Producer]

Blood splurted.

[Jake Brennan]

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 onto his North Face jacket. He let the guy pull and wriggled.

[Co-host/Producer]

Right out of him.

[Jake Brennan]

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. 10, 20 minutes passed. Nothing. 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 his. 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, Soi Disant? It didn't matter. The true point and the true meaning for any rock n 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 barged right into Scott's room while he and his girl were in the middle of it. Freaked the girl out, pissed Scott off. At dinner that evening, his 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 low at a 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 Day 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 as 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 them 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, Pilot's 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 equaled 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 DiLeo, 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, and one rock and roll band looking for a 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. $1 million 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 LA 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 COVID Art that paid homage not to downtown LA 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 gonna help Scott Weiland. Now.

[Co-host/Producer]

The judge, like his band and his.

[Jake Brennan]

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. Word, word, word.

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[Jake Brennan]

Scott Weiland entered the notorious Men's Central Jail in downtown LA 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.

[Co-host/Producer]

Might as well have been solitary.

[Jake Brennan]

One room the size Of a closet. One bunk, one toilet, one wash basin. A 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 that the corners, those shit 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. Time. 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 bodies stiff with rigor mortis. The urge to do the same, to succumb to the sensory deprivation, the hope 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. Fucked if he knew how it worked. But again, for a guy at risk, a guy in protective custody, probably better not to know this kite was a fan letter. Hombre knew Scott's music. Hombre wanted Scott's John Hancock. In return, he'd get the Motherlode 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 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 dope sick. 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. Weilander 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 shaking, shitting his insides out. And the nurses didn't lift a finger. They weren't breaking a sweat form, not for a dope fiend. They told him he was gonna have to sweat it out for half an hour until the doc 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's Central to an inmate drug treatment program at Biscalues Recovery Center, a former Japanese American internment camp where routine was king. Up and at him at 5am 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, crawled out from the pile of dead leaves and began to walk through the woods. Cold, shivering, his North Face jacket long gone. His wallet and passport, too. All of it left in the hands of three guys who would gladly wring 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 junkie. The very thing Scott Weiland 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 his throat and waited in nervous anticipation for the high to hit. 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 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 at his side, pure, uncut, grade A hell spawn 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 the his hands. That buzzing sound rang out and split his head in two. 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. Think of strength. Think of power. Think of the words. The words from when you were a kid. 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 he thought of the words and said instead, in the 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 sects. God the Father commands you. God the Son commands you. God the Holy Spirit commands you. One by one, the feet retreated. 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 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 3, 2015, finally caught by his demons while sleeping. Cocaine ethanol, MDA in 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 Disgrace.

[Co-host/Producer]

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 [e-mail] if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member.

[Jake Brennan]

Thank you for supporting the show.

[Co-host/Producer]

We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every single 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 disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook. Disgracelandpod and on [e-mail] Disgracelandpod Pod Rockarola.

[Jake Brennan]

He's a bad, bad man.