Suburban Dad Pop

The great Ozzy Osbourne has shuffled off of this mortal coil and the music world, and planet will never quite be the same. Given the moniker “The Prince of Darkness”, all Ozzy ever brought to my life was, ironically, light, happiness and joy. And the occasional case of tinnitus.

This is the story of my life’s journey with Ozzy Osbourne’s music.

Picture if you will, a hyperactive eight-year-old boy in the rural Midwest of 1985, counting down the minutes until noon on Saturday when he can turn on TBS and watch AWA/NWA wrestling. That’s right, AWA/NWA, not those bourgeoise WWF softies in New York, Philadelphia, or Los Angeles. I lived for traveling carnival of Mad Max linebackers, coked out playboys, and pet Komodo Dragons, coming live to my living room, via glitchy satellite reception from Sarasota, Ft. Wayne, and Reno.

Real wraslin’.

If you weren’t aware, my Mad Max reference pertained to AWA/NWA’s tag team royalty “The Road Warriors”, who were not only my foray into squared circle, but also my introduction to Black Sabbath and Ozzy Osbourne. The weekly occurrence of watching the Road Warriors sprint into the ring against the drawn-out opening power-chord of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man would cause me to leap off of my parent’s shag green carpet, spin in circles and flap my hands in joyous anticipation of the melee about to unfold. Frankly, these were some of the happiest moments of my life.

I adored wrestling. I worshipped the Road Warriors. And much to the disdain of my catechism teaching mother, I would grow to love Ozzy Osbourne.

Thanks, professional wrestling.

The following year saw the release of Ozzy’s album The Ultimate Sin (CBS Records) as well as the beginning of my love affair with MTV. The album’s lead single, “Shot in the Dark” was on a continuous loop and the video had it all – a car full of beautiful and rebellious 1980’s party girls, an angry Ozzy who sported my aunt Janey’s wardrobe, concealer, and hair style and a horror movie motif where the protagonist of the video, Julie, somehow becomes possessed by the spirits of evil and ends up a permanent fixture on a billboard promoting the album. If you have kept up with the news lately, this tracks for CBS.

The following year, almost exactly on my 10^th birthday, Tribute, along with the video for “Crazy Train”, was released and my life was never the same. In heavy rotation on MTV, it seemed that you couldn’t go more than an hour without seeing Ozzy and Randy Rhoads (the deceased guitarist who the album was dedicated to) light up the screen. It was truly a glorious time to be a fifth-grader.

Fast forward a few years and I finally had my first home stereo system – you know, the black Realistic brand model from Radio Shack with the shelf speakers, the dual cassette player, and wait for it…COMPACT DISC PLAYER. For some reason, my first CD purchase was Steppenwolf’s Greatest Hits (no one’s perfect) but was quickly followed by Blizzard of Oz, Bark at the Moon, and Tribute.

These CDs would keep me company over the next few years, especially during the real life Lord of the Flies that is middle school. Cut from a sports team? Put on an Ozzy CD. Say something embarrassing to a girl you liked? Put on an Ozzy CD. Your stupid parents grounded you after they found your cigarettes? Put on an Ozzy CD.

These discs kept me such good company that I christened my parent’s ’86 Oldsmobile Station Wagon the “Crazy Train”. Eventually, I would total the beast a few weeks after receiving my drivers license when I accidently ran it through a wall of my small-town nursing home. My only regret was that I was listening to Aerosmith when it happened.

(The Crazy Train’s first day in with our family)

I would grow to collect all of Ozzy’s solo material up to and including No More Tears, which has always had a special place in my heart. It introduced me to metal legend Lemmy (and by proxy Motorhead) as he was the cowriter and collaborator for many of the album’s tracks. However, a strange event occurred a mere seven days after the release of NMT – Nirvana dropped the cultural milestone Nevermind and like a bucket of water being thrown on rabid fans, my Ozzy and heavy metal fandom was temporarily put on hold as grunge, college rock, and alternative (whatever that means) exploded onto the zeitgeist. Seemingly overnight, MTV programming was changed and the Head Banger’s Ball timeslot was filled by 120 minutes and then Alternative Nation. Goodbye Ozzy, hello Concrete Blonde, Teenage Fanclub, Smashing Pumpkins, and Urge Overkill.

These new-to-me artists and genres broadened my musical horizons in ways I could not have previously imagined. However, like any good drug, I couldn’t escape Ozzy and was lucky enough to rediscover him via a new delivery system: records.

During my sophomore year of college, I bought a decent turntable and as a result scoured local record shops for anything and everything (RIP Dollar Bins). This meant I eventually found my way to the Black Sabbath catalog. Obviously with Tribute (and other live Ozzy albums), I was familiar with Iron Man, War Pigs, Paranoid, and all of the other Sabbath hits, but I never put in the time to deep dive the Sabbath catalog. What a damn mistake that was.

Then a funny thing happened shortly after I finished undergrad; against all odds and logic, my mother became a fan of the reality television juggernaut The Osbourne’s. That’s right, the woman who taught me catechism, loved the works of Jane Austen, and stood against ‘vulgarity’ in all forms, became a fan of watching Ozzy rescue cats from trees, devour Chipotle, and use every swear word she forbade me from using. In fact, when my father unexpectedly died during the peak madness surrounding the show, Ozzy was the only person (outside of David Sedaris) that could make my mother laugh. The absurdity of the entire situation cemented my love and devotion for Ozzy even further.

I still play Ozzy and Sabbath records at home, especially on the rare occasion when I have the house to myself. When this happens, like any red-blooded Gen X suburban dad, I retreat to my basement with a bourbon, pick out a record, and turn it up to 11. You best believe I made that happen this weekend.

Ozzy’s death can’t prevent him from continuing to be a travel companion in my life’s journey and bear witness to the changes in my life. In fact, I suspect death is just a temporary obstacle in Ozzy’s universal journey and wherever he is now, he is filling that space with light. Just like he always did for me.

Thanks for everything, Ozzy.