In 1985, Heavy Metal was the scourge of the earth to some while it was the soundtrack to sovereignty for millions of Rock and Roll Rebels; youth who couldn’t find solace in the New Romantic movement and held higher musical ambitions than playing in a Punk band. If Heavy Metal was the altar that 70s/80s kids like yours truly worshipped at, then Ozzy was our God. No one had carried the torch of societal insurrection longer than Ozzy, at the time. Putting the needle down on an Ozzy record would raise anticipatory goose bumps and cause a tornado in the pit of your stomach. You knew you were in for an experience. The music took you over and offered you cleaner air to breathe. It was a cathartic release and a predecessor to developing a lightning focus on the musicality behind the beloved imagery.
Speaking of musicality, I know Randy Rhoads gets due credit as a guitar master, but while I do love the first two Ozzy records, I remain partial to Jake E Lee’s riffing and song structuring. That said, I can affirm with certainty that I’d rather see Randy Rhoads get all the Metal kudos over Eddie Van Halen. That’s mainly because Van Halen’s music never caught hold of me. I do appreciate Alex Van Halen’s drum tones and chops, but Eddie? Perhaps if I were more interested in guitar as my main instrument I might have pangs of respect for EVH, and maybe if Michael Anthony had been more prevalent in their studio mixes I would have been drawn to Van Halen’s music. My opinion of Van Halen worsened with the absence of David Lee Roth. They made Pop records with Sammy Hagar which felt very un-Rock, to me.
But back to Ozzy’s old records. They were a lifeline back in 1983. Hell, right up through 1985’s The Ultimate Sin, those first four solo records were magnificent. Speak of the Devil, as well! I remember when I took “Blizzard” to 8th grade Classical Art class and my teacher, Mr. Weibust, let me spin the entire record during class one day. Naturally, Mr. Weibust mocked it the whole time, nonetheless, that was my moment to feel “validated.” My freak status had been cemented among my peers. Another time, I brought in Metal Health by Quiet Riot, but Mr. Weibust wouldn’t let me play it because of the way “Cum on Feel the Noize” was spelled. Eh well. (Little did Mr. Weibust know that with Randy Rhoads having once been a member of Quiet Riot, I sort of spun both bands in his classroom after all.) Mr. Weibust had a killer stereo system. I remember thinking at the time how wasted it was on all of the “Classical crap” he played on it, but that was a few years before I realized that a lot of my beloved Heavy Metal riffs were regurgitated Classical scales.
When “Goodbye to Romance” played, I remember another student, Jennifer, whose last name escapes me, proclaimed loudly to Mr. Weibust, “see, Ozzy can do slow songs, too!” (Several months later, I would attend the 8th grade dance with Jennifer. She was my first kiss while dancing to “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin. It was the final dance of 8th grade; a coming-of-age passage into the wasteland of social vexation that was high school.)
In Classical Art class, I sat at a table with Toni and Sheila. Again, I don’t remember their last names, but together we made up the proverbial “loser” table. We were ugly, weird, outlier kids that didn’t even fit with each other, let alone anyone else. There was me, the Metalhead who sucked at sports, Toni, the chubby, well-read girl, and Sheila, the “plain Jane” who had exponentially bad breath. Halitosis aside, Sheila was especially nice, and other than looking like a child version of Alice Cooper during the peak of his cocaine years, I never understood why she didn’t have more friends. I believe she did manage to break into a social circle later on in high school. She must have lost the awkward, boyish peach fuzz mustache by then. I think she put on some weight in all the right places as well, shedding her pre-teen, seemingly anorexic physique. I can’t be certain of that though, as we went to different high schools, but I did momentarily spot her from afar at a mall during our teen years, circa 1987-ish.
Anyway, back to Ozzy. He was a welcomed cultural anomaly to budding Metalheads in those years. We hung on every article printed about him, every offstage shenanigan we heard about, every lyric, every rumor, and every stage antic he ever pulled. Ozzy bit the head off a bat during one of his concerts? Coooool. If I make it known that I love Ozzy, my jock adversaries will believe that I too enjoy some savory raw bat meat from time to time. Put that in your jock strap and scratch it, you normie. Be afraid of me. Be very afraid.
Aligning oneself with Metal in 1983 was, in part, a defense mechanism and Ozzy’s music made for great armor. It was a barrier separating you from everyone else, as Metal was still an underground phenomenon. That shield was effective, too! Why wouldn’t any weirdo take to Metal in those days, if for no other reason than to flaunt the image of badassery Metal bestowed upon you? Metal was so much better than anything that was wildly popular and the fashion was righteous. The Metal lifestyle, in general, shaped the confidence of so many young, would-be musicians. The musicianship of Metal was comparatively top-notch, so it made sense for budding musicians to hyperfocus on Metal techniques.
Ozzy, like most Metal, was seemingly anti-parent and anti-authority, which allowed a kid to dream. It made you earnestly practice your musical chops for numerous hours every day. It made perfection a goal. It made future Rock stardom feel and look like an attainable fantasy which was an enormous part of the draw for me; the belief that if I kept practicing, I could eventually get OUT OF THERE.