This shouldn't have come as a shock. We knew this day was likely imminent. We saw the state he was in at his farewell show. We knew of his medical woes. And the stories of his self-abuse are legendary.
Yet it seemingly came out of nowhere and hit like a hammer on an anvil, fittingly made of the heaviest of metal. Because somehow he seemed immortal. Like Keith Richards seems immortal. Ozzy has died, aged 76, two weeks after his farewell performance in his hometown of Birmingham.
There will be many eulogies. Some will focus on the facts and the music. Black Sabbath. Randy Rhoads. Some will delve into the superficial anecdotes. The bat. The Alamo. Some will mention his reputation. That stupid TV show. "The Prince of Darkness."
Ozzy was more than his scandals. The music he sang was more than heavy metal. And what he meant to rock fans was more than a silly nickname or image. Ozzy was part of History.
I will write a longer piece once I have processed the news. In the mean time, I am looking at the pics I took of him in concert while blasting Ozzmosis. I am so glad I got to see him several times, both solo and with Sabbath. Again, I got to witness History.
R.I.P. Ozzy.
