Creed Revelations

Alternative Press July 2000

America's most misunderstood band have been kicked around long enough, and they're not gonna take it anymore. In this exclusive interview, Creed shatter every preconception about who they are and what they stand for.

To his credit, the roadie didn't really know any better. No one had taken the time to warn him. All smiles and pre-show insouciance, he bounds into the backstage gameroom, hoping to rocket through a quick volley of late-afternoon ping-pong before clocking in at concert time. But he stops dead in his tracks, grin wilted in sudden reverence. Inside the chamber sits his paycheck-signing employer, Scott Stapp- frontman for DIY-minded (and some say bible-thumping) combo Creed- who has just finished playing Ping-pong himself and is now beginning what he thought would be a private, undisturbed interview. Genuflecting, the stagehand starts to bow out, but Stapp- in a calm, gracious manner, his voice rumbling pulpit-sermon low- gives him absolution, further work instructions and one final caveat: "When you're going into the next room, try and keep it really quiet. Jagger just flew in to be with me today. And he's finally just fallen asleep. Cool?"

Cool, nods the drone. And he's on his slightly subdued way. Turning back to the discussion, an unruffled Stapp continues with his earlier topic- ironically, his 18-month old son Jagger, and how taking him on tour "brings a bit of home on the road. The longest that I can handle staying away from him is, like, two weeks. And I kinda made a promise to myself that I would never stay away from him that long." The baby's mother is tending to him at the moment. They are no longer married, sighs Stapp, they've been divorced for nearly a year. The couple had dated for nearly twice that long before eloping to Vegas, a decision that he swears they both regretted almost immediately. But here's the kicker: "She actually still lives with me- we're friends and we raise our child together. It's a real weird situation and you have to get into the real nuts and bolts of it to understand it, but it's almost like we get along better now that there's no halo of marriage. Marriage ruined the relationship, so we thought, 'Okay- let's just not be married and get things back to the way they were.'

'I mean, I don't really think marriage works," Stapp continues, on a thematic roll. "I feel like we did it just because that's what you're supposed to do. But I really don't think you need a contract with someone saying, 'You get half of everything I own and that shows I love you.' But what also helped kill it for us was my lifestyle- right when we got serious, I was out on the road for nine months straight. But it's going good- we love each other, we love our baby, and..." He pauses, clears his throat to make sure that he's underscoring this to the full effect, "We just wanna be good parents."

Parenting. It's a key issue for Stapp. You might even term it crucial. On "WAWO"- an unusually tender ballad from Creed's sophomore smash (on Wind-Up, the little indie that could)- samples of a human heartbeat give way to Stapp's recollections of first hearing the news that he'd become a father. Then, in the final verse, Stapp's vocals- already forest-dark and cavern-echoed, a la his longtime idol Jim Morrison, grow almost foreboding with "If I had just one wish/only one demand/I hope he's not like me/I hope he understands." "Not like me?" Does Stapp- a rock star with a quadruple-platinum album debut, MOP, under his arena-filling belt- truly mean what he's singing?

Stapp spits out the rest of his Skoal tobacco chaw into its cupful of viscous juice and pushes the cup aside (a nasty habit, he knows; but one of his few remaining vices, post-dadhood). From beneath his baseball cap, lurking under the bangs of his Morrison-length brown hair, two huge, eerily luminous eyes peer out. They carry hypnotic weight, but there's a surreal peace there, too. Stapp calls it "an old-soul mentality." "I think I've been here before. I feel like I'm tortured in my mind, and I have a lot of baggage. There are a lot of things that I think about and have to deal with every day when I'm alone, in my mind, that I don't feel would be there had I been raised..." he takes time settling on the word "differently." So, yes, he frowns, he meant exactly what he said in WAWO. "I hope that Jagger doesn't have that... that... tortured soul that I have. I hope that he can truly be happy."

But the old "tortured soul" routine, the singer chuckles, sure is good for the box office. Folks love to watch their ivory pedestal icons rend themselves to emotional shreds, and out of suffering- they always say- comes the greatest art. But for Stapp, it's no act. His partner in songwriting crime, guitarist Mark Tremonti, puts it down to "Scott's deep spiritual stuff that's struck a nerve with some kids who haven't heard things like this for awhile- the answer we're giving them is to ask questions."

That's part of the picture, but not the panorama. Backstage, here at the stadium in Pittsburgh, there are letters. Letters from fans addressed to Creed, in care of the venue, postmarked to ensure their early arrival. Letters that cry out for answers, big metaphorical answers. The metaphysical Creed have succeeded despite- and in fact, because of- the temper of these global-warming, Matrix-warning times. And mouthpiece Stapp has succeeded despite- and quite naturally, because of- his strict Pentecostal upbringing. A childhood so severe, his self-proclaimed minister of a father would regularly force him to hand-copy entire Bible books as punishment.

"My dad was actually an oral surgeon," clarifies Stapp, shifting uncomfortably in the rickety backstage chair. "But he's a very devout religious man- he has his own ministry called Love Through Jesus that donates money to charities and helps families in need- and he raised his family that way. We had no secular music at all. And even Christian groups that had electric guitars were evil. And they had these little groups at church where they'd play rock songs backwards and try to brainwash you with all this stuff. It was weird. And it probably pushed me right into what I'm doing now, because I loved music."

Whenever he wasn't scribbling Bible passages, he says, "I always wrote. I didn't know what I was writing for, but I always wrote." Noting personal thoughts was a welcome relief from "not only writing a [Bible] chapter a day, but then writing a commentary on what the chapter meant to me. Then, my dad would read it to make sure that I'd read it, and also check for spelling and grammar. And if there was a problem?" Stapp sighs, packs his jaw with another comforting wad of chaw. "I'd have to rewrite it. I've probably written Psalms, completely through, about three or four times. And I've probably read the Bible in it's entirety about 10 times."

Eighties rocker Terence Trent D'Arby- who was also raises by a revered pop- once said that, in his rebellious phase, he threw away every one of his dad's love-thy-neighbor teachings. As he grew older, though, he noticed a great deal of the wisdom boomeranging back to him. "That's exactly what's happening to me," Stapp confesses. "And I'm especially seeing that in how I raise my son, the things I talk to him about- it's like I'm gleaning the good from my past. As I wrote the scripture, I definitely learned some things from it. And I'm definitely influenced my writing style. I mean, the Psalms and Proverbs are books of poetry, so I've learned how to write and got the poetic mind from Psalms and Proverbs. And that's where a lot of my song-writing references come from- so when I'm trying to relate a point to someone, when I'm trying to paint a picture with words, it's Biblical although I'm not even thinking about it."

And the Bible, with all it's smiting and thou-shalt-nots is a pretty grim tome, all told. Stapp agrees. "It's very dark. But that's where people get the misconception that we're a Christian band. But basically, I am haunted by my past. I'm haunted by God. It's something that I can't escape. I've been indoctrinated in that religion since I was an infant- it's second nature to me. I believe in God because it's what I've been told my entire life. So there's a conflict in me; and probably for three songs each record, I'll deal with that. It's just a cleansing thing," he clarifies. "I'm not preaching; I'm not trying to get people to believe in Christianity. And a lot of the songs are me trying to figure out if I believe in it at all, me trying to deal with the condemnation and guilt that Christianity can lay on a young person's mind. Where everything you do wrong, you're afraid you're gonna burn in Hell for it. With Creed," Stapp swears, "there is no agenda." No agenda. But most assuredly a message. Such a Gospel-pure one that, Tremonti believes, Creed's music might be the only rock record allowed into rigidly Christian homes. A strange irony, he chuckles, since- before forming the group with pal Stapp in Tallahassee, FL- he was Detroit-weaned on nothing but the faux-Satanic screeching of King Diamond and Slayer. The heavily layered textures with which he underpins Stapp's cathartic growl are majestic, florid, even Far and Middle Eastern from time to time. They create a strange tension that mounts from a track's opening chords to it's rafter-raising crescendo. "Scott and I definitely balance each other out," Tremonti adds. "The songs start out sounding dark and hopeless, but by the end of the song it's taken you through this journey and it's kind of uplifting."

Sonically, Creed resemble Pearl Jam locked in an attic with nothing but some early Scorpions and Judas Priest records for solace. But lyrically? Stapp seems to be scanning the skyline for the better angels of our human nature. Are they fluttering about up there? It's unclear. Take, for example, Creed's first No. 1 rock-chart single, the title cut from their '97 bow My Own Prison. Tremonti's coiled lead wends through the processional rhythm of bassist Brian Marshall and drummer Scott Phillips like some pallbearer. Then Stapp's marbled warble slides in, first soft, then screaming, to transform it into a huge bic-flicking anthem. The chorus, despite it's gravity, is oddly sing-song: "Should have been dead on a Sunday morning/Banging my head, no time for mourning."

The inspiration? Not as inspiring as you'd think, smiles Stapp, coolly."I had a near death experience one time. I was experimenting with mushrooms and I'd had about four cups of 'shroom juice, which is about three-and-three quarters cups too much." Next thing he knew, he was stretched out on the floor, breathing heavily, thinking- correction, knowing- that he was about to die. "But finally, something just clicked inside of me, and I didn't fear death. And I saw the white light, and all of a sudden I was traveling towards it. Just like that. And I wrote "My Own Prison" the very next day- that's were the line 'Should have been dead on a Sunday morning' came from. I was literally banging my head, rocking in the corner like a lunatic. I mean, it may not have been a real near-death experience. But at that moment it was real to me."

Ever since, he says, "I think about death a lot, about what kind of legacy I'm going to leave when I'm gone. I've always had this real 'save the world' complex- I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be remembered when I was dead. And I knew that I didn't want to be a 9-to-5er. I always felt different, partly because of the way I was raised. But inside I felt different, and I just knew. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was going somewhere."

At 17, Stapp had had enough. He packed his few belongings, pushed his neutralled car out of the driveway so that the engine wouldn't wake the folks, and high-tailed it across town to live with a friend and his parents. Stapp stayed in occasional contact with his mother, but didn't speak to his father again for several years. His pricey private school, of course, quickly informed him that his bill was no longer being footed. Stapp cut a deal with the principal to work as a janitor for a full summer after graduation in exchange for the diploma. The singer recalls the work as being "humbling, but I was happy. I didn't care if I was scrubbing a toilet, I was free- I could be my own person. And I knew in my heart," he reiterates, "that I was put on this Earth for a reason, and that things were gonna be much bigger and better than scrubbing toilets."

Three years later, a hippie-chick girlfriend took Stapp to his first big rock festival. He'd never had concert opportunities before. And as he watched the singer onstage, Stapp's own book of revelations at last creaked open. That was what he wanted to do, he told himself- entertain the masses. Convey his innermost thoughts and convictions to a generation of listeners not necessarily programmed to receive such an undiluted honesty. A gamble, most assuredly. But a week later, Scott bid adieu to his gal-pal and- emboldened by a Jim Morrison biography that stressed the icon's Tallahassee background - moved to Tallahassee, a place where, he believed, musicians grew on trees next to the orange groves. Not so, as Tremonti- who relocated with his family- had already discovered. It didn't take long for the duo to connect; they began composing songs together the same week they met, then started searching for a reliable rhythm section. But Stapp says he did have one writing agenda, one that Tremonti totally respected: "To be understood. I always hated it when I'd listen to bands and had no idea what the hell the lyrics were talking about. I wanted people to identify with my songs, to see that they're real feelings. I don't wanna hide behind phrases and words that nobody understands- we wanna make people think about things in a different way, even if it's just for a moment."

Dutifully, Stapp sowed his sonic seeds and mapped out his Creed-o for all to study in songs such as "What's This Life For" ("You see my wrist, I know your pain/I know your purpose on your plane- don't say a last prayer"); "One" ("Why hold down one to raise another...the world is heading for mutiny, when all we want is unity"); and recent hit single "What If" ("What if you lied?/What if I avenge?/What if eye for an eye?"). Ultimately, "What If" is Stapp's most telling tidbit, because it brings to the surface the rage issues he seems to be confronting. True, he allows. All too true.

In interview, Stapp sports a baggy Oleander sweatshirt, baggy jeans and nondescript tennis shoes. Add to that his long, disheveled hair and ratty baseball cap, and it's easy to mistake him for one more roadie in all the backstage hustle and bustle. He appears mousy, kind of wiry, and not the type of guy to pick a fistfight (although he did recently harass a member of NSYNC for not having enough guts to write his own songs). Onstage, the profile changes dramatically- Stapp, in leather pants and billowy pirate shirt, suddenly morphs from dinky David to gargantuan Goliath, engineer-booted foot mounted firmly on the monitor, feline back arched over the microphone stand, hair whipping violently in time to Tremonti's jagged riffs. In short, the man is a helluva lot tougher than he looks. "What If," he snaps, visibly bristling at the mention,"was kind of a response to the press. Rolling Stone, MTV, SPIN, writers who've misquoted me. I think our story actually seemed a little boring for a long time, so we'd read stories where the writers would actually invent things that I never said. And it just got to me- feeling like I was under attack when I hadn't even met some of these people." Stapp leans forward, rubbing his hands together at the delicious idea. "I mean, what if I could take revenge? Where I come from, when someone maliciously tries to hurt you, you kick their ass. It's old school. You talk to 'em and if they get in your face, you fight 'em. And if you get your ass kicked, so be it- at least you're standing up for yourself." He sighs, catching himself, shaking his head over the legal realities attending such actions. "I know that's a barbaric way to look at it, and I don't handle situations that way. But it's part of who I am. I get these feelings- I'm a human being. When someone writes something and my mom calls me crying, I wanna hit 'em. Especially if it's not true. We're just a bunch of regular guys- we're not tying to hurt anyone. We're just trying to support our families like everyone else."

The equation is a bit more complex than that- once you exhibit a piece of private art for public consumption, you are, in the process, inviting criticism, kind or otherwise. But Stapp is more eager to dispel the erroneous Creed-as-Bible-thumper rumor than anything else. In truth, Creed- religious similes aside- are more like a sign of the times. If they weren't making consciousness raising rock like Human Clay, someone else probably would.

"It's scary these days," says Stapp, who'll turn 27 this August. "It's almost like people have lost contact with their souls. Everyone wants to be happy and nobody seems to know how to get there in a pure way." With organized religion vilified- televangelists caught with their hand in the till, priests caught with their hands up some alter boy's robe- the church, as Stapp knew it as a child, doesn't present a very appealing option to Gen-X and Gen-Yers. "So we look for quick fixes, temporary fixes. But I don't have the answers- I'm still trying to find my own happiness, y'know? And again, we're not preaching- I'm just a voice for what a lot of people are thinking sometimes. And that's the point that I'm trying to make- we're all inherently the same inside, we all share the same feelings, the same pains and joys, ups and downs. So why do we fight each other so hard to push everyone away?"

Good question. But one that probably won't be solved by even a thousand Creed compositions/queries. Is humankind headed for the Apocalypse, for some final fatal reckoning? Stapp ponders this for a minute. And you can almost hear the clank of the secular sword against the imposing chain mail of religion. "I don't know if I believe in that," he finally decides. "It's predicted in the Bible, but I don't know sometimes. If you read the Bible literally, God doesn't seem too nice. He seems a little mean- "Worship me or Die! Do what I say or get killed in Armageddon!" I mean, that's not how I choose to believe in God."

Repeatedly, Stapp refers to people's innate ability to take control of their lives, turn things around for themselves and the weary world around them. Another curious irony: Recognizing and using your own personal power is one of the founding principals of true Satanism, in which followers celebrate their own birthdays instead of Christmas. The singer- who's studied other world religions like Islam and discovered that, aside from the inclusion of Jesus, they're all pretty much the same- doesn't laugh with disrespect. "You definitely do have power," he echoes. "I mean, from the religious standpoint you can get blinded and think that you have to sit around and wait for God to do everything for you. But if you read the Bible and think about what it's teaching you, it's there for strength, there for guidance. But ultimately, you have to do it for yourself." Just outside the gameroom, there's a big to-do about counterfeit Creed backstage passes. Flyers are posted everywhere, noting the blatant differences: The fake ones have low-resolution photos of the group and a hokey Creed typeface; the real deal (like several of the group's t-shirts for sale at the merchandise booth) feature a horned, winged angel with eerie eyes like Stapp's staring back from it's withered countenance. Its scaly arms are outstretched in supplication- Lucifer, looking for a hand-out? And Creed do appear onstage in front of a Mephistopheles-monstrous wall of pyrotechnic flames. But one thing on which both Stapp and Tremonti agree- there are more things like Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in their modest philosophies, to paraphrase Shakespeare. After pouring over a tome called "Awake and Dreaming," Stapp decided- like the monks featured in the book- to attempt to control his dream state. It worked so well, it freaked him out. In a recurring nightmare that he'd had for 15 years- one in which he turned a certain way, only to get shot- he consciously altered it's outcome by turning the other way, then walking away safely from the gunman. The dream has not plagued him since. He also keeps a dream diary, and is regularly stunned when he lives simple dream scenarios- someone getting into an elevator and pushing the number 7, for instance- a few days after he imagines them. The 26-year old Tremonti is the first to mention the pair's unusual, almost umbilical bond. "We have ESP together," he explains in a separate interview, held a week earlier in a Dayton, Ohio hotel restaurant while a hailstorm pummels the window behind him. "I don't really believe in ghosts or magic, but it's really strange, creepy. We'll be thinking the exact same thing at the same time."

In fact, this is how the Creed cabal often write songs. Explains Stapp,"I'm a firm believer that there are endless possibilities to what the mind can do. And Mark and I definitely have a weird relationship in that regard. There've been numerous occasions when I've called him up at say, four o'clock in the morning and I'm like 'Dude! I've just written a kick-ass melody and some great lyrics!' And he's like 'That's so weird, man- I was up, strumming my guitar and I just wrote something too!' And he comes over and it'll fit exactly. Weird. And other things have happened to him physically- hypothetically, he gets jumped and punched in the gut, and I'll have a stomach ache. We've had three or four situations where things like that have happened between us. We have this connection inside of us, and I don't know what that is."

The Stapp/Tremonti team differs on only a handful of subjects. Tremonti is more worldly, more taken in by high-tech playthings; he can't live without his cellular (I lost it the other day and it felt like I'd lost my dog, he deadpans); he already owns 7 pricey pinball machines for his own gameroom at home, and just plunked down six grand (the same price that it cost Creed to record their Prison disc for the then unknown Wind-Up imprint) on a rare Addams Family Gold edition that, he swears will soon be the envy of all his neighborhood pals. But Stapp- who's just been given an updated bulletin that Jagger is, indeed, still asleep in the next room with his mom- has sketched a simpler, more rustic design for himself. "I wanna live in the country, in the woods," he concludes. "And do just like my granddad did with me- get my son up in the morning, go out to the chicken coop and get some eggs, and bring 'em in and cook breakfast." Corny, he knows. "But that's where I'm content- away from the big city and all it's lights."

"I'm not in this band because I need to be the center of attention- I don't need the rush of the crowd. And if Creed never toured again, never did another show, I'm not gonna be depressed. If it all ended tomorrow, I wouldn't feel like 'Oh my God! What am I gonna do? Where am I gonna get that high? Where am I gonna get that...fix? Creed is a release for me. Its an expression. And, hell! I can do that in my living room with an acoustic guitar! My perspective doesn't change from home to here," he says, smiling, just another concerned father rising to go and check on his son. "I just like peace. Peace and tranquility."

.Tom Lanham