The Prince of Darkness punches his final clock.
One of those moments you’ll remember. A colleague casually mentioned at work yesterday evening. I heard the news that Ozzy’s gone.
Weird because it shouldn’t have been unexpected but somehow was. Probably due to the high-profile final gig earlier this month.
The man who once bit the head off a bat (dead or alive, whichever version of events you believe), pissed up the Alamo, and somehow lived to tell the tale about both—has finally shuffled off this mortal coil.
A walking medical miracle and the unlikeliest of national treasures. If you’d told me in the ‘80s that Keith Richards would outlive Ozzy, I’d have believed you. But that Ozzy would outlive Lemmy? Or Taylor Hawkins? Never in a million years.
Let’s be honest, we’ve been pre-grieving Ozzy for years. The Parkinson’s, the fall, the cancelled tours—he was already half-retired, half-rebuilt cyborg. But still, this hits.
Not just because we’ve lost a rock icon, but because we’ve lost Ozzy. A singular force of chaos, charisma and, somehow, warmth.
Today, it’s hit me a bit harder as I sift through those extraordinary early Sabbath albums.
🕯 From Birmingham to Black Sabbath
There’s no understating what Black Sabbath did in 1970. That self-titled first album—recorded in a day, in the middle of a rainstorm—basically invented heavy metal by accident. A few down-tuned riffs, some horror film lyrics, and boom: the Devil had a new house band.
Ozzy wasn’t a technical singer, but he had that voice. Haunted, howling, a bit cracked round the edges—like he’d seen the end of the world and was trying to sing it back to you. Songs like “War Pigs” and “Paranoid” didn’t just soundtrack a generation of long-haired misfits—they defined them.
🐾 Bark at the Moon and TV Gold
His solo career? All over the shop, and glorious for it. Randy Rhoads-era Ozzy was peak ’80s metal excess—doves, bats, and “Crazy Train” screeched out of every teenage bedroom window.
Later came the hair metal wilderness, the ballads, the slightly ropey guest spots. And then, bizarrely, The Osbournes. Who knew that watching Ozzy shuffle around the kitchen looking for the remote would turn him into a pop culture icon again?
The Osbournes was by far the greatest reality TV show ever. No bullshit just a wealthy dysfunctional family muddling through their lives. I was hooked!
That was the magic of Ozzy. He was funny. Profane, confused, a bit broken—but oddly lovable. Sharon might’ve been the brains of the operation, but Ozzy was the heart. He made chaos look charming.
He never lost his Brummie roots. That familiar accent screeching out despite years living Stateside.
🪦 The Last Goodbye?
He probably won’t get a state funeral. But he should. Flags at half-mast on Download Festival merch stands. A national two-minute feedback solo. A bronze statue in Birmingham flipping the horns. He earned it.
If Bowie was the alien and Lemmy was the warlord, Ozzy was the wizard who got high and wandered into the wrong mythology entirely—but somehow made it out alive. Until now.
A glorious finale less than three weeks ago at the stadium of his beloved Aston Villa with an impressive cast of musicians, almost all of whom he influenced.
He sat in his (naturally) dark throne, magnificent to the end. The body may have been frail but the voice still scathed and boomed.
He probably knew the end was near and wanted to go out with a bang not a whimper. And that is exactly what he did!
The tributes have been pouring in and the world feels a little duller now he’s departed. But, he will never be forgotten. A true one-off.
Rest easy, Ozzy. You gave us volume, venom, and vulnerability—and somehow made all three rhyme.
The Listening Log 
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