Honestly: My Life and Stryper Revealed Read online

  Michael went on to become a touring member of Boston during 2008.

  I’d love to lean back in my chair, light a cigar, prop my feet on the desk and tell you I orchestrated the whole thing. But I didn’t. His union with Boston and recognition the world over as a talented musician came about because of his hard work and devotion to his craft. It happened naturally—the way great music usually does—without the intrusion of managerial finesse. It happened because Michael is truly an amazing talent.

  When Stryper fans ask me, “What’s Michael like?” I respond with “He’s pretty normal.” He’s not, actually. He’s insanely motivated and driven, and sometimes he has a fairly strange sense of humor. But as a human being, he’s actually pretty normal.

  I recall going to Boston during the recording of Reborn as the area got hit with a really bad snowstorm. I was in the studio with engineer Kenny Lewis. At some point we looked around and couldn’t find Michael. We walked out the studio door and there was Michael with a big smile on his face shoveling snow off the sidewalk. He just disappeared, grabbed a shovel, and started shoveling snow without telling anyone. That’s Michael Sweet, equally as happy recording a Billboard-charting record as he is shoveling snow.

  I tell people all the time that I haven’t worked a day in my life. It’s because I do what I love—music. And I have Stryper to thank for putting me on that path. I feel as though I have truly lived The American Dream. I went from selling my stereo for Stryper tickets to managing the band, all in one lifetime.

  This is the effect Stryper has on people every day. They give people hope and inspiration. They help you believe in yourself and that you have the ability to do anything you set your mind to. I am living proof of that. I walked out of my very first concert, a Stryper concert, saying “This is what I want to do with my life.” And I did.

  Thank you Tim, Oz, Rob, and Michael for giving me hope at such a young age, and for believing in me for so many years as your manager. You all are truly amazing people and I am forever grateful for being a part of your organization.

  -Dave Rose, Raleigh, NC December 2013

  ONE

  I drink. Occasionally I smoke. If you ask my wife, my kids, my tech, my agent or my manager they'll all tell you that I curse more than I should. I've fooled around with women on tour buses. I’ve been arrested for indecent exposure. I've been reckless with money to the point of bankruptcy. My favorite bands are The Beatles, Van Halen and Judas Priest. I was pissed at God when my wife died of cancer and I despise religion.

  I am a Christian.

  I'm Michael Sweet. I’m a singer, guitarist, songwriter, producer and a founding member of the pioneering Christian rock band Stryper. We've sold almost 10 million records to date and were the first Christian band to air on MTV, and to have four #1 videos. We even had two top-10 videos at the same time, back when MTV actually played music videos. We've played soccer stadiums and biker bars, sometimes in the same week.

  Despite having done all of that, I'm still often known as the Bible-Tossing-Yellow & Black-Bumble-Bee guy. The Jesus guy. The ‘80s hair/glam Christian metal guy. An irrelevant joke. Or, even worse—sometimes I'm not known at all.

  So who am I? I'm a guy that grew up in Southern California—sort of a surf punk kind of guy who absolutely loved music. My brother, Robert, and I are the founding members of Stryper. Our band hit at the right time in the right place, and I thank God for every experience that I've had.

  If you've picked up this book in hopes of reading stories about me hiding in a closet shooting up heroin, buying prostitutes with all my earnings or beating the crap out of a club owner because he looked at me funny, you should probably read the Motley Crue book instead, because you won't find that here. I’m not better than they are, but my story is different. I’m not an angel, either, and I think you'll find some pretty eye-opening stories, and I hope—whether you know my music or not—you'll find them enlightening or at least entertaining.

  When I casually become a little introspective, I conclude that I'm a fairly normal guy—but that might just be wishful thinking. You read through the stories of my life and then you decide—am I a regular guy or am I just a big mess?

  In one lifetime that seems like an instant I've gone from being a struggling musician on The Sunset Strip to being the songwriter in a multi-platinum selling band (Stryper), to going bankrupt (Stryper), to leaving Stryper, to topping the charts on Christian radio (solo years), to working at a campground and harvesting cranberries, to reuniting with Stryper, and then being a co-lead singer and guitarist in another multi-multi-platinum selling band (Boston), to losing my wife to cancer, to remarrying, to leaving Boston, to recording more Stryper records and producing more solo albums. God only knows what's next.

  I live near Cape Cod and I’m blessed with two incredible kids, Mikey and Ellena, and an amazing wife, Lisa. I have a handful of people I would call friends and a whole lot of people who I know by face, but couldn't tell you their names if my life depended on it. My life is good. Still to this day I can’t believe that I get paid for what I do, and not a day goes by that I take that for granted.

  I have the most unique legion of fans. The vast majority of my fans are, like me, middle-aged family people. Good, normal people, many with some sort of Christian upbringing, but yet out of nowhere I find out that people like Larry The Cable Guy and Chris Jericho are fans. That Mike Wengren (Disturbed) and Richard Christy (Iced Earth) are fans. I read an article once where Wyclef Jean said he grew up listening to Stryper. Twiggy from Marilyn Manson saw us back in the day and even dressed up as a member of Stryper for career day when he was in high school. John 5 (Rob Zombie) saw us multiple times when he was growing up and even caught a bible that he still has to this day! Drew Barrymore recently used a Stryper T-shirt in her film Whip It.

  To the mainstream public or maybe even to the hobbyist musician, I'm the guy that may be slightly cooler than Kip Winger, but isn’t nearly as cool as Bono. But if you get a couple of beers in people, you'd be shocked at who is willing to say, "Stryper? Hell yeah. They're one of my all-time favorite bands. To Hell With The Devil, baby."

  How it got to this point, I have no idea. Some would call it luck. Some may call it a curse. I call it humbling divine intervention.

  TWO

  Whether you are a plumber, doctor, lawyer, or banker, there is someone, perhaps even several people, whom you can attribute to directly influencing your chosen career path.

  For me, those people are Janice Sweet, Philip Sweet, Robert Sweet, and Jimmy Swaggart. We’ll get to Jimmy later, but let me start at the beginning.

  On July 4, 1963, my mother Janice Sweet gave birth to me, Michael Harrison Sweet, at Whittier Presbyterian Hospital on Washington Boulevard, about 20 miles east of downtown Los Angeles.

  Robert is actually my half-brother. I also have a half-sister Lisa, who is also a half-sister to Robert. Robert, Lisa, and I each have different biological fathers. My mother, with all the promise of love-ever-after, married two times before she met Phillip, my biological father, who eventually became a brakeman for The Southern Pacific Railroad by day and was a very gifted musician by night.

  My father later legally adopted Robert and Lisa.

  My mom and dad loved us all unconditionally and equally. It is because of their love and support and lack of pressure that my chosen profession has been music. I wouldn’t be writing this book today if it were not for the encouragement and support of my parents over the years.

  I was born into a family of working musicians. Don Imus’ brother, Fred Imus, was my dad’s songwriting partner and together they penned the number one country song in 1976 called “I Don’t Want to Have to Marry You”, performed by Jim Ed Brown and Helen Cornelius. Jim Ed Brown, founding member of The Browns, had a number one hit in 1959 with the song “The Three Bells.” My dad’s song helped re-ignite Jim Ed Brown’s career.

  My mother, also a very talented singer, was in a trio with my aunt Reba and my grandmother Maxine. They sang i
n a live version of the show Gunsmoke. In 1958, my mom was in a beauty contest with Amanda Blake, “Miss Kitty” on Gunsmoke, as a judge. Not long after, she became friends with James Arness who played Matt Dillon on the show and she went to a few tapings that year.

  The business of entertainment was in my life from the start. I didn’t have to go searching for music. It came searching for me. It was a familiar part of my daily childhood. A normal weekend for me would be filled with babysitters while my parents were out performing at clubs.

  My mom recalls that I used to rock back and forth, or as she calls it- “bop,” in whatever chair I was sitting in, keeping time to whatever music was being played around me at the time. I never did really shake the habit. Still to this day, when I hear music I have to move some part of my body. My feet. My hands. My head. I probably drive people crazy with my inability to sit still when music is playing, and perhaps that’s why I gravitated towards guitar as a way to channel and release my nervous energy.

  My first memory of learning to play guitar was at the age of five when my dad began teaching me some basic chords on a Gibson 12-string acoustic. What kid learns to play guitar on a Jumbo 12-string acoustic? I did! Looking back on that, I’m amazed that my little fingers could manage such a task, but it’s quite possibly the very thing that helped me to progress at such a fast pace.

  By the time I was 10, I was a session player on my dad’s country demos, where Robert, 13 at the time, played drums. Truthfully, my dad could have gotten the best players in the business to perform on those sessions, but he lovingly and patiently gave my brother and me a shot. That’s my dad—very family minded and always willing to encourage us in all our interests. He believed in us and I’m forever thankful that he gave Robert and me an opportunity to record at such an early age.

  The studio was always filled with seasoned pros and being around those guys was a real inspiration. Of course, at the time I didn’t realize the magnitude of the influence they were having on me, but I learned so much from being a part of those sessions—watching the other musician’s play and picking up everything I could from anyone who would take the time to teach me something new.

  One player in particular that I remember was an incredibly well known country/blues player by the name of Lou Martin. Lou would give me tips and pointers when we were between takes or waiting for set-up. I tried to absorb everything I could from Lou. He was probably one of my earliest influences as a guitar player aside from Chuck Berry and John Fogerty. Looking back, I’ve often wondered if this was a strategic plan on the part of my dad to surround me with amazing musicians at such a young age. Planned or not, it certainly inspired my love for music and for playing guitar.

  My parents were as encouraging and supportive as anyone could be throughout my childhood and my years as a growing musician. Whereas a garage for most Dads is typically sacred space for working on cars, collecting tools, or storing cold beer, my dad always gave up his “man cave” and let us turn every garage of every home into a rehearsal space.

  When I was in the third grade, Robert and I entered a talent show at our elementary school. We played two instrumental songs, “Honky Tonk” by Bill Doggett and “Walk, Don’t Run”, a song first recorded by jazz great Johnny Smith, but made famous in 1960 by The Ventures.

  We won 1st place! I played bass and Rob of course played drums. Despite the fact that the bass guitar was three times my size, and we looked like The Partridge Family in some fairly ridiculous outfits, it was our first taste of feeling the energy of a crowd from a stage. I liked it. It was just a third grade talent show, but to me, we may as well have been in a stadium playing for thousands of screaming fans.

  From that moment on, there was never any doubt that this is what I wanted to do with my life. And what’s amazing to me is that I still love doing what I do as much as I did that day in elementary school with my oversized bass and Keith Partridge shirt.

  Prior to winning the talent show, I was a short, skinny kid with a bowl cut. Almost overnight I became a cool kid. Music has always had a way of lending a helping hand to my personal life along the way.

  We moved a lot when I was young. I went to three different elementary schools, one junior high school, and four high schools. So naturally it was tough to fit in everywhere and I found myself constantly trying to make new friends. But the one thing that saved me was music.

  Still though, I didn’t quite dive into music with the same passion as my brother. Robert was married to music, I was just flirting with it.

  THREE

  It’s ironic that the preacher who would eventually speak out boldly against Stryper was the same one who first led me to Christ—Jimmy Swaggart.

  I was twelve years old when I first said the sinner’s prayer. The sinner’s prayer is basically the admission to God that you are a sinner, and a petition asking for forgiveness along with an eagerness to accept Christ into your heart with the acknowledgement that He is the only way to heaven.

  In 1975, most families would gather around the TV set to watch Lawrence Welk, Hee Haw, or maybe an episode of Lassie, but not us. We were regularly watching Jimmy Swaggart flailing his arms about and sweating profusely. Jimmy Swaggart was the epitome of the TV evangelist. Threats of hell and damnation coupled with tearful outbursts of redemption blended with a lot of singing.

  Swaggart’s charisma drew our family in, particularly me as an impressionable young kid. I was too young to be skeptical of televangelists. Getting older and playing in Stryper would eventually change all of that—but for now, as a kid, I just thought it was cool to see all the energy and theatrics, not to mention the music and the message.

  Our TV was an old RCA cabinet model—one of the hybrids that was a TV and a cheap piece of furniture all in one. It held precious space in our living room as though it were a member of the family—and those times when Jimmy Swaggart was on, it was a member of the family.

  Like most televangelists, Jimmy would give an altar call at the end of his sermon. He usually cried during this part of the show. If he didn’t, the audience most certainly did. One day, our entire family held hands right there in our living room, and we all unanimously accepted Christ into our lives. We gave God the rightful and prominent place in our hearts.

  Not long after that, we went out and found a local First Southern Baptist Church and we started attending regularly. We even got involved with the worship team. But it didn’t stick, not with Rob and me anyway.

  We had dreams of rock stardom to pursue and our mission to “make it” involved a lifestyle that didn’t seem to mesh too well with early morning church services. As Jesus teaches us in Luke, “He who is forgiven much, loves much.” I can testify that I threw myself into the business of having much to be forgiven. It’s ironic given my ultimate career as a Christian musician that I initially saw church as an obstacle to my goals instead of a counterpart.

  Rob’s passion for becoming a successful musician was more deeply rooted than mine. Although my days as a third grade talent show superstar planted the musical seed, I wasn’t quite ready to be in a serious relationship with music. Rob and I began to slowly spend less and less time together. As he became more and more serious about music, I became more and more serious about being a punk brother.

  When Robert and his band mates practiced in the garage, they would often light candles. Once when they weren’t around, my best friend and partner in crime, Greg Rahmeyer, and I went into the garage, lit the candles and melted wax all over their equipment. The wax hardened and sealed the knobs.

  I’m surprised Rob and his band mates didn’t give us a beat down. I was a real punk. Although I was running around getting into lots of neighborhood trouble, I still knew I wanted to play music. I just wasn’t quite ready to make it a career.

  Robert however was nose-to-the-grindstone serious about music. But there was only one problem. He couldn’t find and/or keep, a good singer.

  FOUR

  Years earlier, when I was around 6 or 7, Rob, Lis
a and I would stay with our grandparents one, two and sometimes three nights a week while my parents performed at local bars or clubs. My grandparent’s names were Maxine and Melvin, but we called them Nana and Popo. Nana is one who should be equally credited for giving me the foundation to eventually become a professional musician.

  She came from a family of 12 kids, the Lamb family of Oklahoma. When we would visit, there was always music in the air. She was a singer and a songwriter and she even played a little guitar. Music was the centerpiece of our visits. Nana would sit around the living room playing guitar and singing. Her voice relaxed me as she would teach us country, classic rock and even traditional hymns. Every visit turned into a jam session.

  “Michael, I’ll give you a quarter if you’ll sing.” she’d say, knowing I would be reluctant and shy—and I always was.

  Rob was never hesitant to join in. He’d bring out pots and pans and bang on them with wooden spoons. It took a little more coaxing to convince me. Sometimes when I wouldn’t sing, Nana would raise the stakes, saying in her thick southern accent “Okay, 50 cents? Sing for us, Michael. Come on now!” Sometimes if the money wouldn’t work, she’d bribe me with food by telling me she’d make a cake or Popo would make some ice cream. Nana was a great cook and Popo made the absolute best homemade banana ice cream. That always worked, even if the pay didn’t.

  I was, and still am, a very shy person. Singing in public, or doing anything in public, never came naturally for me. It was something I learned, largely from my Nana. When I would begrudgingly join in singing, she would go on and on about it. “Oh Michael. My God, You’re so good.” Even at a young age I knew that was something grandmothers were just supposed to say to their grandkids, whether they were actually good or not. But as other people would hear me sing around the house, I would receive similar comments and compliments and as a result I began to gain a little more confidence.