Nostalgia is a wonderful concept. Looking back a decade and a half ago, we remember sorting through each others’ cassettes and CDs, trading and mixing like kids of  the ’00s exchanged Pokemon (or how yesteryear had baseball cards and Star Trek). It was gatherings such as these that brought me face-to-face with Stone Temple Pilots beyond “Plush” at karaoke or “Vasoline” on MTV long ago.

I procured a copy of Tiny Music… by trading with my best friend’s sister (alongside Smashing Pumpkins’ single, “The Aeroplane Flies High”) back in 2000, being the late-as-usual type once again. The musical diversity of this once-semi-grunge rock act, the innuendo swagger of Scott Weiland, the symbiotic relationship of the DeLeo brothers, and so on all impressed me. Tiny Music‘s eclectic groove makes you appreciate drug-fueled artists before they get well, get worse, get well, and reunite with old friends. Let’s face it — as my dear editor pointed out — 1999′s No. 4, along with most of STP in Purple and back, is truly heroin-filled music we would have no other way, in spite of “Sour Girl” being overplayed for good measure, and that had a charm about it.

Stone Temple Pilots’ newest eponymous record represents a dichotomy to longtime fans of the band. On the one hand, Stone Temple Pilots is full of feel-good summer infectiousness, eloquently timed for its respective release date, and frankly the absence of hooks is almost unnoticeable, especially to the casual indie rock listener. On the other hand, this is STP with Weiland on a clean slate and his band mates checking into their late ’90s vibe with more blues tinges a la Black Crowes or Aerosmith, tapered off toward the end without much substance. This release hinges on a quasi-reinvigorated STP as if the band just woke up from a deep sleep, completely unwound, ready to dance in the warm, fat sun of a new day, but never really thinking past the first step.

Another big addition to this new flavor of STP is a penchant for trying on old suits in a new changing room, attempting to recapture sounds that never really belonged to the band but seem to carry a sleek fit. “Cinnamon” has a very Paul Westerberg vibe, “Dare If You Dare” comes off as a mixture of Chris Cornell-ish vocals and old STP sound, while  “Hazy Daze” seems to be channeling Jane’s Addiction, and in such a fine linen fashion it is very much a guilty pleasure — both for STP and for us fans. Aside from the Mats stab, Stone Temple Pilots manage to prove that every sound that surrounds them is welcome to their party, and I’ll be damned if it does not meld well with the entire idea of being refreshed.

Stone Temple Pilots as a band, at this particular juncture, is the brainchild that wore its headphones to bed the night before, allowing bits of that aforementioned nostalgic bliss to seep in, suturing up the mental gaps with Rolling Stones suave and classic rock dexterity while trading pop hooks for jamming aesthetics (“Bagman”, “Fast As I Can”). Its subject matter seems partially overlooked and overpowered in the duration of this album, but the delivery of its sound has been glazed in sunshine and sobriety like a doughnut ready for easy digestion — that is, if one ignores the lackluster closer “Samba Nova”, which sounds less like STP fitting a suit and more like a remnant of cutting room efforts (that being said, had this record ended at Bowie-esque, Corey/Topanga summer lovin’ “First Kiss On Mars”, perfection man).

The initial bites (“Between The Lines”, “Take A Load Off”), though dry and lingering from single status on the former, are sweet to taste as one closes their eyes in savoring galore of reminders hearkening back to Tiny Music…. “Huckleberry Crumble” is indicative of Aerosmith, only with better music (face it, Aerosmith hasn’t written a worthy tune in years). It’s the shavings of sugar left stuck to your wax paper, the ones you cannot resist licking. Stone Temple Pilots is, in fact, a fund-raising Krispy Kreme doughnut — a sweet, delicious guilty pleasure for the regulars, or an easy-going introductory purchase for the uninitiated.

This album is what happens when Weiland drops his drug-addled torture and starts going to way too many Phish concerts, what happens when you mix late ’90s alt rock with jam bands and positive reinforcement. All in all, the influences are scattered across the map; some more blatant rip-off than others, some more elegant and drenched in traditional STP swing, but even in lacking the hooks, Stone Temple Pilots is an absolute pleasure to listen to — a big step-up from the uber-saccharin Shangri La Dee Da.

On a side note, the album artwork perfectly represents this record, too.