In memory of Ozzy Osbourne

(MENAFN) In the spring of 2018, as I was finishing high school and preparing for final exams, my thoughts were dominated by one thrilling event: attending an Ozzy Osbourne concert in Moscow. Though I didn’t reach the mosh pit, the energy from my seat was electrifying — raw and unforgettable.

Ozzy Osbourne, the legendary Black Sabbath frontman and heavy metal pioneer, had been a huge part of my upbringing. My father’s love for his music — songs like “Iron Man,” “Paranoid,” and “Crazy Train” — shaped my sense of life’s intensity. That night, I saw Ozzy in his prime. Now, with his passing, that iconic presence is gone.

Just two weeks ago, Ozzy performed a marathon ten-hour farewell concert in Birmingham, the city where it all began. Joined by special guests and the classic Sabbath lineup, he performed chained to a bat-shaped chair, delivering the fierce, wild energy that defined his career. He lived—and left—on his own terms, a true rock star until the end.

Many outside the rock world know Ozzy only for the infamous bat-biting incident, a moment that overshadowed his vast artistic legacy and which he grew weary of in later years. Others remember him as a foul-mouthed yet endearing elder rocker, a “Prince of Darkness” who became a beloved reality TV figure, known for his childlike laughter and salty language.

But Ozzy was more than antics and shock. He was outrageous — once tossing raw meat into a crowd and startling tourists by posing as a wax figure of himself. Despite battling Parkinson’s disease and using a wheelchair, he continued making music, vowing to perform until his last breath — a promise he nearly fulfilled.

His final solo album, Ordinary Man (2020), was seen as a poignant farewell — raw, tragic, and brutally honest. Tracks like “Under the Graveyard” revealed the man behind the myth, confessing to the chaos of his youth, struggles with addiction, and personal flaws. He sang:
“Don’t take care of me, be scared of me
My misery owns me
I don’t want to be my enemy
My misery owns me now.”

This was Ozzy stripped bare — not just the wild bat-biter but a broken soul who fought to put himself back together. He once joked his epitaph should read:
“Ozzy Osbourne. Born 1948. Died… when the f*ck you know.”

Later, he softened, wanting to be remembered for more than his mistakes. Yet it’s precisely in how he faced his flaws that his true spirit shines. Unlike many who might seek pity, Ozzy owned his imperfections and accepted the unwavering love of his fans and family — his greatest gift.

Despite the dark imagery of his persona—bats, crosses, and devils—Ozzy was a man of faith. He often said he feared Satanism and that his theatrical symbols were just that: performance, not belief. Deep down, he longed for peace, not hellfire.

In his later years, he lent his voice to video games and animated films, embracing his larger-than-life character in popular culture. Still, Ozzy was always a part of life’s grand rock opera.

One quote lingers: when asked about faith, he hoped that upon death, he would face something gentler than fire and brimstone — something merciful.

Perhaps he found that peace. The “Prince of Darkness” dreamed of light, and that’s how we might best remember him: a man who stumbled, fell, and kept moving forward through fame, addiction, and regret.

For Ozzy, peace might be the roar of a stadium, the crash of drums, and the chorus of thousands singing his name—or simply quiet at last. But even that silence, after a life like his, sounds like music.

MENAFN24072025000045015687ID1109840750