Notes From The Record Room: Ozzy…
Ozzy Osbourne (12/3/48-7/22/25)
Legend. Madman. Addict. Pioneer. Prince of Darkness.
In the 1980s, Ozzy Osbourne scared the shit out of parents.
As televised preachers, self-anointed and self-proclaimed paragons of morality and decency, accrued wealth from nail-biting moms and dads while convincing them that their children were no longer interested in the word of a purported all-powerful creator, they identified a cultural fringe who dealt in darkness, occultism, and themes based in horror. Although not too far removed from their own version of rebellion, one whose generation saw war as something fit to protest and unity as a means to steer civil rights and perhaps challenge the status quo, children of the 60s abandoned their perceived utopia, bought into conservatism, and voted for Ronald Reagan. Those record collections gathered dust, the ideas they held eventually lost in nostalgia for the tunes alone, the words buried beneath the chords and hooks and consequently turned meaningless. Altamont was the proverbial fork stuck into that flower-strewn era, and Black Sabbath used that fork to tune their instruments.
The lengths to which the new music of the 70s—whether that be the proto versions of punk and metal, glam, jazz, funk, soul, Krautrock, disco, and the formation of hip-hop—went to separate itself from the co-opted blues of the 60s were significant and ultimately led to the invention of multiple different genres. Granted you could point to The Ramones as stripped down rockabilly or surf, owing a debt to Phil Spector, and even the Sex Pistols, forasmuch as they exhibited a perceived rejection of all things status quo, had hooks and some pop appeal. But, even before the 60s ended, alienation and boredom began to shape the language of rock n’ roll as it became clear that utopia was a myth used to sell t-shirt dye and blotter acid. The political and social spheres, which the hippies had recognized as flawed and worthy of protest, continued to deteriorate and culture reacted through innovation. Black Sabbath was the result of said innovation.
Black Sabbath emerged from Birmingham, England, their 1970 self-titled debut LP more of an announcement than an introduction with the slowed-down and grim “Black Sabbath,” guitarist Tony Iommi generating a riff-borne mire so opaque and viscous, it would’ve been impossible to hear without feeling enveloped to the point of suffocation. Against the relentless backdrop of rain and thunder, church bells eerily proceed Iommi, bassist Geezer Butler and drummer Bill Ward coming down mightily on the first note of this doom-laden procession, unintentionally laying the groundwork for an essential 8-album run that would ultimately inform the bulk of Metal’s origin story.
And then the question was asked…
“What is this that stands before me?”
Ozzy Osbourne, audibly terrified and striking, was the voice of this amplified darkness manifest, the destined mouthpiece for one of the most important rock bands of the 20th century.
With a Catholic upbringing in place to inform how I would proceed in a largely frightening and morally bereft world that I would someday need to become a part of, the adults in my orbit were tasked with holding my hand till I could pick up where they would eventually leave off. Most counsel I’d received would be “no” and “don’t,” especially from the miserable women in habits whose job to teach was often delayed in favor of dispensing insults. I’d become used to the things I enjoyed, namely comic books and cartoons, being targeted by these people, the violence inherent in the corrupting escapades of Tom & Jerry or The Transformers leading teachers and nuns to shout lengthy diatribes at us about the media we’d consumed during recess whenever our “playtime” devolved into playtime.
With maybe only two years to wade through till my teens finally arrived, my interests in music began to venture away from my Dad’s record collection and more toward the harder rock and metal of the mid- to late-80s. The older kids in my neighborhood were tuned into MTV and had celebrated the over-the-top bravado of 1984-era Van Halen, the glam’d out uprising of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” and the indie-tinged pop of U2’s “Pride (In The Name of Love).” It wasn’t too long after that that I found MTV’s Headbanger’s Ball, my younger brother and I making an occasion of late-night Saturdays watching metal videos, camped out on our living room floor with sleeping bags and popcorn. Thanks to this ritual, I eventually became aware of Ozzy, my first impression his wild-eyed, black & white visage framed by an 80s-tailored blow-out, singing “Crazy Train.” I didn’t know about Randy Rhodes, Blizzard of Ozz, or Black Sabbath: I had no lore to reference. Eventually, though, as one does when they’re becoming newly acquainted with metal music in the 1980s, one also becomes aware that Ozzy is deemed, at the height of Satanic Panic, the face of spiritual and moral abandonment and the musical gateway to eventual ruin and everlasting post-mortem existence writing in the pits of a fantastical hell.
Satanic Panic was rampant and parents took it seriously.
Granted, Ozzy was a true magnet for controversy. His extensive abuse of drugs and alcohol led to his firing from Black Sabbath in 1978. Ozzy’s animal barbarism, some reports of which were true albeit with exaggerated intent, aligned with speculation of his madness. And, then, while under the influence, Ozzy had almost killed his wife, Sharon Osbourne, which would be the rock bottom he’d need to get clean.
Considering all of the above, he was a perfect target for the type of religious and moral messaging / outrage that was prevalent in Reagan’s America, the Moral Majority and, eventually, PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) able to make the case that Ozzy’s alleged depravity was harmful to the impressionable and maladjusted youth whose parents and guardians had evidently failed to control based on the types of records that were taking space on their shelves and the posters they’d decided to plaster onto their walls.
I was embarrassingly late to Sabbath. Granted, “Iron Man” and “Paranoid” were as ubiquitous as “Stairway…” and “Free Bird” if you were within earshot of any FM rock station, so it’s not as if I’d been unaware of them, just disinterested. By the early 1990s, I’d moved on from any perceived classic rock, solely interested in engaging with my generation and caught up in punk rock and the Alterna-boom. Ozzy wasn’t in my line of sight.
With age, though, comes clarity and I think it was Black Flag who led me to delve into Sabbath’s body of work, specifically with My War, whose muck-riddled, ultra-slow, and metallic B-side was reported to be indebted to the murk chopped and churned via Tony Iommi’s demon-blessed six-string.
So, I started with the hit machine lead-in Paranoid, which, coincidentally, also boasts its best tracks on the B-side. It was good enough to check out the self-titled debut, which cemented my fascination with the band and was on repeat for months after procurement. Master Of Reality followed and shattered all expectations, convincing me that I’d missed out on what should’ve been my all-time favorite band. And, then Vol. 4 convinced me, with no hesitancy, that Sabbath were the greatest band that ever lived. As far as I was concerned, every TOP 100 list featuring some arbitrarily conceived ratings or placements for the best albums in rock ‘n’ roll should’ve been topped by the first four albums by Black Sabbath. And forasmuch as I love The Beatles, and forasmuch as both Ozzy and Lemmy acknowledge The Beatles as signifcant to their respective careers and contributions to rock and metal, I’d knock the Fab Four’s catalogue down 10 spots to make room for those first four Sabbath LPs. This claim may seem sacrilegious to some, but sacrilege seems appropriate in this case.
Ozzy lived to be 76 years old. On July 5th, Ozzy enjoyed one final appearance onstage for the Back To The Beginning concert, which would not only be his last time onstage but also his last time performing with Sabbath’s original lineup. The show took place in Birmingham, fittingly bringing the band full circle, back to when Ozzy asked that first question:
“What is this that stands before me?”
Before him stood his fans, those one-time impressionable and maladjusted youths he’d shepherded through life, his music their soundtrack. They sung with him in unison, unknowingly bidding him farewell.
Sincerely,
Letters From A Tapehead
