My first memories of Ozzy Osbourne are tied to a show I never saw: Wien, 2003.
A dream lineup: Def Leppard, Whitesnake, and him. I was ready. But Ozzy wasn’t. A quad bike accident in his mansion sent him straight to the hospital a few weeks before the events. I still remember the headlines, the disappointment, the strange absurdity of missing a concert because the main act decides to wrestle a machine in his backyard.
So I had to wait a couple of years.
Still Wien, Black Sabbath. Original lineup. Velvet Revolver opening. At that time, I was still a student sleeping at train stations to save money and studying tirelessly in random areas before and after concerts (by the way, that time was labour law).
The two-sentence conversation with my mom became iconic: “Where are you today?” “In Vienna, to see Black Sabbath” “Well, say hello to Ozzy.”
I did.
Many concerts followed. As a solo artist, in Florence and Milan. In festivals, Wacken 2011. Again with Sabbath in Bologna and in NY, Madison Square Garden, with one of my master peers. That night felt like lighting a candle in the heavy metal cathedral. The amps howled. The lights bled. And in the middle Ozzy stood, or swayed, or soared, depending on your angle.
Everybody loved Ozzy. Not for precision, but for presence. He didn’t need to be perfect. He needed to be Ozzy.
The water buckets. The foam in the crowd. The awkward, wonderful screams: “I cant f*ckin hear you” “Let’s go crazy”, and the last one “God bless, love you all!”
Even when he barely stood, the crowd stood with him.
It was enough.
It was always enough.
But what stayed with me, what quietly impressed me over the years, was his almost prophetic ability to find guitarists. Not just good ones. Iconic ones.
Some frontman are lucky to find one axe. Ozzy built an entire hall of fame. Tony Iommi came first, yes, but that was just Chapter One.
Randy Rhoads, my favorite. A comet of talent, brilliant and brief. Too pure for this world.
Then Zakk Wylde, a young berserker working at a gasoline station and crazy enough to sent him a mixtape hoping to be hired. Only someone like Ozzy could have given him the keys of his reign. Late, he even become godfather of Zakk’s children
Oh, and I’m not considering Brad Gillis. Gus G. Even Joe Holmes. Too much. Literally too much. Ozzy didn’t just hire guitar heroes. He forged them.
That said, what many people forget is how many times he said no.
George Lynch. Something did not click.
John 5. Not good for his sound.
Buckethead. Allegedly rejected because he refused to take off his mask.
Ozzy knew what fit. What would work. He didn’t look for clones. He looked for fire.
Does that make him a businessman? Probably not. That title belongs, entirely and unapologetically, to Sharon.
The true architect of the empire. The mastermind behind The Osbournes, behind Ozzfest, behind every farewell tour that turned into an encore.
When Back to the Beginning was announced I thought about flying to Birmingham. But business commitments made it impossible.
Now Ozzy is gone.
We will all miss him.
But she, Sharon, will miss John as well. The man behind the myth. The husband and the family man. The thunderstorm and the silence.
As Live at Budokan roars through my headphones, I don’t think about bats or buckets or MTV.
I think of her.
The woman who built a home and a family in the middle of a hurricane. The one who kept him loud, even when the world wanted silence.
So here’s to the music, the chaos and the love that made the noise possible.
Goodbye, Madman.
And long live the scream.
