Honestly: My Life and Stryper Revealed

by Michael Sweet

  I wouldn’t say that I ever overcame being shy, but I did start to become more comfortable singing to an audience. So eventually, over time, I’d join in with no coaxing at all.

  Nana gave me my first electric guitar and gave Rob his first drum kit. She and Popo took Robert down to the local K-Mart and bought him a set. I remember seeing it for the first time and watching him pound away on that kit and I thought to myself, now this is cool.

  Nana really helped to bring me out of my shell and always went the distance to encourage Rob and me in our love of music.

  Later in life, as Rob was going through different singers for his band, my dad would always say to him “You should audition Mike. He’s a good singer.” Rob would brush it off and proceed to audition another round of local guys for whatever band he had going at the time. This was fine by me. I was 12 and really had no interest in being in a band. There was trouble to be made and gotten into, and I had mischief to find with neighborhood friends. A band felt like work to me and I wasn’t ready for that.

  After going through several singers that didn’t work out, Rob finally caved and agreed to give me an audition. It was not a big deal to me. After all, it was my brother’s band, and I had heard them practicing and rehearsing dozens and dozens of times. My neighborhood friends were likely unavailable on the day I auditioned, so I was probably just thinking “What the heck. There’s nothing else to do today. I guess I could give this band thing a try.”

  But to my Dad, it was a much bigger deal. He had been suggesting to Robert for months, if not years, that he give me a try as the singer. So when Rob finally did agree to give me a shot, my Dad was obviously happy about it. He must have known something good would come out of this. To celebrate the occasion, Dad bought a Shure Vocal Master PA System, one of the most iconic PA systems in music history. It was one of the first portable sound systems, complete with a half-ton mixer/power amp and two speaker columns that were six feet tall. As long as I had a roadie, this hundred pound stick kid was set. Although I couldn’t even lift the thing, it was the coolest system I could have at that time.

  The audition took place in the garage of our house in Whittier, on Chatfield Street. We set up the PA and were just as excited about hearing it as we were about playing. Larry Richardson was the guitarist, Rob was the drummer, Dean Cerny was the bassist, and I played guitar and sang. We played mostly cover tunes by Hendrix, Bowie, Aerosmith and whatever else we knew. Occasionally we would break into a free-for-all jam—a slightly awkward attempt at creating our own music, I suppose. But mostly we covered rock classics that day. We played for about an hour or so.

  When it was over there was no ceremonious joining of the band. There were no papers to be signed stating my new title as lead singer. Basically Rob looked at me when it was over and said, “Well, that sounded pretty good, I guess.”

  From that day on, Rob would be in my life musically and professionally and I would be in his to the same degree.

  Following the audition, we lined up a grandiose tour of backyard parties and VFW halls. We would play for anyone with a yard big enough. We’d bang out a couple sets of covers and a few originals thrown in as well. We’d play anywhere and everywhere.

  Once, someone wanted us to play a backyard party under the condition that we’d mow the lawn. The yard was big and it looked like it hadn’t been mowed in months, but we mowed it. Just to get a backyard gig we brought out a couple of mowers and took turns cutting the grass—all in the name of rock.

  Gigs were fun then. They were small-time stuff, but they meant the world to us. Weeks of planning would go into each one of our shows. We’d carefully construct a set-list, print flyers to help advertise, and we’d spend days picking out the perfect stage wear. We’d set up in the corner of a backyard somewhere with the Shure PA system in front of our instruments. If the backyard had a concrete patio we’d use that, but more often than not, we set up right in the middle of the lawn.

  We did our best to make sure each show was a success. There were no aspirations of stardom or recording contracts. Our biggest concern then was how we would sound and how many people would show up. If we made $100 and could buy pizza, guitar strings and drum sticks, we were happy.

  It’s a lot more complicated today of course. Logistics, business decisions, branding, profitability, budgets, and contracts are more the topics of discussion when it comes time for a gig today, but I can’t help fondly reminiscing of a day when the most difficult part of a gig was to find a working lawnmower.

  Members came and went throughout those early years. I have distinct memories of them all, but one guy in particular stood out as I approached my high-school years.

  FIVE

  “F**k school! F**k the Principal! Don’t go back to class!” our stand-in guitar player shouted over the microphone during a lunchtime show at Whittier High School in 1978. Our band, Firestorm, had the opportunity to play during lunch break and we almost caused a riot that day.

  Rob and I swore that we’d never talk to that guitar player again. And we almost never did.

  Whittier High in 1978 was your standard mix of Southern California teens. There were geeks, jocks, rockers, cheerleaders, preps, poor kids and rich kids. It was a melting pot of personalities and ethnic diversities. Richard Nixon went to Whittier High, so it wasn’t exactly the bad part of town, but it wasn’t necessarily the best part of town either.

  We were doing our best to make a name for ourselves and we were just starting to get the hang of booking our own shows.

  After much persuading on our part, Whittier High School agreed to let us perform during lunch. Mind you, a rock band during lunch break was not an everyday occurrence at school, especially at that time. To my knowledge, we were one of the first. And after that day, we may have been the last.

  From our family station wagon, we lugged all of our gear onto the site and were a bit drained from setting up all morning. I remember it being an unusually hot day for Southern California, but we pressed on, ready for the big gig.

  Like when the lights dim over a sold out arena, or when the national anthem crescendos at a ball game, there’s that anticipatory moment just before the crowd rips into a roaring cheer. Our moment came when the starting lunch bell rang and the students emerged through the front doors of the school. It was on that day, at Whittier High School in 1978 that we became rock stars to our adoring fans toting homemade PB&J sandwiches.

  We did a few Van Halen covers along with some of our own songs. We weren’t exactly inimitable, but we were an acceptable rock band—at least for the lunch crowd. Toward the end of the set, after giving it our all, we were covered in sweat from performing in the mid day heat. In our minds, and particularly in the mind of our guitarist, we were good enough to have deserved an encore, maybe two. There was only one problem—the ending lunch bell had just rung and it was time for our crazed audience, along with their lunch boxes, notebooks and backpacks, to go back to class.

  Well, the guitarist wasn’t having it. He wanted and deserved an encore, or so he thought. Having been fairly quiet throughout the entire show, other than his rehearsed backing vocals, he decided to speak and when he did, that’s what came out of his mouth:

  “F**k school! F**k the Principal! Don’t go back to class!”

  Our jaws dropped. Some students were actually taking his advice and not going back to class. Teachers and faculty were obviously upset with us as they tried to calm the crowd and get them to go back into school. We were counting the seconds for the cops to show up. Miraculously, they never came.

  Rob and I were so embarrassed and we could have gotten in a lot of trouble because of that incident. We had put our reputations on the line with the school administrators in order to book this gig, and our guitarist sealed our fate with a few uncontrolled expletives.

  We decided that day we would never, ever perform with this guy again. Ever!

  If you’re wondering who he was, his name is Richard Martinez, also known as Oz Fox. Yes, that st
and-in guitarist who lost his cool would one day become our lifelong partner in Stryper.

  Rewind about a year earlier to the spring of 1977. There was a rock band in our area called Jekyll And Hyde, led by Richard Oderbagan (Odie), a black-eyeliner wearing, long-haired, double stack and SG slingin’ rock star (at least in our minds). Robert knew Odie and took me, his twelve-year-old brother, along to hear the band at their rehearsal space.

  Back then it was the “thing” to go hang around other band’s rehearsal rooms. Other musicians would come to these band practices, and it was usually in someone’s garage or an old warehouse. Everyone, including the band, would sit around and drink, talk, smoke pot and jam. Almost always there were grandiose tales of rock-stardom that usually started with “I can’t wait ‘til we make it!”

  Oh yeah, and sometimes the band would actually practice, too.

  In later years, when Roxx Regime was in full force, I wasn’t into the “hang out at other bands rehearsals” scene. I was too busy writing songs and trying to figure out how to make our band successful.

  But in the spring of 1977, I was only 12 years old and Robert took me along to Jekyll And Hyde’s rehearsal. There were a few people hanging around and Robert introduced me to one of them he knew from Whittier.

  “Hey, I’m Richard but people call me Oz” he said to me reaching out his hand from his non-descript t-shirt and tattered blue jeans.

  “Hey, I’m Michael,” I said with as much coolness as a 12 year old kid at a Jekyll And Hyde rehearsal could muster.

  That was the first time I met the guy who, for the better part of my professional career, would be my band-mate in Stryper, Oz Fox.

  So in 1977 I met this nice guy named Richard Martinez. In 1978 that same guy, bereft of any social graces common at a high school concert, almost got us banned from Whittier High permanently. And in 1981 he joined Roxx Regime.

  How we got from that moment in 1978 to him becoming a member of Roxx Regime in 1981 had a little bit to do with a brown Datsun Pick-up, a little bit to do with an unknown guitarist at the time from New York named C.C. Deville, and a whole lot to do with a ton of convincing on my part to persuade Rob to give Oz another shot at redemption.

  SIX

  Whether or not I’ve been willing to admit it, or even know it, God has always had his hand in my life and in this band. It’s been incredibly humbling to see the ways He has worked through us, and with us. From finding the right band members in the early years to capacity-crowd touring in the later years, He has always done amazing things within our lives.

  Fast-forward several years to the Soldiers Under Command era, for instance. We were billed to play a death metal festival in Holland. “Death Metal” by the way was the promoter’s description and billing of the show. Testament and Raven along with a dozen other similar acts were on the bill. The audience at this show was made up primarily of males, a sea of testosterone. I don’t recall seeing many females in the crowd at all. Most of the crowd was dressed in black leather jackets and studded wristbands, and all of them couldn’t seem to get enough of trashing something, including themselves.

  We approached the festival in a white 15-passenger van, and as we pulled up to the backstage area I saw guys being carried away on stretchers. There was blood on their clothes and I remember thinking and saying, “Why did John book this festival?” Until that point, we weren’t fully aware this was a thrash/death metal festival. We thought we were just performing at another rock festival in the middle of nowhere.

  As we observed the festival from backstage, we started having second thoughts about being there. This was NOT a Stryper crowd. As our time-slot approached and we began tuning our guitars backstage, we could hear the entire crowd beginning to chant something. It seemed to get louder and louder as each person in the audience joined in. “F**k Stryper! F**k Stryper!” the masses shouted as if it were the start of a sporting event, and we were the opposing team.

  At one point we stood side stage and saw someone holding up a 6-foot, upside down cross that had Robert’s face overtop a cardboard cutout of a girl in a bikini. Odd. Why Robert and why a girl in a bikini, I have no idea. I can only assume it was some sort of reference to us looking like girls. Then they started burning the cross and tearing it apart. It was crazy.

  This crowd obviously did not like us. Actually, they hated us. We briefly discussed the idea of cancelling, out of fear for our lives. It felt as though the audience was planning to rip us to shreds.

  But we chose not to cancel. Instead, we decided to alter the set eliminating the ballads of course and anything with a “pop” sense. We did every “heavy” song we could. The first three songs were mostly spent dodging bottles, food, and chains that were getting thrown at us. Yes, chains. There was a moment during the first song where I looked up and saw a chain with a padlock attached to the end hurling in my direction. I ducked. It missed me, but it could have easily taken my head off.

  After the third song, I felt God’s anointing. I hadn’t felt God’s direct presence like this, of this magnitude, ever before in my life. It was as if He was standing right there with us on stage. It was powerful.

  In an instance the crowd turned. Their anger and our fear subsided. I’m convinced it was God’s spirit moving over the crowd. It wasn’t the songs. It wasn’t anything we did. God brought peace to that festival and everyone there. What once was intense mayhem, was now immense calm. Within another couple of songs, things went to a whole different level—the crowd was now head banging and seemingly loving the band! They had their fists in the air and were cheering after every song. I’ve never witnessed anything so powerful in all my life. It was mind-blowing to experience and something that I will never forget.

  After the show, new fans approached us saying things like “We had no idea. We didn’t know you were this good. You changed our opinion of the band forever.” When I left after the show to head back to the hotel, I remember clearly thinking, “God is really doing something special with this band.” I knew then He had huge plans for us.

  To me, this is one of the many miracles God has shown us. But that festival in Holland stands out as one of the most powerful and life changing.

  Years prior however, the miracles came in less obvious ways.

  During the audition process to find an additional guitar player, we auditioned a new guy in town from New York by the name of Bruce Johannesson, otherwise known as CC Deville. I had met CC previously and we hit it off. He seemed like a great guy and we got along well. Our band had been playing out as a trio for a quite a while, with me handling all the guitars, but we were actively seeking a fourth member. CC came in to our rehearsal studio and we went through a typical audition process playing some covers and some of our tunes, just to get a feel on how we’d gel together. Musically it felt great but at the end of the night, he inquired about the yellow and black. Rob was adamant about keeping the yellow and black, so when CC suggested he wasn’t really into the color scheme, I could sense Rob’s defense mechanism kick in. The yellow and black was Rob’s baby and he was convinced we should stick with it. So no matter how good CC was, if he couldn’t wear the colors, he wasn’t going to be in the band. CC politely declined the opportunity, stating he really wasn’t digging the yellow and black thing and that he was more of a pink and purple kind of guy. And our auditions with others continued. But to think, had our color scheme been pink and purple, CC Deville just might have become a member of our band.

  Just another one of God’s miracles, both for him and for us, I’m sure. I can’t imagine Poison without CC, and I’m certain he is thankful as well for the path he took.

  We also auditioned Doug Aldrich. Doug had just arrived from Philly and was pursuing a gig in town. Doug and I met on the strip and became the best of friends. We hung out and were inseparable for a while. That audition didn’t work out either. It wasn’t really a decision on either of our parts—I think we both just kind of knew it wasn’t the right fit musically, and Doug went on to join
the band Lion soon after. I think the world of Doug and I consider him to be one of the best guitarists of our generation.

  During my high school years, as we continued to audition guitarists, I would regularly run into Oz at school and around town. He owned a dark brown Datsun pick-up truck with a shell and would often give Greg and me lifts home from school. During the short drives he would play cassettes of whatever rock band we were into at the moment and we would talk music the whole way home. We’d listen to UFO, Scorpions, Black Sabbath, Yesterday And Today and anything else that was guitar driven. I began to establish a friendship with Oz and I got the sense that he was a good guy and that he and I had the same direction in music, and we did.

  After the infamous Whittier High gig, I continued to press Rob, asking if he would consider having Oz back in the band. Rob was so against it. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Oz. As I‘ve said before, it seems that once Rob is done with something, he’s done with it. And the Whittier High incident made Rob done with Oz.

  But I was persistent, as I often can be, and Robert eventually opened up to the idea. We eventually asked Oz to join the band, and he agreed. Now, if we could just solve our revolving door of bass players, maybe we’d have a real band.

  SEVEN

  Remember when you were in high school and there was that hot girl, usually a cheerleader, who was untouchable? And although you’d love the chance to date her, you knew that you couldn’t because she was dating the quarterback. Even if she wasn’t dating the quarterback, you probably still wouldn’t have a shot with her. Remember that girl?

  Timothy Gaines was the musical equivalent of that girl. In terms of bass players, he was unattainable, at least so we thought.