Ozzy was never my favorite.
But it must be said: he had it all.
He came from Aston, Birmingham — a world of soot-streaked factories, narrow alleys, and the kind of poverty that shapes you early. He was the stuttering, dyslexic boy who didn’t think he’d amount to much. Then he heard the Beatles’ *”She Loves You”* — and something shifted. He didn’t just want to make music. He wanted to make *noise*.
And make noise he did.
With Black Sabbath, Ozzy didn’t follow trends — he cracked open a whole new dimension.
The first notes of *“Black Sabbath”* felt like a storm rolling in over music itself. Suddenly, rock wasn’t just rebellion — it was ritual, fear, mythology. Ozzy became the unholy priest of a new genre. His voice, eerie and otherworldly, became the sound of shadows given form.
He was the wolf. The jester. The prophet of doom.
He was the guy who bit the head off a bat onstage — thinking it was rubber. It wasn’t. And somehow, that story, like Ozzy himself, became legend.
And then, decades later, when the world least expected it, he reemerged — not with an album, but a reality show. *The Osbournes* turned him into everyone’s bizarre rock-n-roll dad.
There he was on MTV, bumbling through remote controls, shouting at invisible dogs, while Sharon kept the empire afloat and the kids hurled f-bombs like breakfast cereal.
It was chaos. It was hilarious. It was strangely touching.
Ozzy never tried to clean up his image — because it wasn’t an image.
It was *him* — raw, absurd, loving, confused, fierce, and real.
He lived like a scream and aged like a sigh.
He wasn’t everyone’s favorite.
But he was *Ozzy*.
And the
re will never be another.
