When Robert Plant and Jimmy Page entered the chapel, a ripple of recognition and reverence swept through the mourners — two titans of rock, not as untouchable legends today, but as grieving brothers. Their presence didn’t demand attention; it invited remembrance. Jimmy clutched his weathered guitar like a sacred artifact, his fingers brushing the strings, not to play — not yet — but to ground himself in something familiar. Robert, his once golden curls now touched with silver, moved to the microphone with a quiet grace. He looked over the gathering, eyes rimmed with emotion, and said, voice soft but unwavering, “We came here for Ozzy… because without him, none of us would have had the courage to be who we were.”
Then Jimmy began — a slow, aching riff that poured into the chapel like smoke, curling around every heart. It was blues, but older than blues — something raw, primal, filled with grief and gratitude. Robert followed, his voice still rich with that wild, legendary force, but now filtered through sorrow. His words didn’t just sing; they mourned, they remembered, they honored. The stripped-down performance felt more like a confession than a song — a musical eulogy shaped by decades of brotherhood, rebellion, and shared history.
Their tribute was less about show than soul — a duet between two men who understood the cost and beauty of the life they had lived, and the one they had now lost. When the final chord fell away, leaving only the quiet hum of memory, Robert stepped forward. He placed a hand gently on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered, “You’ll always be with us, brother.”
The chapel remained silent. Not empty — just full of something deeper. The echo of love, loss, and rock and roll.
