No More Tours
I first saw Ozzy in concert back in 1992 at the World Music Theatre in Tinley Park just outside Chicago. This was during the No More Tours tour in support of Ozzy’s “No More Tears” tour. Now, I was an Ozzy fanatic from way back, but I fucking hated his newer music. “Mama, I’m Coming Home” must have played eight times an hour, every hour on the local rock station. Trite, radio friendly bullshit. It was Ozzy’s answer to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters” when I got to witness a good portion of my heavy metal idols castrate themselves on the altar of MTV relevancy. And I didn’t like it.
But, then, I’ve always been a bit of a music snob. It doesn’t take much for me to scream “sell-out.” One misplaced acoustic guitar was often enough to do it for me
That said, when Ozzy announced this would be his final tour, I took the son of a bitch at his word.
“We gotta get tickets for this fucking show,” I announced to my gathered friends. “This may be our only chance to see him. Fuck. I may never see Italy, or Australia, or a Cubbies World Series Win, but, by God, I’m going to see Ozzy.”
This meant we’d all have to find gainful employment in order to afford tickets, or redouble our efforts at criminality, or, in the case of Paz, just ask his mom real nicely for the cash.
The boys were on board. Hell, they actually liked No More Tears. Thought I was being an ass for denying the artistry of Ozzy’s new direction. I knew it was coming to this, musically speaking. No Rest for the Wicked was borderlining for me. The Ultimate Sin was truly the last album I listened to where I thought I was tapping into dark Ozzy as opposed to the fey Ozzy simpering around that horseshit reality show.
Of course, I was an idiot back then. I realize now WASP did not actually stand for We Are Satan’s Perverts. Thirty-five years ago, I wasn’t so certain. As a teenager, I could lay on my bed in that closet-sized bedroom, walls plastered with Iron Maiden posters, the Ultimate Sin album spinning on the record player, me thinking maybe Satanism was worth considering, and that, also, if given half the chance, I’d piss on the Alamo, too, because… why not? This was a time when I thought Quiet Riot, Motley Crue, and LA Guns were dangerous bands. By the summer of ’92, I’d come to realize the only thing these assholes were a danger to was spandex and Rogaine.
Guys wearing mascara no longer made sense to me. It was a time for rampant acne and angst and open flannel shirts paired with short pants and long hair that shielded the face just so.
Bruce had left Iron Maiden and his Tattooed Millionaire solo album was not on par with Ozzy’s Blizzard of Oz or even, god help us, Ace Frehley’s Rock Soldiers. Alice in Chains went from being the golden boys of Headbangers Ball to poster children for the alternative music movement. Which is to say, it was a confusing time musically for eighteen-year-old me.
Ugly Kid Joe opened for Ozzy, and the audience with the notable exception of six heavy metal chicks with feathered hair, Marlboro laced fingers and tight, stone-washed jeans were not kind to them. Honestly, I kinda liked the band in the same way I liked Bullet Boys or Saigon Kick or Candlebox. I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time for fear of being seen as less of a man to my peers. The same way I wouldn’t admit to not liking Slayer or Suicidal Tendencies, at the time. I’ve since come to my senses. So, while Ugly Kid Joe flailed through their set, I suffered them indignantly while tapping my foot.
When Ozzy hit the stage, opening the show with a rousing race through Paranoid, we all stood on the armrests of our seats and stayed that way, mostly, through the entirety of the show, a feat, which at fifty, seems all but impossible to me, now.
I’ve forgotten a lot during the intervening years, the set list for that evening’s concert being among the forgotten. I do remember that Ozzy was hobbling around, even then, and Zakk Wylde had something like three twenty-minute guitar solos throughout the night. He played that fucking guitar with everything except his pick.
Toward the beginning of the concert, I noticed a vaguely Hispanic looking guy standing in the row ahead of me just to my left. Several things warranted my attention. His feathered mullet, the purple polo shirt and chinos, and the fact that he seemed to be alone which blew my mind. I have no problem eating out alone, going to movies by myself, hell, even sex on occasion, but going to a concert without accompaniment seemed a bridge too far.
During Suicide Solution, he sparked up a joint and immediately became my buddy. He took a tentative puff, glanced around to see if anybody in the immediate vicinity was witnessing his grooviness. He quickly noticed me eyeballing his reefer. He raised an eyebrow which I telepathically took to mean “wanna hit?” I shrugged my right shoulder which I reckoned sent him the message “you goddam right I want a hit of that shit.” He passed the jay to me, a stranger, in a beautiful display of heavy metal brotherhood. I took that reefer, wrapped my lips around the end and tried to inhale the entire extent of it. I failed. Paz, the Robin to my Batman, looked on with envy. Despite being the sort of friend who always put myself first, I felt momentarily magnanimous and passed the joint to him. Paz got a good lungful. The guy behind Paz tapped him on the shoulder, sending telepathic messages of a marijuana jonesing of his own, and Paz complied. I knew what was going to happen so I just concentrated on enjoying the guy’s expression as his weed got passed on into oblivion.
Undaunted, he pulled another jay from his Marlboro box and fired it up. He looked at me. I zapped him with another telepathic message “hey, let’s try that again, my good sir.” He shook his head vehemently. I cursed him silently in my mind, and god came through, punishing the mulleted man for his weedy greediness. He got so twisted during Crazy Train, he fell from the armrests of his chair three times. The last plunge, he wrenched his back so bad, he laid on the concrete floor through Zakk Wylde’s third and most impressive guitar solo where the son of a bitch took off his boots and played “Sweet Home Chicago” with his toes.
And that’s my Ozzy memory, which is really a memory of some jackass getting fucked up and fucking himself up, which are my favorite kind of memories, really.
There was a time I believed when he died, Ozzy would be charging into Hell carrying his own flame. Even better, he left this world as a ball of light. Still I can’t listen to anything he sang past Ultimate Sin, but that’s how it goes, I suppose. He had his chance to express his regret for having disappointed me during his Black Sabbath reunion show and opted to sing “Mama, I’m Coming Home” one last time.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
