Honestly: My Life and Stryper Revealed (8 page)

Would Stryper have become successful without the yellow and black? I would argue we would have been even
more
successful. Although Rob was the first to introduce it, and push it to extremes that left me uncomfortable, I’m also to blame. It wasn’t as if we suddenly, in one day, painted everything we owned yellow and black. No, it started with the drum kit, then the guitars, then the clothing, then the mic stands, then the guitar cables, then the cars! One element at a time, and before I knew it, we were living in a striped world and I was getting a headache.

Rob was always focused on the show whereas my focus was the music. Rob was the visual guy hence the name “The Visual Timekeeper”, and I was always the music guy. It’s always been that way as far back as I can recall.

Rob was consistently and acutely on the lookout for our next big gimmick—Always on the search for new ideas. I can’t say for sure where he got the idea for yellow and black stripes, but I can say that he had an obsession with that combination of colors. As teenagers, long before the development of Stryper, we would go out and steal yellow and black road signs to line the walls of our studio. For me it was just fun to get rowdy and go out stealing road signs. For Rob it was a quest to acquire more yellow and black, or so it seemed.

Rob was really into Kiss, and I think that played a role in his desire and need for us to have a visual gimmick. I liked Kiss too, but not like Rob did. I was more drawn to bands like Bad Company, Van Halen and Journey who had great songs, talent and production. I couldn’t care less what the band looked like. But Rob really enjoyed seeing a band and saying, “Look at those guys! Look at those outfits! Look at those lights, look at that stage!!!”

In that sense I suppose we are the perfect Yin and Yang. Yet I can’t help but feel the attire, makeup, and glam of Stryper often detracts from the substance of the music and the message.

We certainly weren’t the first band to introduce stripes into our overall theme. Honestly, a lot of things that fans may perceive as unique to Stryper aren’t that unique at all. We weren’t the first to do many of the things that became synonymous with Stryper. Matthias Jabs of The Scorpions, for example, used to wear stripes, as did David Lee Roth and Kevin DuBrow of Quiet Riot. Matthias even implied once in an interview that perhaps Stryper had stolen his yellow and black striped look. Perhaps we did subconsciously. I honestly don’t know how it all got started. I just know that I went along with it but I wasn’t necessarily a huge fan of it.

We also weren’t the first to introduce a sideways drum kit either. I believe Kelly Keagy of Night Ranger was the first to do that.

I would like to think the name Stryper largely came about because we had already donned stripes. That may have been part of it, but I’ve heard stories that the idea for the name Stryper may have been inadvertently planted in Rob’s head by a local band from Texas named Stryker, whom Rob supposedly had met in a local park several years earlier during our Roxx Regime days. Stryker, according to insider legend, had met Rob and told him about their band, even going so far as to telling him that they chose the name Stryker and spelled it with a “y” because it rhymed with “hyper.” Hmmm, sounds a little all too familiar. Stryker’s logo even looks a lot like the Stryper logo. It wasn’t until after we hit it pretty big that Stryker released their first national album having changed their named to Stryken— so that made them look like the copycats although if the stories are true, it just may have been the other way around.

I did always wonder why they changed their name from Stryker to Stryken though. You would think if a band were going to undergo a name change, partially because your name sounds like another band, then you’d make a more drastic change than one letter. Who knows?

The name, the colors, the outfits, it’s a bit of a tender spot with me.

For almost 30 years, whether in a hardware store, a grocery store, a book store or wherever, some form of the following conversation has haunted me.

“You look like you’re in a band.”

“I am.”

“What band?”

“A band called Stryper.”

“Hmmmm. I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with you guys,” they say with apologetic overtones.

“No worries. I don’t expect you to be.”

“Would I know any of your songs?” they say, hopeful to redeem themselves, or at least to make the already uncomfortable conversation a little more comfortable.

“Maybe. We had a few songs you might know. ‘Honestly’. ‘Calling On You’. ‘To Hell With The Devil’. ‘Always There For You’.” I don’t expect them to recognize any of these. Continuing the list would only prolong our mutual embarrassment.

“Hmmmm. Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’d probably know them if I heard them.” Ha! Or then again, probably not.

I take one last stab at it, more for their sake than for mine, and say “We wore yellow and black outfits.”

“Oh yeah,” I
do
remember you guys. The yellow and black band. Yeah. Wow. That’s cool! That’s REALLY cool!”

“Not really,” I think in my head. You have basically just told me that you don’t know our band or our music, but you do know that we dressed like bumblebees.

Oh well. We could have done the yellow and black thing in a much cooler way. It was just so over the top that it opened the door for mockery at times. I feel as though it diluted the legitimacy of the band. Had I been more outspoken about it in my younger years, I think we could have found a way to have an image that wasn’t so gimmicky. Elements of yellow and black stripes here and there could have still given us a visual edge without making us look like, well you know—bumblebees.

To me, bands that use visual gimmicks do so because they don’t often have the music to back it up. I believe that we did and
do
have the music to back it up, and as a result, I always found myself fighting against our image.

I feel we have something incredibly unique without all the bumblebee crap. Oz, Tim, and I sing well together creating some unique and impressive harmonies. Our songs. Our message. Our harmony guitar solos. Rob’s drumming. All of that sometimes takes a back seat, or isn’t taken seriously, and to me that’s very unfortunate.

It’s depressing to pour the very core of my heart and soul into writing a song or an album, only to read discussions, often jokes, about our attire. So much time, thought, and effort go into the music and the production. It’s not 3-chord rock. Some of it is pretty intricate stuff. And to work so hard on something, musically, vocally, and lyrically, only to be overshadowed by the look—well, it’s frustrating to say the least. We didn’t need a gimmick, but we got one any way.

I’d like to be remembered for our message and music. Had we just toned down the yellow and black, even just a little bit, our legacy might hold a little more legitimacy.

From the moment the yellow and black stripes extended beyond the drum set, I have always encouraged toning it down, but it wasn’t until the
Against The Law
album that I put my foot down. Rob seemed to resist the color change. Our compromise was to keep elements of stripes in the band, but we did away with the yellow and black. To me, that was the best the band had ever looked. Visuals aside, that was a humbling and even embarrassing time in my life for other reasons.

THIRTEEN

If I were to describe John The Baptist, I might imagine him to be a lot like my friend Michael Guido. Strong facial features, a defined jaw line hidden behind a salt and pepper beard. Long, curly hair, callused hands and sun tanned skin from his time outdoors praying for and with people. Outspoken in his faith, but quick to listen intently. Deep set eyes that speak to your very soul when you gaze into them. Sometimes his eyes are saying, “Well done my child” and other times they are saying, “I’m disappointed in you.” Nonetheless, they always say, “I care.”

Guido accompanied us, along with 10 of our closest friends and crewmates on our very first tour following the release of
The Yellow and Black Attack
. 15 of us filled every available seat in a 15 passenger van on a ten day tour through Texas and Arizona. It was our only tour to support that album before we went on to record
Soldiers Under Command
. By the way “15 passenger van” is a terrible name for those vehicles. Yes, they
can
hold 15 people, but there’s no accounting for all the gear that a band must carry along.

As we headed deep into the heart of Texas, most of us took turns driving. I, of course, was the best driver, meticulously obsessing over every road sign and turn signal (at least that’s what I thought but I guarantee you everyone else would tell you a different story). I required a co-pilot at all times, glued to the Rand McNally, ensuring the most direct route to each venue. I remember driving late one night and being especially tired. As we approached the outskirts of the next town, we came to a fork in the road and I had already decided to go to the left, at 85 mph! Oz was to my right and shouted “No, No... Stay to the right! Stay to the right!”

A sudden jerk of the steering wheel and I lost control of the van. The screech of the tires was muffled only by the uncontrollable outbursts of fear within the van. The women were screaming. I was screaming. It was a miracle the van didn’t roll. Our first “real” tour outside of LA and we almost met God that night. I could see the headlines: “Christian Rock band’s fatal crash on I-20. 15 people dead.” I gained control and sighs of relief filled the van. Then laughter. We’re alive, and on tour!!

Later that month, I read a national automotive report declaring 15-passenger vans have a 400 percent greater chance of rolling over when they are filled to capacity. It was time for us to get on a tour bus or reduce our number of traveling companions. To this day I won’t tour in a van. Not because I’m above it. I just don’t feel safe.

We banged out 7 shows in 10 days on that first tour, including an amazing show at The Bronco Bowl in Dallas where we sold over 1000 tickets. The incredible turnouts at each show pleasantly surprised us, but at every stop on the tour I was confident nobody would show up. And then miraculously, each night, we had more than respectable crowds. I was absolutely amazed by the outpouring of fans. Hundreds, sometimes thousands in each city turned out, many of them already sporting yellow and black attire. This helped me realize we were about to embark on something big with Stryper and made me even more excited and anxious to get back into the studio to record the album that I knew we were capable of making.

Despite having seen a smorgasbord of diverse cultures back home in Los Angeles, we were relatively naïve to the world. We had not yet toured beyond a 60 mile radius of our home, so we were thrilled to be away for the first time. To this day, Texas remains one of our strongest markets and I attribute that to the early years of touring there regularly. Los Angeles is our home. Texas is our most beloved home away from home.

Three days into the tour, I’m already beginning to wonder why we have brought so many people. This van was just too small for 15 of us. But we loved it. We needed the 15 of us, especially Kenny Metcalf and Michael Guido who helped embrace us with the love, encouragement, and support to be strong and self-reliant.

Guido prayed over everything. “Guys. This is the venue. Before we go in, let’s pray over the venue.” And we did. In the middle of the day, as people strolled by, we would put our hands on the walls of the building and Guido would lead us in prayer over the venue. Before sound check Guido would gather us to pray over the instruments. We would of course pray before taking the stage as well. One night in particular the local opening band was obviously nervous about their performance. Guido gathered us all around to pray for them, and with them, so they might experience God too. This shocked the band as they were not Christians—but they still smiled with appreciation, or perhaps confusion, as the prayer concluded.

This constant prayer could be both comforting and yet annoying at times to a young rock band out on their own for the first time, but Guido knew we needed a foundation and he was happy to help provide it. Sometimes we didn’t want to pray. Sometimes we just wanted to get out of the van and head down the street looking for the local music store or coffee shop. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from everyone and be by myself, a tendency that would never abandon me as I grew older. But we prayed. Over the buildings. The van. The clothes. The equipment. The shows. I was thankful to be surrounded by this sort of commitment. And as inconvenient as it may have been, I didn’t lose focus on the importance of prayer.

The fans at these shows were so supportive. Most were Christians who had heard about us through fanzines, word of mouth, and what little radio play we received. We were still flying safely under the radar from the skeptics and naysayers. They, for the most part, didn’t rear their ugly heads until after
Soldiers Under Command
started to climb the charts.

As we headed back across Arizona into California, there was a quiet sense of accomplishment inside our van. We were of course pleased to have completed our first tour, but we basked in silence. All of the shows far exceeded our expectations and we felt strangely at peace with our place in the music business. Yet I was sad to return home, despite knowing the next item on my agenda was to make what was certain to become the groundbreaking album of my career. Still, as I saw the “Welcome to California” sign I missed the call of the road already. The uncertainty before each show. The near fatal van accident. I missed the smell of the venues and the nervous butterflies I got when the house lights dimmed and I could hear the roar of the crowd from behind the stage. It had been only 24 hours since our last show, and I missed it, terribly. I was already being pulled back to the ambivalent role I would play on the rock-n-roll touring circuit. And I realized, “This is what I live for. This is who I will be for the rest of my life. Forever I will be constantly torn between home and the nomad’s life where every city looks the same. Forever I will constantly battle between the need to make music in the controlled environment of a studio and the anything-goes chaos of a tour.” As I crossed the California State line I knew that for the rest of my life, wherever I was, I would want to be somewhere else.