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W.A.S.P.
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I was born Jonathon Aaron Steel, to the parents of William and Elizabeth
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steel. I am a Leo, born under the sign of the lion and I was raised in a
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lower middle class family with only one brother Michael whom I love
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dearly. He was five years my senior. My father's nickname was Red which I
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could never understand why because his hair was sandy blond. Nevertheless,
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the name stuck. So when my brother was born my father became Big Red and
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my brother Little Red. I should have known from the first time when I
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realised their special connection, that I just didn't fit in to my
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father's plans. And as I grew older the constant comparison between my
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brother and myself left little doubt who was the image of perfection in my
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father's eye. To him, my brother could do no wrong and I became The
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Invisible Boy, the proverbial 'black sheep' and I soon figured out that
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red and black don't mix. The beatings I received became more and more
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frequent to the point where I would ask my father "Am I the orphaned son
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you would never need"? But oddly enough I worshipped the ground my father
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walked upon.
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My brother and I were a strange mixture, as different as daylight and
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dark. Looking back, it's hard to imagine we came from the same parents. I
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sometimes wondered if we had the same father, but I always dismissed that
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idea as my mother was far too religious, my father as well, to ever even
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think of such a thing. But my brother who had always sensed my parent's
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instilled insecurities tried his best to encourage me. For I was born
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different and he knew it. He often told me when I was born an angel flew
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over my bed and christened me with a magic wand and said "You shall be the
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one". And I had no idea what 'The one' was, but as I grew older I began to
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understand. Most boys put their mother on a pedestal and worship them like
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the Virgin Mary but with her too my relationship was different and not for
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the good. She was opinionated, uneducated, sometimes prejudiced,
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overbearing, believed everything she read, true or not, and when it came
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to religion was over-zealous to say the least. A mind boggling combination
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but she was pretty, very pretty and I would often wonder, bordering on
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complete confusion, how a person of this description could rationalise life.
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This was a series of characteristics that many times in my life I would
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look back on in bewilderment and the women I sought after when I was older
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would be nothing like her. In the pain of youth, the misery of my neglect,
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would manifest itself in many ways; depression - my enemy, fear - my
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friend, hatred - my lover, and anger - fuel for my fire. These four
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characteristics of my personality would become the guiding force of my
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life and would control everything I did or was to become. I shall explain
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later in the story about them which I call my Four Doors of Doom.
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The mirror, the great plaything for man's vanity. The mirror was to
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become, at times, my altar of refuge and other, my alter ego and its
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magnificent obsession with a relentless pursuit of attention. It served as
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a chilling reflection of my own wretchedness and my greatness. It was the
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one place I could go to see inside myself, to find love, in an otherwise
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loveless household where I could be great, where I could be anything or
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anyone I wanted to be - one hundred percent pure escapism until I
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discovered its precious secret. The mirror lives, it breathes, it talks,
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it lies, it has a personality all its own. It is a genie that grants all
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the wishes you could ever dream, at least in my case - all except two.
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It was my 14th birthday, the day that changed my life forever. My brother
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Michael, the one person who was my guiding light, my friend, my hero, was
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killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision. He died instantly. I
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couldn't even bring myself to go to his funeral. My agony was so great I
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just couldn't come face to face with him that one last time. My failure to
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attend intensified my parents' resentment for me even more. But from that
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moment on, nothing seemed to matter, especially that living hell called
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'home'. For one year after his death I roamed the streets in a fog barely
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conscious of anything or anyone. I discovered alcohol, and girls, drugs
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and in general a life I had never known which was exciting, frightening
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and wonderfully dangerous. And it was then as I staggered through a down
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town city street in one of my drunken rages I stumbled across a small
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music shop and in the window stood the instrument, the fiery tool that
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would become the object of my new found desire. The instrument of my
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passion, my obsession, the blood-red six string. It was like I'd known
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the thing all my life.
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I soon found it was the only way I could truly express myself. It was a
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way to vent all my frustrations and all my pain - completely opened all my
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Four Doors Of Doom and I found myself going to the mirror for counsel less
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and less. Because of this my songs seemed to write themselves and I knew
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my destiny was in my music but I was going to have to get out of this
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backwards town I was in if I was ever going to succeed. I was 16 going
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nowhere and the only thing my parents knew was 'live, work, die. ' And if I
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stayed there that was exactly what was going to happen to me - I was gonna
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die. So I ran away to the big city with the lights, excitement and danger
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and a chance for me to finally live and do my music without the
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persecution I had known for so long. I hitchhiked all the way with a
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suitcase in one hand and my guitar in the other and as I stood at the edge
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of the city the magic of the place was incredibly intense. It was to be my
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new home the place I would call the 'Arena Of Pleasure'. I lived and
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struggled in the arena for two years trying to get a break in music and
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make a record and that's when I ran across a delightful business man named
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Charlie. He had been a lawyer for 25 years before he discovered he could
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fuck over more people in the recording industry then he ever could in a
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court of law and he was the president of one of the biggest record
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companies in the world. The music business to Charlie was nothing more
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than a sacrificial lamb to be led to slaughter and the weapon of choice
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was his record company that he'd wield like a mighty sword. The great tool
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he would lovingly refer to as 'The Chainsaw'. The morgue, Charlie said,
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was the music business where everyone sells out. Where all the artists
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will eventually whore themselves to commercialism, the place where the
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music comes to die. And through him I learned everything I needed to know
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about the music business and even things I didn't want to know. He said he
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could make me a star, one of the biggest things the world had ever seen.
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The big time was calling and I was on my way. He introduced me to an
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aspiring young manager named Alex Rodman and together we took on the whole
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fucking world and kicked it square in the ass.
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Just before the release of my first album I was sitting on the steps in
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front of my apartment when a gypsy woman passed by. She stopped and asked
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me if I would like my fortune read and I had never had it done so I was
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more than happy to say yes. She revealed a deck of Tarot cards and began
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to tell me of my past in which she went into great detail about the pain
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of my youth, my brother and my parents. She saw my present with my great
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struggle to succeed and fulfillment of my dreams and new found happiness
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but after about ten minutes she stopped and I wanted to know of my future
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and pleaded for her to go on and finally she spoke. She showed me a very
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disturbing vision of where I was going. I told her that I wanted a
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phenomenal wealth and fame and in the cards she saw a fallen hero and
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looked at me and said "Be careful what you wish for - it might come true,
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for the face of death wears the mask of the King of Mercy". I asked her if
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she was sure of what she had seen and with a blank stare she turned and
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walked away leaving me with the cards and a haunting that would follow me
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the rest of my life.
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Success agreed with me with amazing ease. The more records I sold the more
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excess I had of everything - friends, money, women, cars, houses. It was
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at one of my nightly hedonisms where a flash individual entered the room.
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He introduced himself as the Doctor. I asked him what kind of doctor and
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he smiled and said, "meet my friend Uncle Sam". The mirror that was once
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on the wall, my alter ego, was now talking to me from the table and the
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next three years were a blur. Drugs became the new candy and alcohol
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became the new Coca Cola and Doctor Rockter was my new best friend and I
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never heard the mirror speak again until tonight.
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I was at the peak of my career and the world saw me as I had always wanted
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it, The Idol, the Great Crimson Idol. Now I had everything it seemed,
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everything but the one thing that would have meant more to me than
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anything. The pain that manifested itself into my obsession, the
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acceptance of me by my father and mother, who I had not spoken to since
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I had left home.
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One morning my manager Alex came in and broke up one of our nightly Easy
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Rider Parties. An Easy Rider Party was when everybody would come over to
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my house, the band, the doctor, hot and cold running women etc. And we'd
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watch the movie and do everything going on the film only a lot more. And
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he threatened to leave me if I didn't clean up. It was not that he cared
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about me as a person he was only interested in my talent and what I could
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do to further his own career as a true showbiz mogul. But it was then I
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realised just how far things had gone. So I sat there alone in my palace
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of pain and I was just numb from the alcohol and the drugs but equally as
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intoxicated by my own fame and I had just enough courage to pick up the
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phone and dial the number. My mind went into a whirlwind thinking of what
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would happen and the fear overcame me and I started to put down the phone
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but before I could a voice at the other end rang out and it sent a chill
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through me that I had never known. It was my mother. It was hard for me to
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speak, my heart pounding out of my chest but when I did I did the best I
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could. She was very cold. But I knew the shock of suddenly hearing from me
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after all these years was overwhelming and I was hoping that all the time
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that had passed would heal the deep wounds between my parents and me
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but... I desperately wanted them to approve of me, to accept me - it was
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all I ever wanted. I hoped my success would finally prove my worthiness
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and they would welcome the prodigal son home. All I wanted was for them to
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be proud of me but less than 50 words were spoken. The last four were "We
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have no son".
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Some wounds never heal and mine had scarred me for life. A great star fell
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from the sky that night and with its descent left a scorched path in its
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way - a great path of self-destruction before burning out. And on this
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night the great finale is finally here. 'Be careful what you wish for - it
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may come true. ' Long live, long live the King of Mercy.
W.A.S.P. - Harder Faster
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