I’m sorry but while I’m writing this I just can’t bring myself to pull up a picture of Scott Stapp. I think I can stomach his face if I replace it with the mug of Abigail Ratchford. Anyway, Scott Stapp has been in the news recently because he decided it would be a good idea to post a video blog talking about how he no longer has any money, how he’s living in a Holiday Inn, and how the IRS is out to get him.
Over the years I’ve heard a lot about Scott Stapp. But, unlike the many news networks out there, I have no idea if these stories are true so I won’t relay them. I mean, I could give examples of things, sure. I could say that some people said he wanted to kill his wife and kids to free them of demons. I mean, I could say that, but I won’t. I do, however, have my own Scott Stapp story that I’d like to share.
It was back-in-the-day when I was a roadie for a Feature Entertainer. You probably have never heard of that occupation. A Feature Entertainer is basically a stripper that has appeared in magazines or won some stripper contests and now gets paid to travel the country bouncing from strip club to strip club. Each club will pay the girl several thousand dollars to put on 2 to 3 shows a night. They can pay them this much because they’ll advertise the girl as appearing in adult films and magazines and act like it’s a big deal and that people should actually know who they are. They hike up the price of admission and use that to pay the girl’s rate while raking in the extra money they get in alcohol sales. It’s win-win. Each Feature Entertainer has several acts that have their own set of costumes and props with accompanying music, e.g. a sexy cat woman costume with “Cat Scratch Fever.” That’s where I came in. I did the props, caught the flying pieces of costumes, kept the guys off the stage, and handled the merchandise.
So we’re at the Pink Pony and it is a packed house. The Pink Pony was always guaranteed bank. That place pulled in so many people that it was nearly impossible for me to get from one end of the club to the other. I have no idea how the barbacks were able to do their jobs. It was miserable work at times. Most of the time we–the Feature and I–would just hang out in our dressing room because, 1) it was no fun to brave the crowds, and 2) you gotta build up that mystique by not being so readily available.
Our dressing room was right be the DJ booth which was, in turn, right by the private dance rooms. This whole area was guarded by a bouncer who’s job was to keep people out of the DJ booth, out of the feature entertainer dressing room, and to keep tabs on who is coming and going from the private dance area.
So we’re hanging out in the dressing room and I hear a conversation go down.
“How much for a private room?”
“It’s 200 dollars.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, you’re Scott Stapp from Creed. It’s 200 dollars.”
And that’s my Scott Stapp story, folks. It’s a yarn about an entitled little rock star who helped sell 50 million albums but still wants preferential treatment in strip clubs.
Ugh.
