Stone Temple Pilots
– Purple
If their debut put them on the map, Purple was the album that proved Stone Temple Pilots had the goods to stay. It’s heavier, looser, and more dynamic than its predecessor, trading in some of the obvious grunge signifiers for a broader, more confident sound. The hooks are undeniable, the grooves hit with precision, and the whole thing moves with a swagger that feels both effortless and defiant. There’s a dusty, sunburnt quality to it—like classic rock radio warped through a ’90s lens—where bluesy struts sit comfortably alongside moody introspection.
What makes Purple so compelling is its ability to balance muscle with melody, grit with grace. The band sounds tighter than ever, pushing their arrangements in directions that feel fresh without ever losing the raw energy that got them here. Every track feels purposeful, every shift in mood deliberate. It’s an album that pulls off a rare trick: expanding a band’s sound without losing their identity. If their first record announced their arrival, Purple is the one that secured their legacy.
The DeLeo brothers—Dean on guitar, Robert on bass—play like guys who grew up on Zeppelin but listened to jazz after school. The riffs are thick, but they swing. There’s a strange grace under all that crunch. Eric Kretz holds it steady on drums, often doing more by doing less. The band knows how to ride a groove without sinking into it. That sense of restraint and release is what keeps Purple from collapsing under its own weight. It’s tuneful without being soft, heavy without showing off.
Purple is where STP made it clear they weren’t followers—they were scavengers with taste. Glam, psychedelia, blues rock, and alternative all get tossed into the blender. But nothing comes out half-formed. Every song sounds like it’s meant to be there. It’s not an album begging to be dissected; it’s a record begging to be driven to at night with the windows down and something smoldering in the ashtray.
Choice Tracks
Vasoline
Distorted, deranged, and deceptively catchy. It’s driven by that jagged, looping riff—almost hypnotic in its repetition. Weiland floats above it, detached and distant, like he’s narrating his own breakdown.
Interstate Love Song
The kind of radio single most bands would trade their drummer to write. Warm, melancholic, and unapologetically melodic. It’s not ironic, and that’s why it works. Weiland’s delivery is both regretful and resigned—like he’s already packed the bags.
Big Empty
First heard in The Crow soundtrack, this one moves like a desert hallucination. Acoustic and sparse at first, then it explodes. It’s STP’s noir-western moment, all loneliness and echo.
Still Remains
A love song wearing combat boots. Romantic but not saccharine, it manages to sound intimate while keeping its fists clenched. The chorus punches in just when you think it’ll fold.
Silvergun Superman
This is where the band pulls out the psych-rock bag of tricks. Wah-drenched, slow-burn riffing with a touch of the surreal. It’s heavy, yes, but also slightly unhinged in a way that hints at Patton-level mischief.