Narration Lyrics - W.a.s.p.

I was born Jonathon Aaron Steel, to the parents of William and Elizabeth 

steel. I am a Leo, born under the sign of the lion and I was raised in a 

lower middle class family with only one brother Michael whom I love 

dearly. He was five years my senior. My father's nickname was Red which I 

could never understand why because his hair was sandy blond. Nevertheless, 

the name stuck. So when my brother was born my father became Big Red and 

my brother Little Red. I should have known from the first time when I 

realised their special connection, that I just didn't fit in to my 

father's plans. And as I grew older the constant comparison between my 

brother and myself left little doubt who was the image of perfection in my 

father's eye. To him, my brother could do no wrong and I became The 

Invisible Boy, the proverbial 'black sheep' and I soon figured out that 

red and black don't mix. The beatings I received became more and more 

frequent to the point where I would ask my father "Am I the orphaned son 

you would never need"? But oddly enough I worshipped the ground my father 

walked upon. 

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My brother and I were a strange mixture, as different as daylight and 

dark. Looking back, it's hard to imagine we came from the same parents. I 

sometimes wondered if we had the same father, but I always dismissed that 

idea as my mother was far too religious, my father as well, to ever even 

think of such a thing. But my brother who had always sensed my parent's 

instilled insecurities tried his best to encourage me. For I was born 

different and he knew it. He often told me when I was born an angel flew 

over my bed and christened me with a magic wand and said "You shall be the 

one". And I had no idea what 'The one' was, but as I grew older I began to 

understand. Most boys put their mother on a pedestal and worship them like 

the Virgin Mary but with her too my relationship was different and not for 

the good. She was opinionated, uneducated, sometimes prejudiced, 

overbearing, believed everything she read, true or not, and when it came 

to religion was over-zealous to say the least. A mind boggling combination 

but she was pretty, very pretty and I would often wonder, bordering on 

complete confusion, how a person of this description could rationalise life. 

This was a series of characteristics that many times in my life I would 

look back on in bewilderment and the women I sought after when I was older 

would be nothing like her. In the pain of youth, the misery of my neglect, 

would manifest itself in many ways; depression - my enemy, fear - my 

friend, hatred - my lover, and anger - fuel for my fire. These four 

characteristics of my personality would become the guiding force of my 

life and would control everything I did or was to become. I shall explain 

later in the story about them which I call my Four Doors of Doom. 

The mirror, the great plaything for man's vanity. The mirror was to 

become, at times, my altar of refuge and other, my alter ego and its 

magnificent obsession with a relentless pursuit of attention. It served as 

a chilling reflection of my own wretchedness and my greatness. It was the 

one place I could go to see inside myself, to find love, in an otherwise 

loveless household where I could be great, where I could be anything or 

anyone I wanted to be - one hundred percent pure escapism until I 

discovered its precious secret. The mirror lives, it breathes, it talks, 

it lies, it has a personality all its own. It is a genie that grants all 

the wishes you could ever dream, at least in my case - all except two. 

It was my 14th birthday, the day that changed my life forever. My brother 

Michael, the one person who was my guiding light, my friend, my hero, was 

killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision. He died instantly. I 

couldn't even bring myself to go to his funeral. My agony was so great I 

just couldn't come face to face with him that one last time. My failure to 

attend intensified my parents' resentment for me even more. But from that 

moment on, nothing seemed to matter, especially that living hell called 

'home'. For one year after his death I roamed the streets in a fog barely 

conscious of anything or anyone. I discovered alcohol, and girls, drugs 

and in general a life I had never known which was exciting, frightening 

and wonderfully dangerous. And it was then as I staggered through a down 

town city street in one of my drunken rages I stumbled across a small 

music shop and in the window stood the instrument, the fiery tool that 

would become the object of my new found desire. The instrument of my 

passion, my obsession, the blood-red six string. It was like I'd known 

the thing all my life. 

I soon found it was the only way I could truly express myself. It was a 

way to vent all my frustrations and all my pain - completely opened all my 

Four Doors Of Doom and I found myself going to the mirror for counsel less 

and less. Because of this my songs seemed to write themselves and I knew 

my destiny was in my music but I was going to have to get out of this 

backwards town I was in if I was ever going to succeed. I was 16 going 

nowhere and the only thing my parents knew was 'live, work, die. ' And if I 

stayed there that was exactly what was going to happen to me - I was gonna 

die. So I ran away to the big city with the lights, excitement and danger 

and a chance for me to finally live and do my music without the 

persecution I had known for so long. I hitchhiked all the way with a 

suitcase in one hand and my guitar in the other and as I stood at the edge 

of the city the magic of the place was incredibly intense. It was to be my 

new home the place I would call the 'Arena Of Pleasure'. I lived and 

struggled in the arena for two years trying to get a break in music and 

make a record and that's when I ran across a delightful business man named 

Charlie. He had been a lawyer for 25 years before he discovered he could 

fuck over more people in the recording industry then he ever could in a 

court of law and he was the president of one of the biggest record 

companies in the world. The music business to Charlie was nothing more 

than a sacrificial lamb to be led to slaughter and the weapon of choice 

was his record company that he'd wield like a mighty sword. The great tool 

he would lovingly refer to as 'The Chainsaw'. The morgue, Charlie said, 

was the music business where everyone sells out. Where all the artists 

will eventually whore themselves to commercialism, the place where the 

music comes to die. And through him I learned everything I needed to know 

about the music business and even things I didn't want to know. He said he 

could make me a star, one of the biggest things the world had ever seen. 

The big time was calling and I was on my way. He introduced me to an 

aspiring young manager named Alex Rodman and together we took on the whole 

fucking world and kicked it square in the ass. 

Just before the release of my first album I was sitting on the steps in 

front of my apartment when a gypsy woman passed by. She stopped and asked 

me if I would like my fortune read and I had never had it done so I was 

more than happy to say yes. She revealed a deck of Tarot cards and began 

to tell me of my past in which she went into great detail about the pain 

of my youth, my brother and my parents. She saw my present with my great 

struggle to succeed and fulfillment of my dreams and new found happiness 

but after about ten minutes she stopped and I wanted to know of my future 

and pleaded for her to go on and finally she spoke. She showed me a very 

disturbing vision of where I was going. I told her that I wanted a 

phenomenal wealth and fame and in the cards she saw a fallen hero and 

looked at me and said "Be careful what you wish for - it might come true, 

for the face of death wears the mask of the King of Mercy". I asked her if 

she was sure of what she had seen and with a blank stare she turned and 

walked away leaving me with the cards and a haunting that would follow me 

the rest of my life. 

Success agreed with me with amazing ease. The more records I sold the more 

excess I had of everything - friends, money, women, cars, houses. It was 

at one of my nightly hedonisms where a flash individual entered the room. 

He introduced himself as the Doctor. I asked him what kind of doctor and 

he smiled and said, "meet my friend Uncle Sam". The mirror that was once 

on the wall, my alter ego, was now talking to me from the table and the 

next three years were a blur. Drugs became the new candy and alcohol 

became the new Coca Cola and Doctor Rockter was my new best friend and I 

never heard the mirror speak again until tonight. 

I was at the peak of my career and the world saw me as I had always wanted 

it, The Idol, the Great Crimson Idol. Now I had everything it seemed, 

everything but the one thing that would have meant more to me than 

anything. The pain that manifested itself into my obsession, the 

acceptance of me by my father and mother, who I had not spoken to since 

I had left home. 

One morning my manager Alex came in and broke up one of our nightly Easy 

Rider Parties. An Easy Rider Party was when everybody would come over to 

my house, the band, the doctor, hot and cold running women etc. And we'd 

watch the movie and do everything going on the film only a lot more. And 

he threatened to leave me if I didn't clean up. It was not that he cared 

about me as a person he was only interested in my talent and what I could 

do to further his own career as a true showbiz mogul. But it was then I 

realised just how far things had gone. So I sat there alone in my palace 

of pain and I was just numb from the alcohol and the drugs but equally as 

intoxicated by my own fame and I had just enough courage to pick up the 

phone and dial the number. My mind went into a whirlwind thinking of what 

would happen and the fear overcame me and I started to put down the phone 

but before I could a voice at the other end rang out and it sent a chill 

through me that I had never known. It was my mother. It was hard for me to 

speak, my heart pounding out of my chest but when I did I did the best I 

could. She was very cold. But I knew the shock of suddenly hearing from me 

after all these years was overwhelming and I was hoping that all the time 

that had passed would heal the deep wounds between my parents and me 

but... I desperately wanted them to approve of me, to accept me - it was 

all I ever wanted. I hoped my success would finally prove my worthiness 

and they would welcome the prodigal son home. All I wanted was for them to 

be proud of me but less than 50 words were spoken. The last four were "We 

have no son". 

Some wounds never heal and mine had scarred me for life. A great star fell 

from the sky that night and with its descent left a scorched path in its 

way - a great path of self-destruction before burning out. And on this 

night the great finale is finally here. 'Be careful what you wish for - it 

may come true. ' Long live, long live the King of Mercy.