Music

9 things we learned from seeing Scott Stapp live in 2014

by Tyler Munro

I’m having a bit of an existential crisis.

We’re at that point in the zeitgeist where irony has become indefinable. Are you serious with that curly moustache, or? And what is normcore, really?

On Friday, I stared this dead in the face. And by this, I mean Scott Stapp, lead singer of Creed, who I saw live in concert completely on purpose. The crazy part? I think I enjoyed it.

Here’s a few reasons why:

Scott Stapp doesn’t care what you think about him

The one thing you can really gather from an undersold Scott Stapp solo show is that he’s really not affected by it. His career isn’t so much over the hill as it is quickly falling down it, but for his fans, the dedicated dozens adorning knee-length wallet chains and leftover Bret Michaels bandanas, he’s still the biggest rockstar around. That’s something worth keeping in mind—Scott Stapp’s performance skills were pretty finely tuned when Creed were consistently atop the charts. Whether reaching his arms triumphantly to the sky or hop-skipping across the stage both scowling and smiling, Stapp treated the relatively tiny Opera House stage like he was at an amphitheatre, covering every edge of the crowd during the songs and pacing wildly during his mid-set sermons.

Oh, the sermons.

Scott Stapp tells a story

 

Scott Stapp is more Christian than you will ever be

While Creed were debatably a Christian rock band, their songs never breached Faith + 1 territory. The morality was there, and in many cases so was the allegory, but songs like “My Sacrifice” seemed less about avoiding sin and more about Stapp finding a way to save himself from drowning while Mark Tremonti solos in an underwater school bus. Today, his faith is far more explicit. Attribute it to his newfound sobriety—it took me a handful of beers before I realized raising my Molson Exports head high might have been in poor taste—or his ever changing life, but dude’s gone full evangelical. Two songs in, before “Justify” off his first solo album, Stapp rambled and ranted across stage, coming across as one friend put it like “a real life Rust Cohle,” saying something about Purgatory, Heaven and Hell. When the chorus hit, you knew he meant it. “I do not have to justify,” he sang, arms clenched and already waterfalling sweat, “how I live my life.”

 

Scott Stapp live is an experience for all senses

At this point, I’m sure you’re wondering: was it funny? The answer is a resounding yes. But more than anything, seeing Scott Stapp is surreal and almost life changing. It’s an odd experience to realize that people like this still exist; that someone in a shirt that reads Fuck the food, fuck the rent, I need a beer could be brought to giggling excitement over an aging rockstar. It’s similarly odd to be within arms reach of Stapp, a cock rock prophet who once recorded a sex tape with Kid Rock. It doesn’t matter how many showers he had—there’s no way that stink is gone. And maybe that explains why the crowd smelled like an odd mix of vinegar, leather and incense.

 

Scott Stapp’s audience wants you to fuck their wives for whatever reason

Those smells aside, I came and left with more than a few questions.

– How come not one person had their shirt off?
– Is it really appropriate for a fan to start a “DO MY WIFE” chant? Even when she’s in his arms, uncomfortably cheering it on?
– Do I actually like Scott Stapp?

 

Scott Stapp’s Creed songs have totally aged gracefully

It was hard to hide my enthusiasm when those classic Creed songs hit. I was never much for “My Own Prison,” not even with Stapp pantomiming being in shackles in between his usual array of karate chops and fist clenches, but when “Higher” hit, I’ll admit I got a little giddy. It’s long been a running joke for me to pester my friends with horrible renditions of Stapp’s trademark donkey-yarl, but those classic hits still hold up for what they are—mid-tempo, hype-up anthems. Coupled with his pageantry, arms aloft and pointing to the skies, it made for a hugely enjoyable experience no matter how cynical you were.

 

Scott Stapp can’t outsell high-school battle of the bands showcases

I came to the show expecting to write something very, very different. Ticket sales were horrible, so much so that the price dropped from $40 to $15 day-of, and a friend at Live Nation compared the expected crowd size to an old Supernova gig. For the most part, that was true. The next night, I saw my friends in Pup play an all ages show at a branch of the Toronto Library, and from the minute doors to that gig opened the crowd was already noticeably bigger.

 

Scott Stapp’s band almost made fedoras permissible

The scope of the show was something unique. It was a caricature of the noughts, with Stapp’s backing band checking every box throughout the set. His drummer played an intricate kit delicately placed on risers, with more cymbals than I could drunkenly count in spite of his penchant to play one handed—how else was he to spin his drumsticks? Neither guitarist believed in sleeves, with one rocking the tank top while the other went the shirtless leather vest route. The latter wore countless necklaces and a fedora, natch. The bassist threw out, by my estimate, a dozen of his picks; there was a flip phone waving proudly in the front row, and I’d estimate Stapp played at least half of his set with his eyes closed.

Here’s the setlist, if you’re curious.

 

Scott Stapp doesn’t have an ironic bone in his body

Sure, I laughed at songs like “Slow Suicide” and “Jesus Was A Rockstar,” which came successively after “My Sacrifice.” But if Scott Stapp is free when Christ is with him, it enables him to leave the crowd smiling. Ironic or otherwise, that’s all he can ask for at this stage in his career.

Guess what song he’s singing

 

Scott Stapp taught us valuable life lessons

My relationship with Scott Stapp and Creed’s music is… different. The Great Divide is the first major label promo I was sent when I started really writing about music, and “With Arms Wide Open” has long been a karaoke staple.

A friend once told me a story of how he came across a rare vinyl pressing of Creed’s Human Clay but couldn’t justify its $50 price tag, at least not initially. He went back an hour later, finding the idea too funny to pass up, and found it was gone.

And so yes, I saw Scott Stapp on purpose. But if that friend—and Creed—taught me anything, it’s that some moments are too great to pass up. Sometimes, you’ve got to make some memories.