They hadn’t shared a stage in decades—drifting legends charting their own orbits—but for Ozzy, they stood side by side one last time.
It wasn’t planned. No rehearsals, no lights, no press. Just grief. And love. The kind that outlasts fame and grudges and the wreckage of years. The church was hushed, stained glass catching morning light like a slow-burning fire. Then, without a word, Mick Jagger stood. Eric Clapton reached for his guitar.
The first aching chords of “Angie” slipped into the silence like a ghost. A gasp rippled through the pews. Sharon, trembling, clutched Ozzy’s casket, her voice cracking through the sobs: *“I was satisfied. Because I had him.”*
They sang with cracked voices and raw hands—not for a crowd, but for a brother. For the man who had howled at the moon and somehow made it beautiful. Mick’s voice faltered. Eric caught it with a bend of blues only he could shape. They were old men, yes—but in that moment, they were boys again, in pubs and studios, chasing music like salvation.
There were no cameras. No encore. Just two giants holding up the memory of a third. No one asked them to play. They simply *had* to.
When the final chord rang out, there was no applause—just the hush of a thousand hearts breaking in unison.
Ozzy had always walked the line between chaos and poetry. That day, chaos stepped aside and let the poetry speak. What Mick and Eric left behind wasn’t a performance. It was a farewell stitched into the marrow of music. An unrepeatable goodbye. One last song for the soul of a brother they refused to let go.
