Tag: Black Sabbath

R.I.P., Ozzy Osbourne

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
“The End.” For real, this time.

O, Lawd — can I say, “O, Lawd,” in this connection? — Ozzy and I made some powerful noise on South Loring Circle back in 1970.

I played “Paranoid” on the folks’ console stereo so loud, so many times, that they finally told me to take it with me when I left. It had been ruined as a stage for Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Benny Goodman. It had become the Devil’s Juke Box.

Don’t get me wrong — I liked the big bands. But I liked a big noise, too. Thus I rattled the windows with Led Zep’, Iron Butterfly, and of course, Black Sabbath.

I was born in 1954. We spent a lot of time under our desks, hiding from nuclear weapons and/or the Selective Service System. Some of us came out humming “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” Others shrieked about “War Pigs.”

Day of judgement, God is calling 
On their knees, the war pigs crawling 
Begging mercy for their sins 
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings 
Oh, Lord, yeah

Eventually I wound up somewhere in between, with John Prine and “Sam Stone.” But man, did I ever enjoy rattling those windows. Thanks, Ozzy. Peace to you and yours.

And if you happen to see Hunter S. Thompson on the Other Side, the two of yis stay the hell away from those goddamn bats.

‘Make a joke and I will sigh. …’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments

By Cthulhu’s slimy tentacles! Can Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” really be 50 years old today?

This was one of the albums I used to drive my parents insane, along with Iron Butterfly’s “In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida” and Led Zeppelin’s and Steppenwolf’s respective self-titled debuts. I’m surprised the family Telefunken stereo hi-fi console survived the prolonged and vicious beating I gave it.

Later, of course, I mellowed into the quiet flower child you’ve all come to know and love.

Oz-some!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments

Ozzy Osbourne turns 666 today (OK, so he’s only 66; sue me) and I expect that this surprises him nearly as much as it does the rest of us.

Now, you all know me as a discerning connoisseur of the arts, whether culinary, graphic or sonic, but there was a time in my misspent youth when I was something of a headbanger.

In those dark days all I required to drive everyone over 16 in the neighborhood completely witless was my parents’ Telefunken console stereo and any one of three albums: “Led Zeppelin,” the band’s debut LP; “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” by Iron Butterfly; and “Paranoid,” by Black Sabbath.

By laughing Satan’s spreading wings, ’tis a wonder my family was not chased from the ‘hood by angry villagers brandishing crucifixes, pitchforks and torches when I spun the volume knob all the way to the right for “War Pigs,” quite the anthem to hear thundering from the home of a WWII veteran.

You could actually see the picture window thrumming like the drums out of which Bill Ward was beating the shit, and Tony Iommi’s guitar licks killed all the flowers from Constitution to Maizeland. A neighbor’s canary almost chewed through the bars of its cage before exploding like a feathered M-80.

Today, of course, my tastes have become a good deal more refined. Either that or I’ve gone stone deaf. What?