The prince fades into darkness.
From leading Black Sabbath to solo superstardom—and yes, biting the head off a bat along the way—Ozzy Osbourne didn’t just ride the storm; he was the storm. Now, after decades of madness, brilliance, and pain, Ozzy has closed the curtain on his live performance career. His final tour marks not just the end of an era, but the final chapter for a man who changed music and culture forever.
But for me, and for millions like me, Ozzy wasn't just a rock star on a stage. He was the spark that lit a fire. He is a monumental reason why I care so deeply about music.
And it all started with a fifty-cent Bark At The Moon cassette.
Every Sunday, my girlfriend and I would drive out to the Garden Drive-In Theater in Hunlock Creek, PA. We didn't go for the movies, but for the giant flea market they held during the day. It was our ritual: walking the rows, digging through crates of old treasures, and people-watching. I always kept an eye out for music. There was something tangible about tapes—the hiss of the ribbon, the commitment of listening to a full side. One Sunday, sifting through a cardboard box, I found it: a copy of Ozzy's Bark at the Moon. Little did I know that simple purchase would change my entire life.
My first car was a '98 Jeep Cherokee. It was nothing fancy, but to a teenager, it was freedom on four wheels. It had a built-in cassette player, which felt dated even then, but I leaned into it. I popped that tape into the Jeep’s deck, and the world shifted. The riffs, the lyrics, that voice—unfiltered, raw, and utterly real. It wasn't just that the music was good; it was that Ozzy sounded like he meant it. He sounded like someone who had stared into the depths of Hell and turned it into art. That tape became the soundtrack to my youth. It blasted through the speakers on late-night drives, road trips, and joyrides with the windows down. It was the music for moments when life didn't make sense, but somehow, Ozzy did. I played that cassette until the ribbon warped and snapped. The tape itself is long gone, but that cassette was my gateway drug. It was the key that unlocked a world of metal, rock, and raw expression, showing me that music could be mine, not just something on the radio.
Remember, after Black Sabbath fired him in 1979, most people counted him out. But in 1980, he dropped Blizzard of Ozz and gave the world "Crazy Train" and "Mr. Crowley." His chemistry with guitarist Randy Rhoads was pure fire: classical precision meeting dark, furious energy. To this day, "Mr. Crowley" has one of the greatest intros ever recorded. For years, the opening riff of "Crazy Train" was my ringtone on a trusty LG Chocolate phone—a daily dose of glorious chaos.
Decades later, in the 2000s, he reinvented himself again. He proved he was more than a frontman; he was a cultural icon. He became America’s favorite unfiltered metal dad on The Osbournes. It was weird. It was real. It was pure Ozzy.
Now, as Ozzy takes his final bow, it hits different. It’s the end of an era, not just for music, but for everyone like me who found a piece of their identity in his chaos and his honesty. “I don’t wanna die an ordinary man.” - Ozzy, And you didn’t, Ozzy. You carved your name into history—loud, dark, and unforgettable. Jack Black says in the song The Metal, "You can't kill the metal, the metal will live on," and Ozzy is the living embodiment of that truth.
The Prince of Darkness didn’t just leave behind records. He left a blueprint for the broken, the loud, the weird, and the fearless. He closes his career having achieved the one thing he always wanted.
Long live the Prince of Darkness.
