The Story Of Jonathon (part 1 & 2) Lyrics

Narration:

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.

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 f*ck
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 f*cking 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.

84188c18c5c427fac75e6d7cb31f9feb