As a music journalist, I’ve been lucky enough over the years to meet and interview some of my all-time favorite artists. Members of Joy Division, Depeche Mode, Van Halen, The Cult, Guns N’ Roses, AC/DC’s Brian Johnson, Glenn Danzig, Liam Gallagher – the list is endless. And one of the questions I get asked most is, “Don’t you get nervous when you talk to them?” It’s a fair query, and I always have the same answer: Never. And it’s because of Ozzy.
Ozzy Osbourne died today (July 22) at the age of 76, which is, oddly enough, my birthday. His passing came mere weeks after what may very well have been the greatest day in heavy metal, all to celebrate his legacy. The daylong Back to the Beginning spectacular, which saw luminaries from across musical genres paying tribute to the Prince of Darkness in his hometown of Birmingham, England, was a who’s who from Yungblud to Slayer. Osbourne capped the night with a short solo set and a few songs with the band that started it all, Black Sabbath.
And while hundreds of think pieces about how Ozzy created metal will be delivered in the coming days, and thousands of TikTok videos of Instagram reels soundtracked by “Mama, I’m Coming Home” and “No More Tears” are filling social media feeds, I’m once again reminded of why I don’t get shaken when Joe Perry’s number shows up on my phone.
It was the early ’90s, and grunge was just about to spellbind the landscape. Heavy metal – the ‘80s glam kind – was unknowingly in its final days. But like so many other junctures in his career, Ozzy was on his own time, transcending trends. He’d just released the LP No More Tears, which would become one of his most popular and successful solo efforts, igniting a mainstream career resurgence.
At the time, I was a wide-eyed teen working in a Philadelphia record store. Weekly, it seemed, we were getting new singles from No More Tears to “encourage” in-store play. It got to the point where deep cuts and non-album tracks arrived on compact disc via the afternoon mail. Heavily pushed as it was, the news that there’d be a record label contest in the region between stores to see who could sell the most copies of the LP didn’t come as a shock. The surprise was learning the winning team would get two tickets and a pair of backstage passes when Ozzy brought his Theatre of Madness tour to town in January.
My boss and I set out to push No More Tears even harder than before. We’d ask customers purchasing Michael Bolton’s Time, Love & Tenderness if they’d heard the new Ozzy record. Picking up the CD Maxi-single of CeCe Peniston’s “Finally?” well, you’re gonna love “Road to Nowhere.” And, no, we don’t have the first Nirvana album… but we do have the new Ozzy!
Miraculously, for a tiny, two-aisle record shop tucked into a weird corner on the second floor of the mall, we won.
The seats at the Tower Theater, a prime viewing venue already, were perfect. Following the concert, about a dozen of us with after-show passes waited impatiently by the stage right until the Ozz Man was toweled off, cleaned up, and ready to grace us with his presence. In the middle of this, the guy who had played bass in Ozzy’s band that night came out to say hello to everyone. We could’ve gotten him to sign something, but he was a nobody. “He didn’t even play on the record,” I mentioned to my boss, as he nodded approval. (The next time I saw Mike Inez, he was the new bassist for Alice in Chains, a position he holds to this day.)
***
Then it happened. A woman asked who was there with The Wall. Well, we were from the Wee Three Records side of the brand, but close enough. It was just the two of us. The woman escorted us up a set of steps and into a small room with a huge fruit and cheese plate. My boss swiped a grape and popped it into his mouth.
“Here he comes,” he said, and pointed. Ozzy came walking down the hall, resplendent in all black. The woman told him we were with the record store that sold the most copies of No More Tears, and then the singer turned toward us with a wide, welcoming smile.
And I froze. My whole body. I couldn’t feel anything. Ozzy Osbourne was a foot and a half away from me, asking us questions. Legitimately seeking answers — answers I was in no shape to provide. So I started blathering as Ozzy reached out to shake my hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“The show was amazing tonight…” I managed.
“What’s your name?” he asked again.
“And you did ‘Snowblind’? Oh my God. ‘Snowblind!’”
“Man, what’s you’re fucking name!”
My boss hit me on the back. “Mike. His name’s Mike.”
“Good to meet you, Mike,” Ozzy said, shaking my hand.
“Right, Mike. I’m Mike. I have this in-store play copy of ‘Mama, I’m Coming Home.’ Can you sign it?”
“Yeah man, sure…”
“Cool. It’s rare.”
He signed, “To Mike, Ozzy.” It looked like something my little brother, trying to learn cursive, would write.
I don’t know what else we talked about. I forget what I gushed over next. But suddenly, Ozzy was gone, and we were getting escorted through the halls to the back exit of The Tower. Immediately, I began beating myself up via a vicious internal dialogue. “You were an idiot. You looked like a fool. Ozzy was more understandable than you and your blubbering words.”
Right then, I decided I’d never, ever have that sense again of being paralyzed by fame. It was the worst feeling in the world I had experienced to that moment. I seethed with regret, not knowing if I’d even meet another celebrity, having no idea what lay on my career path, but vowing to treat everyone, at every level, as if they were the same as any other person on the street.
Minutes later, as we navigated between the tour buses to go find the car, we came upon Ozzy’s guitarist, Zakk Wylde, shirtless and shoeless. In January. I casually asked him if he could sign my ticket. He snapped, “Why don’t you go get in fucking line like everyone else?” What line? There wasn’t a line; we were between two tour buses.
As Wylde pushed past us, I told him he was a “real dick.” “What’d you say?” he yelled, spinning around. “I said you’re a real fucking dick, man!” A band security guy pulled Zakk away. My boss guided me in the other direction, telling me, “He’s not worth it.”
Just like that, everything had shifted. A four-year degree later, I’d be talking to guys like Zakk all the time. Eventually, I’d even talk to him. He was a peach. And the ease with which we chatted was all because of that time I met his boss and forgot how to speak.
RIP Ozzy. I’m glad you chose my birthday to enter into the void. Going forward, I’ll celebrate us both on this day.