Bumpy Outing for Pilots

Growing up in public isn’t easy if you’re still a baby.

That’s the case with Stone Temple Pilots, the mega-selling young hard-rock band that has been thrust into the hit-maker’s spotlight at a time when its four members are clearly unprepared to deliver a convincing stage show.

It’s especially true of singer Scott Weiland, who earned poor marks for both charisma and comportment Saturday night at Irvine Meadows.

You could tell that Weiland was trying to be a nice guy, mainly addressing the audience in a friendly, if pro forma way (greeting the packed house early in the show, he chose that scintillating subject, the weather). But before long, he couldn’t help flying into a foul-mouthed, incoherent rage at somebody in the audience for “invading my space”--apparently he’d been hit by something hurled from the crowd.

If a star wants to zing someone in an audience who gets out of line, fine. But do it with some wit and self-possession. Weiland never made it clear just what had gotten him stirred up as he spat out a long, addled stream of invective, ending with a sarcastic sexual invitation to the offender. Of course, wit and coherence aren’t Weiland’s strong suits as a lyricist, either, so perhaps it’s too much to expect him to extemporize effectively.

Weiland was right about having his space invaded, though. Robert DeLeo’s raging bass dominated the audio mix to the point where it frequently came close to obliterating both Weiland’s grainy vocals and Dean DeLeo’s guitar. There ought to be a commandment for sound engineers: No matter what else happens, thou shalt make the singer audible.

It’s a testament to the sweep and insistence of STP’s melodic hooks that the crowd frequently sang along to a singer who couldn’t be heard well. It’s the catchy choruses and the meaty, Zeppelin-style riffing that have landed Stone Temple Pilots’ just-released second album, “Purple,” near the top of the charts at the same time that its grunge-oriented 1992 debut, “Core,” is still doing brisk business at nearly 4 million copies and counting. STP chose its material well, playing 10 of the 11 songs on the much-improved “Purple” and including the better half of the “Core” stuff.

Without a clear, sinewy sound, though, no rock band can flourish. Potential blazers such as the Nirvana-like “Unglued” were blunted by the mix. More music got through on stately numbers such as “Big Empty” and “Interstate Love Song.” Clarity came only during a passable three-song acoustic set featuring “Pretty Penny,” “Creep” and a brisk if inconsequential rendering of David Bowie’s “Andy Warhol.” Weiland buried himself in a plush rocking chair during the unplugged bit and puffed on a cigarette between lines. One wondered why the acoustic interlude was being played on a homey living room set--there was no byplay or interchange between band members as the disengaged Weiland stayed sunk in his chair.

Nor were there sparks when the band was rocking. As a front man, Weiland simply doesn’t have it yet. As a 26-year-old with only two albums behind him, let’s hope he’s in the early stages of a rising learning curve.

Weiland did the boring Jim Morrison microphone cling, and he did a lot of odd little arm-waving, hip-waddling steps in a stooped position, which made him look like an arthritic old man trying to dance the limbo or the hula.

On record, despite the songs’ lyrical ungainliness, emotional hues come through: world-weariness, resentment and titanic expressions of pain, tempered by some hopeful moments. The combination of a hostile mix and his own lack of stage stature made it impossible for Weiland to conjure any vivid feeling in concert.

He got no help from his band mates. The DeLeo brothers and drummer Eric Kretz were just there to keep their heads down and play. A fancy light show is one telling sign of a band in need of a crutch, and STP’s went for overkill. The band played on a proscenium-like set hung with curtains and dominated by two huge imitation lava lamps whose shades served as screens for psychedelic projections. Often it was hard to spot the players amid clouds of stage smoke. During several songs, blinding strobe lights made it hard to look at anything at all.

With no crisp sound, no sign of comradeship or mutual mission, and a hot-headed front man with a mile-wild churlish streak and no gift for the stage, Stone Temple Pilots was left with just one thing going for it: quickly familiar melodies and dramatic arrangements that are like rock candy to a hard rock fan.

The second-billed Meat Puppets are enjoying the first hit of their long career with the song “Backwater” and the album, “Too High to Die.” The Arizona trio apparently has spent some of its newly gotten gains to hire a fourth, unidentified member who played rhythm guitar and freed Curt Kirkwood to solo at will. Not much else has changed, judging from this no-nonsense 45-minute set (well, a little nonsense, in Kirkwood’s brief, spacey musings on the possibilities of the Earth being obliterated by a comet).

Kirkwood is probably the most accomplished and versatile guitarist of the ‘80s indie-rock movement, and he lived up to that reputation with all manner of psychedelic wailing, shimmering electric glides, and assured, country-accented acoustic picking.

His singing remains creaky, although harmonies by his bassist brother, Cris, helped Meat Puppets attain a certain raggedy rightness along the lines of the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia-Bob Weir tandem. In a surprising move, Curt Kirkwood sang an old-line R & B ballad, “Nothing Takes the Place of You,” and the sheer fervency of his delivery helped his stringy, over-taxed yowl get the song across. It served as a rootsy lead-in to a countrified acoustic set that included a gleaming “Up on the Sun.”

The Meat Puppets also suffered from a bass-heavy mix, though not so intrusive as Stone Temple Pilots. The band is a valuable, if belated addition to the mainstream because of its ability to change stylistic hues, and to remind us that music can evoke magical, transporting moments. Just the right antidote to the monolithic anguish, ire and gloom that have become so tired and commonplace.

There was nothing gloomy about Redd Kross, another long-lasting product of ‘80s alternative rock. The band played its set as a lark, filling the big stage with all manner of scampering about in affectionate, tongue-in-cheek imitation of such ‘70s funsters as the Kinks, Slade and Cheap Trick. They may have gone a bit overboard with it: Maybe these perpetual underdogs felt a sense of absurdity playing for 15,000 people.

Still, there was plenty of purely musical enchantment in juicy pop choruses featuring Jeff McDonald’s Lennonesque leads and the sharp harmonies of his brother Steve.

The opening band was Rust, a drab Soundgarden knockoff from San Diego. Somebody said that rust never sleeps. This Rust might induce it.