Back in ’93, cameras caught Ozzy Osbourne flipping the bird and joking that his “farewell tour” might not stick. Spoiler: it didn’t. The kid who once mucked around bombed-out Birmingham, dabbled in petty crime, and nearly lost his lunch during a slaughterhouse gig instead ended up inventing a whole sub-genre. With a hand-me-down PA and a few blues-loving buddies, he asked the million-dollar question: people pay to be scared at the movies—why not scare them with music?
So Black Sabbath cranked their guitars down to earthquake depth, borrowed their name from a Mario Bava horror flick, and ushered in heavy metal’s Age of Darkness. Ozzy’s unmistakable wail—sometimes a mumble, sometimes a howl—rode those riffs like a banshee on a Harley, turning everyday dread into stadium anthems.
Success nearly killed him (repeatedly), but each meltdown only birthed another reboot: solo records, Ozzfest, and even a reality show that made the Prince of Darkness a household sitcom dad. Nine lives later, Sabbath’s final hometown set finally closed the curtain. Ozzy’s gone, but the persona he forged—equal parts menace, mischief, and resilience—still courses through every downtuned chord that rattles the rafters. Long live the bat-biting legend.