R.I.P. Ozzy Osbourne

Farewell to the Father of Metal

I can’t quite recall the first time I heard Ozzy. Not exactly. But I know it was a Sabbath record, one my mom picked up for me. That was our thing: records for birthdays, Christmas, or just because. She didn’t overthink it, just snagged whatever sat on the endcaps. KISS. Alice Cooper. Sabbath. Then came Ozzy’s solo work, and with it, something seismic shifted inside me.

It must’ve been '79, on the cusp of a new decade. Next came Blizzard of Ozz and Diary of a Madman. Amazingly, I still have those same two records today. Not replacements. Not reissues. The real thing. They’ve survived the wreckage, just like I did.

Sabbath was a love. But those Ozzy records, They cut deeper. Randy Rhoads’ guitar - A revelation. Ozzy’s voice - A spell. The melodies, they carried me someplace else. I studied those album covers like sacred texts, memorized the lyrics and wrapped myself in every note like armor.

Ozzy wasn’t just an artist to me. He was something holy, a constant in a life where constants didn’t exist.

When I was a kid, I told people Ozzy was my dad. They knew I was lying. I knew it too. But it felt better than the truth: I was the discarded son of a burnout musician who chose bar tabs and backstage blowjobs over bedtime stories and birthdays.

So, Ozzy & my older brother raised me. His voice, his chaos, his pain, they gave me a place to hide, a space to heal, a world where I was wanted. That has never changed.

I’ve lost count of how many times I saw him live. Ozzy solo. Sabbath reunited. Ozzfest in its glory. And I’ve had the honor of covering his songs on stage myself, Mr. Crowley still gives me chills when a guitarist nails those leads. I’ve never claimed Ozzy or Sabbath were my favorites. They’re more than that. They’re elemental. If you’re a Metalhead, Ozzy is the oxygen you breathe. We don’t have Metal without him. We never would’ve.

Today, I am shattered. He’s gone. Just weeks after I watched his final show. I wept the whole time, even during bands I don’t care for. But it wasn’t about preference. It was about presence. It was about bearing witness. It was about love. You could see it in his face. Hear it in the strain of his voice. He knew it was goodbye. And he still gave us everything he had left. The tempos were slower, sure, but who gives a damn? That man showed up. For us. His tribe. His chosen family.

My wife called me at work today. She didn’t want me to find out online. She knows how I carry grief. I drove home in tears, blasting deep cuts from those same solo albums I’ve been clinging to since the farewell show.

What a life he lived. What a hole he leaves behind. For his family. For us. For Metal itself.

I told my wife during that show, “He won’t see the end of the year.” Not because he looked frail, but because he looked finished. At peace. Like a man who had given everything and wanted to give us a proper farewell.

After the PPV ended, I watched the whole thing again. Just because I could. Because it mattered. Because it felt right. A few weeks earlier, I’d had double ear surgery. I’d been struggling to hear anything clearly. But that day, my ears were open. And I heard him. The Universe, or maybe Ozzy himself, was giving me one last gift. One more embrace. One final reminder that I belonged.

Long may his spirit thunder across this Earth, in riffs, in howls, in rebellion and in grace. Ozzy Osbourne, the eternal father of misfits and Metal hearts.

God bless Ozzy. God bless his family. And God bless every single soul he ever saved with a song.

R.I.P. Dad, the sweetest Prince Of Darkness the world has ever known.

“You don’t need a ticket to ride with me… I’m free.”

"Let me see your fucking cigarette lighters"!

~Andy