Ozzy, youth, and mortality

By Jeff Guy

It was about 1:30 p.m., a Tuesday. I pulled into the Quick Trip convenience store at Douglas and Washington streets in downtown Wichita. I pulled in to buy a Sprite. Just after I parked, I heard MJ, the afternoon DJ on the classic rock station, say, “We have sad news from across the pond.”

Shit, I thought. What’s Trump done now? Unfortunately, everything that fake-tanned snollygoster says or does affects the U.S.,U.K. and the rest of the world. Then, I thought, Did Prince Charles die? Then MJ read the statement from the Osborne family.

It is with more sadness than we can convey that our beloved Ozzy Ozborne passed away this morning. He was surrounded by his family with love. We ask that everyone respect our family privacy at this time.

I walked into Quick Trip, then fearing I’d cut in front of a man at the pop machine, I stepped back and apologized. “Oh, you’re fine,” the gentleman said. “Go ahead.”

After filling my cup, I went up to the guy and said, “I just heard on the radio that Ozzy Ozborne died.”

“Oh really,” he replied. “Bummer.”

“The man is beloved by his fans,” I said. 

“This’ll be a big deal.”

My late father in law told me once that he was in Peter Pan Ice Cream Shop in our hometown of Jett, Kan. (pop. 4,000 in the ‘70s) when he heard Elvis died. Ice cream parlor. Elvis. Gas station soda. Ozzy. I figured I’d keep the chain going.

Back in my car, I got a text message from my son, Sam.

“Ozzy Ozborne died.”

It was a reflective moment, a grim, kind of selfish reminder of my own mortality. Eventually, every little piece of my youth will be gone. And I’ll be gone. My friends too. It will all be history.

Just the day before, Sam had driven me to and from a scheduled colonoscopy. (The gross prep work was such a blast – ultimately a watery one, I should say.) We’d talked about Ozzy on the ride over. How his final concert had just been televised on Pay Per View 16 days previously. (We’d seen clips on YouTube.) All the original members of Black Sabbath back playing together.

“It’s miraculous they’re all still around,” I said. “All the guys from MC5 are dead now.”

“I know. Sad. They said it would be their final show. Ozzy had to be strapped to his chair because they were afraid he’d stand up, move around and fall.

”He played in his hometown (Birmingham, England) for two million people. All the proceeds are going to a Parkinson’s foundation, a children’s hospital and a children’s hospice hospital.”

“Wow,” I said. “To be triumphant in your hometown and sharing your humanity with the world. That’s going out with a bang.”

I’m glad we talked about Ozzy that last day, while he was still alive. The next day Sam called me after I got home and we talked about how Ozzy went out on a triumphant note.”

“I read an interview with him in some heavy metal magazine – Circus or Hit Parader – back in the ‘80s,” I said. “He loved rock n’ roll. Said he might be an old man someday, 100 years old. They’d roll him out in a wheelchair and he’d rock out.”

Sam said he was listening to all the Black Sabbath albums in order and he was awestruck by the sound. “Last year, I listened to all the Beatles albums.”

“From Please Please Me to Abbey Road?” I asked.

“Yup,” he answered. “The year before I listened to all of Metallica’s albums.”

“Master of Puppets was their best,” I said.

“Yes, easily, but Ride the Lightning is a close second.”

The tributes have rolled in for Ozzy over the week. Gene Simmons. Alice Cooper. Sabbath bandmates like Tony Iommi. Pat Boone (yes, he and the Osbornes used to be neighbors). The Osborne family has started talking to the media.

If Ozzy had died in 1985, rather than 2025, the press coverage would’ve been starkly different. The older generation thought he was the devil incarnate. Upside down crosses and shit. They tried to ban him from playing in their home cities. If Ozzy would’ve died then, commentators would’ve gone on about how it was the only plausible end for a satan worshipping, subliminal messaging, drug and alcohol abusing madman.

But today’s reporters grew up with Ozzy. They have a more nuanced, contextualized view of him. His 2002-2005 MTV reality show, The Osbornes showed him to be a loving husband and father, an endearing, if sometimes confused and hard to decipher, family man. Pres. George W. Bush once singled him out in a crowd, proving that if you stick around long enough you’ll go mainstream. I remember years back watching former Sen. Bob Dole and Pres. Bill Clinton doing a segment on 60 Minutes about how corrosive our culture has become. Dole said something to the effect of “Everybody laughed at the foul-mouthed kids. I wonder how funny it is now that the son has reportedly entered drug and alcohol rehab.” I thought it was a cheap shot, especially coming from those two hypoccrites.

Crazy, but that’s how it goes

Millions of people living as foes

Maybe it’s not too late

To learn how to love and forget how to hate

Back in the ‘80s, it was stalking songs and satanic paranoia. My mother thought we were living in the “last days.” The Rolling Stones were having a big career resurgence with their Tattoo You album and hits like “Start Me Up.” I loved the Stones, Zeppelin and after them it was AC/DC and Ozzy. I was in junior high and the more people called it devil worship, the more I loved it. I remember in high school, having a conversation with this bigoted, evangelical, Michael Smith lover.

“I have this cool idea for an album cover. There’s a raging sea with black and blood red in it with this tiny remote island with this figure in a black monk outit and you see a skull under the hood, his arm stretched out and his skeletal hand clutching a cross.”

“That would get you kicked out of my church,” he said. “It’s anti-Christian. Ozzy Osborne worships the devil.”

“No, he doesn’t. I saw him interviewed on Night Flight. It’s just a character he plays like Vincent Price.”

“Oh, he can say that, but it’s like Boy George saying he’s not a homo. Look at him, he’s a fag.”

I was surprised to hear this good Christian use what I thought to be a curse word. I figured, hell, maybe it is an acceptable word. Of course, I now know it as a discriminatory pejorative, like the n-word, that I refuse to say.

I was stretching with other kids warming up for track practice one afternoon in ninth grade for track practice. People were going on about satanic this and satanic that. I said that for these so-called satanic rock groups “every day was Halloween.” This popular (and arrogant) kid told me I was full of shit. Fine. 

Okay. Motley Crue worships the devil.

Later in life, I’d go through my own spiritual crisis. Superstitious fundamentalists and leader cults. I went from agnosticism to feeling fucked by religion to – I don’t know what. I feared God was some damning, punishing old man condemning people to a lake of fire. I’ve long since made peace with my Higher Power, concluding that God is love. Not condemnation. But that’s a whole other story. I’ve read that Ozzy was officially a member of the Church of England. Didn’t attend much, but was a believer. I think he prayed before performing shows.

The truth is God gave him a unique, otherworldly voice. Ozzy liked to entertain people and help them forget about their stressful lives for a while. He had this satanic horror iconography on stage. Then he told his fans, “We love you.” As Gene Simmons said, “Who does that?”

Ozzy conquered his inner demons and loved his family. At my advanced age, I can relate to that. My kids love me to pieces. That would be Sam & Kenzie. On the day Brian Wilson died, my boy, knowing Pet Sounds is one of my Top 3 Favorite albums, texted me. “Only guy who could give Paul McCartney a run for his money,” he said.

It’s a pretty damn good life.

"Mr. Crowley" -- Ozzy Osbourne

"War Pigs" -- Black Sabbath