A personal tribute to Ozzy Osbourne following his death on 22 July 2025. Reflecting on Black Sabbath’s industrial roots in Birmingham, the article explores Ozzy’s influence, my tenuous, familial connections to the band, first albums bought, chaotic live shows, and the emotional weight of Ozzy’s final hometown performance. A farewell to a legend from someone who grew up with his music echoing through the smog and steel of the West Midlands.
Ozzy Osbourne has died today, Tuesday 22nd July 2025. He was 76 years old. Born on 3 December 1948 in Aston, Birmingham, one of us. Just a few days ago, he played his final gig at Villa Park, back on home turf, surrounded by fans and friends, a Villa fan until the end, AVFC. A proper send-off. Now he’s gone.
For me, like so many of us from Birmingham, this one cuts deep. Birmingham and Black Sabbath aren’t just linked; they’re the same thing. You can’t separate them. Black Sabbath is the noise of the industrial and post-industrial city: big clattery machines grinding away, smoke, sparks, fire and brimstone. A beautiful kind of hell, our kind of hell.
The fact that the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery has a statue of Lucifer Morningstar front and centre tells you everything. The Industrial Revolution wasn’t a clean break into the modern, it was a hellish place, and a hellish experience. It birthed hellish music. And no one channelled that sound better than Sabbath.
Sabbath and Me
The first two albums I ever bought with my own money were Black Sabbath records. The first was 1980’s Terrible Live at Last, which I picked up for about 10p at Reddington’s Rare Records. The second, a week later, was Paranoid, their second album and a stone-cold classic, for the same cheap, second-hand price. This was around 1983 I guess. I’d have taken the bus into town (2p all day ticket, anyone else remember that) on the wag from school, never the same after Jon Gee left anyway, and come home with anticipation.
From then on, I was in. Sabbath were the cornerstone of heavy metal, of black metal, of all that came after. They were the beginning.
Favourites? Loads. “Black Sabbath” obviously with it’s ominous raining soundtrack calling out to the Hammer House of Horror vibe of the early albums. “The Wizard” and of cousrse “Symptom of the Universe” the first proper thrash song, no question. That do-do-do-do-do-do-do riff still rattles around my brain on a loop. LOVE IT. Masters of Reality is probably the album I go back to most, but it depends on the day.
Like a lot of the music I love, Sabbath came through family. Aunt Chris was into them. Mum was too. Everyone in the house was. Mum’s second cousin (twice removed) is Bill Ward. But then again, it was a different time.
We even called our cybersecurity firm after a Sabbath song, “Supertzar” became Cyber Tzar (Tzar isn’t the way Tsar/Czar is spelled, only on Sabotage, their sixth album). People ask about the name all the time, and I proudly spout on about Sabbath, Birmingham, and the wonders of the Industrial Revolution.
Live and Loud
I’ve seen Black Sabbath a few times over the years. The last one I missed, Villa Park, the farewell. I didn’t go. But I did catch them the time before, the time before that, at the NEC. That was with Bill on drums too, the full, classic line-up (I didn’t go when he wasn’t with them, I mean, hey, fam, right?).
The full band, with Ward, Butler, Iommi, and Ozzy. Proper Sabbath. They were fucking brilliant. At the time, Ozzy was still jumping about, white suit with frilly bits, living it.
Before that it would have been about fifteen/sixteen years ago, also at the NEC, but with my ex-wife. That gig was mental, people ripping the seats from the chairs up, setting them on fire, frisbeeing the flaming cushions across the venue. Total chaos. Beautiful chaos.
Ozzy’s Last Chapter
Despite years of health struggles, Parkinson’s, surgeries, and the resultant cancelled tours, Ozzy kept coming back. He had one more album in him, one more documentary (The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne), and one last show, right where it all began: Aston, Birmingham.
The Villa Park farewell gig last week was special. Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Geezer, Tony, even Bill came back. And Ozzy, frail but defiant, gave the city its final bow. Aston born. Aston til the end.
End of an Era?
Is this the end of an era? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.
What I do know is Black Sabbath tapped into something primal. Especially for us in Brum. They had that Hammer House of Horror energy, but it never tipped into cheese. They weren’t camp like Kiss. They weren’t theatrical. They were just cool as fuck. And the music? Unfuckwithable.
It’s a proper shame. But he got to say goodbye, and so did we. A full circle moment.
Every band I know in Birmingham owes something to Sabbath. They lit the way. They proved our ugly, noisy, fire-lit Midlands could be epic.
Gutted.
R.I.P. Ozzy Osbourne.
Born in Aston. Died a legend.