I
am a huge Ozzy Osbourne fan.
I
attended a Catholic school and wore a uniform through eighth grade. So I
remember how bold I felt wearing a “Diary of a Madman” t-shirt to public school
in junior high. The front was the album cover, which I was okay with, but the
back featured a closeup of Ozzy bearing vampire teeth and wearing a cape—a
silly picture, I knew, and I worried the other kids wouldn’t appreciate the
spirit of 1982 Ozzy.
I
also hung an Ozzy poster in my bedroom—Ozzy in a tough-guy pose, a baseball bat
resting on his shoulder. I didn’t like the poster, but it was the only one at
the store. Ozzy was not a tough guy, and being tough wasn’t part of his music,
his message, or him.
His
wife and manager Sharon, who really is tough, astutely marketed him as the
Prince of Darkness, capitalizing on the Sabbath fame. But when I think of Ozzy,
I think of a guy who was resilient and wild and free. He loved performing live.
He seemed so happy on stage. That was real joy. Fans could see that was all he
wanted to do.
Life
offstage must have been a bore, and drugs and alcohol helped him cope while
feeding whatever predispositional craving lurking within.
Ozzy
was real. He voice was true, his delivery, true—a crazy train, a silly guy who went
on stage and sang. The guy on stage in Paris, 1970, was the guy in the late
1980s and on into the 2000s. His confidence grew during those Sabbath years,
and he brought loads of enthusiasm and appreciation to his solo career. Watch
him live, clapping, cheering on the band, the music, and the crowd, throwing
the fans all the love he had in him.
He
was the Prince of Darkness, but the world is darker without him.
