When I was but a wee lad, probably around six or seven, I saw the most terrifying image as I made my way through International Imports. It was a gimmick store in the mall, much like Spencer's if it sold cool stuff. Rock t-shirts, posters, tchotchkes, and the coolest Halloween displays ever…you get the point. The image in question was a poster containing the large visage of a crazy man with jellylike blood gushing from his mouth. It gave my little, suggestible heart the heebie-jeebies and was both fascinating and unnerving. This was my introduction to Ozzy Osbourne.
Growing up Catholic, I had preconceived notions regarding everything about Mr. Osbourne. He was a devil worshipper and a drug addict. He mutilated animals as part of his stage act. There were schoolyard rumors of all kinds about his debaucherous behavior. Some of these included pooing on the stage and licking it up or throwing a puppy into the audience then stating that the concert will not start while the dog still lives. His fans were even worse. They were the denim-clad druggies who cut the heads off of goats and arranged them in the woods with a circle of candles for their satanic rituals. They were also most likely involved in the abduction, abuse, and murder of children nationwide. Oh yeah, his appeal came quite naturally to me.
I was never a Jim Norton-esque megafan, but I could always get down to Black Sabbath. Through every “phase” I had— from metal to punk to rockabilly— Sabbath was a constant. I never outgrew them and still listen to their music regularly. On the contrary, I developed more of an appreciation for them the older I got. I never warmed up to the Dio era and am strictly an Ozzy Sabbath guy. His moaning vocals and wails of desperation are what clinched it for me. It was heavy, dark music that was too often imitated, badly most of the time.
There was a time in my life when I— naively or stupidly, or both—-embraced all things booze related. Full-blown alcoholism was something to be celebrated both viscerally and vicariously. So I sympathized, laughed at, and related to the endless stories of Ozzy’s drunken tomfoolery. I worked low-paying, dead-end jobs and still found plenty of time for rock n’ roll party shenanigans. I can only imagine what I would have done with a rockstar’s bank account. I can tell you one thing, I would have croaked a lot sooner than Ozzy did. Not to shit on his funeral, but I am shocked that he made it to 76. I can't even pretend that I lived half of the life he did, and I still managed some royal fucking damage on myself. I was throwing up blood in my mid-20s, and my remedy was to pour some beer on it and go to bed. When I finally quit 10 years later, my esophagus was raw ground beef, my liver was the size of a football, and my bladder demanded to be emptied about every 90 seconds. I can’t imagine keeping that up into AARP age. Not to mention whatever else he was washing down with the booze. He wasn't Iron Man, he was Iron Guts.
It's sad to see a legend go, but wasn't it equally depressing when he went from Satan on Earth to reality show baffoon? I am certainly glad that that whole thing died down and his awful family took their proper place in the backseat. I don't let that tarnish his legacy with me, though. I have a good knack for capturing the feelings and emotions of particular times and places. That's why I am so big on nostalgia. It's almost like time travel to me. Certain sights, smells, and always music can launch me right back into another time. A time when things made sense. A time when Ozzy was your parents’ worst nightmare, cigarettes came from machines and cost $1.50 per pack, and your local day care was operated by perverted cult members. Sing me back, Ozzy, sing me back.
