On February 17, 1991, our beautiful daughter Ellena Rae was born. Ellena’s birth helped me to see what was important and what was not. Daily, my focus grew less about Stryper and more about my family. I’m not sure if it’s the same emotional bond for every dad that has a daughter, but Lena’s birth brought some sense of structure to my life and helped me to realize the importance of family first, music second.
Although Kyle and I weren’t supposed to have any more children, Lena’s entrance into this world indirectly brought stability and healing to a broken marriage and a wounded relationship. When Lena was born, it took the doctors an exceedingly long time to revive her and get her breathing on her own. We prayed earnestly for her, and not long after, she cried out and gasped for air. We almost lost her. It was a miraculous moment that seemed to bind our family together in a way like never before. Mikey and Lena both seemed to be miracle babies, and each separate experience of seeing my children born drew me closer to God and ultimately, closer to my family.
Soon after Ellena’s arrival into this world, the band completed recording and on July 20, 1991 we released Can’t Stop The Rock, a collection of hits with two new songs. Only a handful of tour dates were planned to support this album. None of us was really in the mood to tour, at least not relentlessly as we had done in the past. And I had a beautiful new baby girl at home who was now the focus of my life.
But in August we scheduled to do a show at The Whiskey in Hollywood, which would be followed by two dates in Germany. I was feeling sick at the Whiskey show and couldn’t figure out what was wrong. The next morning I was feeling worse, much worse. I went to the doctor and discovered I had pneumonia.
As we were scheduled to go to Germany soon, I notified our agent and the guys that we’d need to cancel those two shows. The doctor said I’d be out for at least two weeks. I thought that was optimistic because I felt like I was on my deathbed. Within an hour or so after I notified everyone of my condition, I was down for the count. I got a call back from Rob saying that they felt it would be best if they went over to Germany and fulfilled their obligations. He said this hesitantly, knowing I wouldn’t be happy.
He was right, I wasn’t happy—but not for the reasons they may have assumed. Although I applaud their commitment to the shows, I felt betrayed, not to mention belittled. Was my contribution so insignificant to this band that they felt they could go and do shows without me, and that the fans wouldn’t care?
I couldn’t believe that the guys were going overseas without me while I felt as though I was breathing my last breath in bed. Maybe I was getting a taste of my own medicine since I was so dismissive of Oz’s involvement with the recent recordings. But somehow it felt different. I was the front man for Stryper, but I felt as though they were saying “Eh. You get your rest. It’s no problem. Nobody will even notice you’re gone. We’ll go play these two shows and be back before you know it.”
That was it. That was the turning point for me. If there was any doubt in my mind whether or not I would remain in this band, this moment sealed the deal. Ten years together and it came down to this—me sick with pneumonia and my band saying, “Hope you feel better. Get well soon. But you know, the show must go on.”
By this time there was so much animosity and distance between all of us, I didn’t really care what happened.
They returned from the Germany run. I read reports that many fans were disappointed. No kidding. I don’t blame them. If I paid to go hear my favorite band, that’s exactly what I want to do—hear my favorite band, not 75 percent of my favorite band, with the missing 25 percent being the primary voice of my favorite band. I’d be a little upset too. The shows could have and should have been postponed.
December rolled around and we hammered together a string of dates that started in the Northeast and took us through the Midwest and down into Texas. Oddly enough, despite our declining popularity, we sold out two nights in a row at The Union Bar in Minneapolis. This 13- show run wrapped up on December 22, 1991 at the Celebrity Theater in Anaheim, California. I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be my last show with Stryper for almost 10 years.
Believe it or not, as 1992 came around, somehow talks of a new record crept into conversation. One thing leads to another, and we actually started setting up to rehearse songs for another album at our warehouse.
Kyle knew I was unhappy and that I wanted out. She and I regularly discussed the pros and cons of leaving Stryper. To both of us, the pros column was much larger than the cons column. But still, the reality of actually leaving the band was somewhat frightening. It was all I had ever known. Playing music with Robert, Oz, and Tim had seen me tour the world over, appear on radio, television and MTV, get married, have two kids, and witness first-hand God changing lives through Stryper.
Was I really ready to give this up?
Yes! A resounding “Yes” was the answer every time I asked myself that question, and a resounding “Yes” every time I prayed and asked God for answers.
Finally, one day I said to Kyle, “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna quit. Tonight is the night. When I go to rehearsal tonight, I’m quitting.” I went to the Stryper warehouse that night with determination. That day would be my last in Stryper, I was sure of it.
But that night I wasn’t feeling quite so brave, so we just jammed and worked on some song ideas. I returned home that night only to have Kyle ask how it went, and I shared that I just couldn’t do it today.
A few days went by and I got my courage up again. “Seriously. I’m quitting, today,” I said with a smile to Kyle as I exited the door headed once again to the dreaded Stryper rehearsal warehouse. As I was leaving, she smiled back with a glance of encouragement and love. “Good luck. I love you!”
“How’d they take it?” she asked when I got home. My head bowed with embarrassment, again. “You couldn’t do it, could you?” she said in a supportive tone that made me appreciate her even more. She said, “That’s okay. You’ll know when the time is right.”
See, that’s the thing about Kyle. As much as Stryper was the catalyst to potentially ruining our marriage, she still wasn’t pushing me out. She didn’t like me being in Stryper at the time, but only because she knew the kind of man I was becoming in that band. She also saw how desperately I no longer wanted to be that man. So instead of getting mad and saying, “Why can’t you just do it? Quit, you idiot!” she embraced me, knowing that this sort of thing—conflict and change—didn’t come easy for me.
The next week it was the same routine again. Leaving the house, I was convinced this was my last day in Stryper only to return home without results because I just couldn’t find the right words. By that point I started making excuses, not so much to Kyle—she didn’t need excuses—but more to myself. “Someone stopped by. It wasn’t a good time to talk.” or “Robert was feeling a bit sick. It was a bad time to break the news.” Excuse after excuse.
This went on for a while. Eventually Kyle stopped asking, and I stopped making empty promises. Before too long Kyle’s departing words became more perfunctory than encouraging, “Have a good time at rehearsal. Drive safely.”
One day, there were no mentions of the forgotten exit plan, and I went to practice as usual. This time though, before I even picked up my guitar, I just started spilling my heart. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I don’t just come right out and say, “I quit.” Instead I lead the listener on a long journey of explanations leaving them guessing where the story is going.
I talked. Rob, Oz, and Tim listened, and surely they wondered where I was going with all of this.
I talked about how I wanted to put my family and marriage first. How I now had two children and felt as though I was not the father and husband I wanted to be. I talked about how I missed the old days when we, as a band, were spiritually unified. I spoke of wanting to get back on the right path and that I was finding it difficult to do so with the way things were going. I said I was ashamed and embarrassed about how we had been acting as a band. I
discussed our declining popularity. I shared that I wanted something new, something fresh, and something exciting.
Now looking back on it, after 30 minutes of pouring out my heart, I suppose one of two things could have come out of my mouth as a conclusion to my rambling, either “Let’s pull ourselves up, get ourselves right with God, and make Stryper the best band it can be with new songs, new energy and a renewed vow in our faith.” or “I quit.”
I chose the latter. And although I didn’t say the exact words, “I quit,” I do believe I concluded with, “I’ve decided it’s time for me to leave the band and work on my own life and my family.”
It was a somber conclusion. There were several attempts, mostly by Rob, to try and salvage things. Rob’s the eternal optimist. I love him for that. He would have done almost anything to keep this band together, and I think that’s what broke my heart. I felt as though I was letting him down, that I was breaking off with my own brother. I was, in a professional sense. The thought of letting Rob down tore me to pieces. At moments during the evening, I looked at Robert with his head bowed. He knew this wasn’t going to end well. At one point he glanced up and caught my eye. I had to look away for fear I’d start crying.
Despite knowing that I needed to get out of this band, I felt guilty for letting Rob, Tim, and Oz down. Mostly Rob. Actually, that is the only reason it took me so long to do it. I didn’t want to let them down. I wanted out, I just didn’t know how to go about it.
As we wrapped up the evening with small talk, we grabbed our gear and headed out to our cars. I put my guitar case in the trunk of my Sterling, waived to Rob as he was driving out of the parking lot, and I headed home for the last time from a Stryper band practice.
On the drive home I was filled with equal parts of sadness and joy. At moments during the drive I couldn’t help but smile. I was free! And as quickly as that smile came, I could feel myself tearing up. I never questioned that this was what I wanted—I just wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it once it actually happened. Now I know—joy and sadness. Stryper was done, or at least I was done with Stryper.
When I got home it had been so long since I first began making promises of quitting, Kyle didn’t even bother to ask. “Oh, hey honey. Mikey and Lena are asleep. I put some leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry...”
“I quit,” I said interrupting her in mid-sentence.
“What do you mean you quit? Seems she had already forgotten. Or maybe she just didn’t want to seem hopeful that it was the band I was talking about.
“I quit the band. I’m no longer in Stryper.”
She didn’t say a word. She walked over and put her arms around me. Not because she was happy, although I’m sure she was. She knew I wanted this. But she also knew I would be a mess. She hugged me and didn’t say a word. She knew that I must be filled with an array of emotions and what I needed the most weren’t words of comfort. I just needed love and encouragement—and she gave that to me unconditionally.
That night she didn’t ask me questions like, “What’s it feel like? What’s next? Are you going to do a solo album?” nor did she attempt to slander the band by saying anything negative. All those things you might think a wife would say on a night like this, she said none of them. She was just there for me. If I wanted to talk, she would listen.
But I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to know every little detail of what Mikey and Lena did while I was gone. It was my first step toward genuinely wanting to rebuild our family and be more available for them. I didn’t want to re-live the conversation with the guys. I wanted to help pick up the kids toys and do chores around the house. I wanted to be a dad. I wanted to be a husband.
I went to bed that night in February 1992 for the first time as Michael Sweet, father and husband, with not a single care as to what my future might hold professionally. I went to bed that night with no regrets. I was committed to giving my life completely to God, my wife, and my children. Finally, I was free—free to do what I wanted to do. And it felt great! “Thank you God. My life is back in Your hands again. Use me as You see fit. I’m Yours.”
THIRTY-ONE
What now? I’m out of Stryper.
And did I mention that I’m also broke and bankrupt?
Throughout all the debauchery and inner-band turmoil, there was also the financial stress. We were the classic story: rags to riches and back to rags.
If VH1 were to do a “Behind the Music” episode on Stryper, I could hear Jim Forbes as he would likely say in his signature voice, “Stryper was a band that had it all and broke down barriers doing the unthinkable in taking their yellow-and-black religious message to the mainstream. But ultimately, they would choke on their own financial excess. Less than a decade after shocking the world with their seminal debut, they would find themselves back in the very place they started, without a record label or a bank account. The righteous rockers have lived the dream, as well as the nightmare, of the rock ’n’ roll roller coaster.”
Throughout this haunting narration would be footage of us in private helicopters, setting up our elaborate and expensive stage, and numerous semis full of equipment would be parked next to a limousine. The upbeat background music would turn to somber stringed instruments and the “lifestyles of the rich and famous” footage would segue into melancholy shots of me sitting on the front porch of my dilapidated house in the ghetto, smoking a cigarette donning a seven-day unshaven beard with an empty bottle of whiskey in my hand—although the latter part of that scene would not be true, it would make for good TV, wouldn’t it?
In 1992, not only were we without a record label, I received this news: “Oh, by the way, we’re almost $2 million in debt.”
Two million dollars? How does that even happen? I know exactly how it happens. I let other people make financial decisions on my behalf, and I didn’t pay any attention to my own business affairs. All those times I would quietly question the overspending, I should have spoken up and demanded answers.
Even more damaging, we still had never incorporated, which meant we had to file bankruptcy as a partnership, therefore individually. When I received the news, the words of our attorney from years earlier rang in my head, “I don’t care if Winnie-the-Pooh is president of the corporation. Just pick somebody to be president and let’s form this corporation so you’ll be protected.”
We of course didn’t listen to him. Our egos and stupidity got in the way of us choosing a president for our corporation, again a position that meant nothing more than a title—and our way of solving that issue was to just ignore the issue. Now we’re all personally bankrupt as a result.
As high as we might have gone with this band, the unraveling of the business deals that had been going on were of the lowest of the lows. We were now the cliché of musicians who made money. We didn’t know what to do with it, and we were now penniless.
Experiencing the explosion that took place with Stryper’s popularity was quite a whirlwind. We rose quickly, and were not prepared to handle it all in a financially responsible manner.
All of a sudden we went from having nothing in 1982 to flying first class and staying in five-star hotels. We were making a lot of money and driving nice cars, but we weren’t putting any of our money into long-term investments.
Up until this time, my mom had been the primary manager of the band. The bankruptcy period was on her watch, and I would imagine that didn’t set well with her knowing that she was in the driver’s seat. I don’t put all of the blame on my mom, or even most of the blame for that matter. Yes, she was not only managing the band and handling our finances, but it was all of our jobs to keep an eye on what was happening—to boldly question anything we didn’t agree with. We didn’t. We gave her free reign for the most part, and in that respect, it’s our fault.
At our peak, we might have been making $100,000 a night, but we were spending more like $125,000 a night. And when you operate a business like that, you eventually wake up two million dollars in debt. If you look back
at the production we would take on tour—the “no devil”, “no 666” and “Stryper” signs, the elaborate and enormous Stryper flashing backdrop, the rotating, 1000 light dual drum kits, the expensive means of travel—it all just added up over time and none of us was keeping tabs.
It was our attorney, Stephen Ashley, the one who wisely advised us to incorporate many years ago, who had the unfortunate job of calling a meeting between all the band members and my mom. Our tax accountant was also present. We sat across from one another at a large conference table when Stephen delivered the news. Everyone had already gathered when I entered the room and from the somber atmosphere I almost thought someone had died. I knew we had a serious meeting planned, but I had no idea what was about to come out of Stephen’s mouth: “We’ve studied this every way possible, and unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be any way out but for all of you to declare bankruptcy.”
It was a wake-up call and I was furious—at my mom and at myself. All Rob and I could do was shake our heads in disbelief. Every “Would of, Could of, Should of” imaginable ran through my mind. If only I had paid more attention to what was going on.
My mom, at the time, dismissed it, blaming “overspending” as the cause. You think? What I really wanted from her was an apology or at least a partial admission of fault. But instead I got reasoning and explanations. “Of course it was overspending!” I thought but didn’t say it.
Again, I didn’t put all, or even most of the blame on her. I just wished she had accepted a little more of the responsibility.
We owed a lot of people money, two million dollars worth. So aside from the shame of having to declare bankruptcy, we had a lot of debtors angry with us, including the management company we had signed on with, Gold Mountain. We were so deep in debt by the time they took us on, we didn’t have the money to pay commissions—so they weren’t too happy when they found out they wouldn’t be getting some of their money as well.
Honestly: My Life and Stryper Revealed Page 17