(Artist Report)

Written by: Curtis Cooney    

I first read Ozzy was born John Michael Osbourne on December 3, 1948, in Marston Green—a grimy patch of Birmingham where dreams are forged in pub smoke and restless energy. Dyslexic, rowdy, and allergic to anything normal, he found his church in heavy riffs and gutter poetry. From the word go, he was cursed and consecrated.

In 1968, he joined Black Sabbath—and everything changed. Wagon-yard riffs from Tony Iommi, dark lyrics from Geezer Butler, and Bill Ward’s thunderous drums gave birth to metal. “Paranoid,” Master of Reality, and the rest weren’t songs—they were curses you couldn’t shake. That was the moment I knew: this guy wasn’t playing music, he was raising hell.

Ozzy got booted from Sabbath in 1979—surprise, surprise—probably due to drugs, chaos, and biting behaviors no record label wanted to insure. Mercifully, he came back swinging. 1980’s Blizzard of Ozz blew through the dial with “Crazy Train,” “Mr. Crowley,” and more. Randy Rhoads’s guitar smelled of brilliance and broken dreams, and Ozzy? He howled like a mad prophet unconcerned with mortal consequences.

He then released a dozen more albums—Diary of a Madman, No More Tears, Ozzmosis, up through Patient Number 9 in 2022. That last one bagged him a Grammy. Zakk Wylde helped him pivot from chaos to catharsis, and he kept churning. Every record was Ozzy saying “fuck death,” and the world drank it up.

Of course, let's not forget the chaos: The Osbournes reality TV show (2002–2005) turned his suburban meltdown into prime-time must-see. He was potty-mouthed dad meets endearingly broken-over-emotional rock legend. The world watched him mint mundanity into irony—and loved the show for it.

Life turned cruel: a 2003 quad-bike crash shattered his spine, and he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2020. His body betrayed him. His voice wobbled. His legs refused. But he didn't. He hired trainers, refused pity, and refused to quit. That kind of stubbornness deserves its own record.

The last gasp came July 5, 2025: Back to the Beginning—Ozzy’s farewell concert at Villa Park in Birmingham. He rolled in on a bat throne, played solo classics—“Crazy Train,” “Mr. Crowley”—then reunited with the original Sabbath lineup for one final Sabbath sendoff. Around 44,000 people showed up and another 5.8 million paid to stream the show live.

The event raised nearly $190 million (£140 million) for Cure Parkinson’s, Birmingham Children’s Hospital, and Acorn Children’s Hospice—making it the largest charity concert ever recorded. Guest acts included Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Slayer, Tool, Pantera, and a star-studded list assembled by Tom Morello, the musical director. Everyone played for free. That’s how you go out—a goddamn crescendo.

He looked like death but sounded like defiance. The crowd cried. I cried. He closed with Paranoid, whispered “That’s goodnight from Black Sabbath,” bowed, then vanished into legend. That was no finale. That was homecoming.

On July 22, 2025, he died—peacefully, at home, surrounded by family. Age 76. The headlines called him iconic, resilient, cultural lore. I call him a sonic meteor that plunged through civilization, left scars, and refused to shatter—until he chose to exit on his own terms.

Ozzy sold over 100 million albums, got inducted twice into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame—once with Black Sabbath, once solo—and changed the DNA of music. He wasn’t meant to survive. He was meant to explode.

He didn’t retire—he detonated. A dwarf radio wave of noise that still shakes air. His demise wasn’t a defeat—it was an encore put to rest. Thank you, Ozzy. You walked off into legend with more class than half the mortal world ever had. Thanks for reading and supporting rock music. 

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