An open letter to Scott Weiland:

Dear Mr. Weiland,

Thank you for coming to Vancouver on Monday, May 18. It was fantastic to see you at the Commodore, as opposed to GM Place, which is where you played the last time you were in town. I have been greatly enjoying your new album, "Happy" in Galoshes, and was looking forward to hearing you burn through your solo catalogue.

So imagine my disappointment when right at the top of the show you sauntered around the stage to an extended guitar-circlejerk, stopping occasionally at your feedback gadget to do some much-unneeded twiddling. The casual, poppy, and (most importantly) brief songs on the Galoshes album somehow did not prepare me for a wankfest circa 1977. If I'd wanted to shell out upwards of $30 for that, I would have traveled back in time to catch a Foghat show.

Now, I understand that a man in your position does not have it easy. You are a legend of some degree, an icon of the '90s and adored by many. (Although the ratio of dudes to women in the audience was puzzling to me and my date. There must be a lot more ten-percenters among CFOX listeners than I'd realized.) It was obvious that half the crowd in attendance only showed up to hear a greatest hits set from your Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver days, and the mellow vibe of your solo material, particularly tracks like "Big Black Monster" and the bossa nova-tastic "Killing Me Sweetly" are not necessarily the best fit for a raucous crowd in a big space. Though, giving credit where it's due, "Blind Confusion" kicked serious ass. I vote for that to be the next single.

I know you tried to satiate the loogans with a few nods to your rocker days, and to no one's surprise, "Interstate Love Song" and "Vasoline" drew the biggest roars of the evening. But we already had that sing-a-long lovefest last year when you toured with your old band. Those who came to see Scott Weiland, the solo artist, were mightily peeved that they only got to hear a handful of said solo artist's songs.

Still, the mix of old and new material would have been forgivable—hell, downright enjoyable—if you and your fellow musicians didn't indulge in those extended guitar marathons, which seemed to serve no purpose other than to allow you to wander the stage in your obviously altered state. Nothing kills the momentum of a good show faster than long meandering pauses between songs, only to be followed by noise for noise's sake.

The next time you come to town, Mr. Weiland, may I suggest a more intimate venue and a serious turn-down on the wank factor? Either that or you can make your next solo effort an all-instrumental snoozefest—that way you won't be disappointing anyone with the live show.