Narration Lyrics

 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
 everyt
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 roa
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 t
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 
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 
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.