It was a warm June night in Southern California in 1970 and the Santa Ana wind was blowing dryly through the air. I recall it was a Friday and my sister drove us up to Westwood Village to hang out. We went into a Tower Records store and a large display right when you walked in assaulted my eyes. I was transfixed by the album cover, witchy and inviting.
What was this that stood before me? A figure in black called my name! And the title, Black Sabbath, was the only identifying description of what lurked within the record sleeve.
I bought it and carried it around with me the rest of the night until I got back home and dropped it on my record player spindle, put on my headphones (didn’t want to wake Mom and Dad!) and began to listen. Indescribably, a loathsome, deafening sound met my ears. This was not Led Zeppelin! This was not even Iron Butterfly or Steppenwolf. This was music from the Depths of Hell itself. I loved it and have ever since.
The "Prince of Darkness", the "Blizzard of Oz", has passed. Ozzy Osbourne of Black Sabbath died less than three weeks after his farewell concert, Back to the Beginning, a fitting coda to a career with a band that changed the face of rock music. A great singer and showman, his "crazy train" will ride on the rails into legend.
Thanks for rocking my world, Ozzy.
RIP.
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