THE STORY OF JONATHAN Parts 1 & 2
[Narration by Blackie Lawless]
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 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 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 t
o 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 prodig
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
n’ 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…
Nit Music ManiaClub…Angel’s Wings
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