The Last Howl of the Prince of Darkness: Farewell to Ozzy Osbourne
Alright, now pay attention.
I just read the news that Ozzy Osbourne has passed away at 76. Damn. Ozzy himself marveled just a few years ago, "I never thought I'd make it this far… I don't understand why I'm alive still after the hell-raising days. I guess whoever the man is upstairs, if there even is one, wants me to stick around". And yet here we are: after defying the odds for so long, the Prince of Darkness has finally left the building. For over fifty years, Ozzy was more than a singer – he was an institution, the wild, beating heart of heavy metal itself. This morning, that heart stopped, and the shock waves are echoing from Birmingham to every corner of rock 'n' roll fandom.
Sure, he'd been struggling with health problems for years, but Ozzy always seemed invincible – the guy who outpartied death a dozen times and came back for more. He was, as one writer aptly put it, the "gloomy, demon-invoking" frontman of Black Sabbath and the drug-and-alcohol–ravaged id of heavy metal. Yet he was also the affable, mumbling dad on a hit reality show. His life was contradiction and chaos set to power chords, and it's hard to imagine rock without him.
For anyone who ever heard that ominous rainstorm and tolling bell at the start of Black Sabbath's first album – and Ozzy's haunted voice wailing like a demon unleashed – it was obvious rock music had changed forever. That eerie wail helped usher in heavy metal. Suddenly, the peace-and-love 1960s had a dark flipside. Thanks to Ozzy and his mates, music could be as heavy and menacing as the industrial factories that raised them. If rock was rebellion, Black Sabbath was full-on revolution.
Born in Birmingham: The Birth of Heavy Metal in Darkness
Ozzy Osbourne was born John Michael Osbourne in 1948 in the gritty Aston area of Birmingham, England – the son of a pair of factory workers. He had a tough working-class upbringing, and that hardscrabble reality bled into his music. As bassist Geezer Butler later said of Black Sabbath's sound: "We didn't want to write happy pop songs. We gave that industrial feeling to it." In 1968, Ozzy, Geezer, guitarist Tony Iommi and drummer Bill Ward formed a band first called Earth, soon renamed Black Sabbath (after a Boris Karloff horror film). They weren't trying to be rock stars; they were trying to exorcise the demons of their daily lives. The result sounded like nothing before – bluesy rock turned into a horror soundtrack, complete with Iommi's sledgehammer riffs and Ozzy's otherworldly vocals that rang out like a banshee in a factory cathedral.
In 1970, Sabbath unleashed their self-titled debut Black Sabbath, followed just months later by Paranoid – records now regarded as foundation stones of the heavy metal genre. Songs like "War Pigs" and "Iron Man" were anthems as heavy as the steel mills of Birmingham, full of apocalyptic dread and sludgy groove. The band's occult image (upside-down crosses, songs about Lucifer) and thunderous sound freaked out the establishment. Critics didn't know what to make of them – Rolling Stone's Lester Bangs infamously sneered that their debut was "hyped as a rockin' ritual celebration of the Satanic mass or some such claptrap" and dismissed it as "a shuck… stiff recitations of Cream clichés". He utterly missed the point. Black Sabbath was tapping into something primal: the fear and anger of a generation disillusioned by Vietnam and societal upheaval. As The Guardian noted decades later, Sabbath "introduced working-class anger, stoner sludge grooves and witchy horror-rock to flower power," confronting the "empty platitudes" of the 60s and helping kill off the hippie dream for good.
For the fans – the kids in 1970 who dropped the needle on Paranoid and felt that dark rush of power – Sabbath's gloom and doom was pure catharsis. While hippies sang of peace, Ozzy wailed about war, paranoia, and the devil, and oddly enough it felt more honest. Black Sabbath went from a local curiosity to unwitting architects of a new genre. Every metal band that came after, from Metallica to Iron Maiden, owes them a debt. (When Sabbath was finally inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2006, Metallica's James Hetfield thanked them for "giving us a map" to heavy music.) Ozzy's eerie voice and persona as the Prince of Darkness set the template for metal frontmen – part villain, part anti-hero, and all legend.
By the late 1970s, however, the real-life Ozzy was falling apart. The band churned out six iconic albums in four years, but success took its toll. Fame brought money, and money fueled the alcohol and drugs. "Money would be the alcohol and the drugs… and I behaved badly," Ozzy admitted of those years. As the 70s wore on, he often showed up to sessions and gigs zonked out of his mind. In 1979, after one too many no-shows and incoherent performances, Black Sabbath fired their iconic frontman – effectively kicking Ozzy out of the band he co-founded. Ozzy later called it "one of the lowest points of my life". He was 30 years old, newly divorced from his first wife, grieving the recent death of his father, and so deep in substance abuse that many assumed he was finished. In his own dark words, he was "fucking useless" at that point.
The Madman Rises Again: Biting Bats and Blazing a Solo Trail
Ozzy Osbourne performing in the 1980s. His solo career reinvented him as heavy metal's wildest icon.
Instead, Ozzy Osbourne was about to stage one of rock's greatest comebacks. Enter Sharon Arden – the tough-as-nails daughter of music manager Don Arden – who essentially saved Ozzy's life. She found him in 1979, a depressed, drug-addled wreck in a hotel room, and took charge. Under Sharon's management (and later as his second wife), Ozzy cleaned up just enough to make music again. He pulled together a new band, recruiting a young guitar virtuoso named Randy Rhoads. The result was Blizzard of Ozz (1980), an explosive solo debut that went five-times platinum in the US and gave the world the eternal stadium-shaker "Crazy Train." In the span of a year, Ozzy went from washed-up drunk to heavy metal hero again – the madman was back, now fully in control of his own carnival.
He followed up quickly with Diary of a Madman (1981), proving the comeback was no fluke. Rhoads' classically-tinged guitar work and Ozzy's keening, melodic howl on tracks like "Flying High Again" showed that Ozzy wasn't just riding Black Sabbath's coattails – he was an artist in his own right, and a damn influential one. (Decades later, guitar magazines would still gush about Rhoads' solos, and metal bands would crib from Diary's dark grandeur.) Tragically, at the height of this revival, Randy Rhoads was killed in a freak airplane crash in March 1982, just 25 years old. The loss devastated Ozzy – one of many blows life would deal him – but it didn't stop him. He honored Rhoads with a live tribute album and kept pushing forward, recruiting new hot-shot guitarists like Jake E. Lee (who powered 1983's Bark at the Moon) and Zakk Wylde (who joined for 1988's No Rest for the Wicked and 1991's No More Tears). Ozzy always had a knack for surrounding himself with top-tier talent. "They sprout wings and fly off, but I have to move on. A new player now and again boosts me," he said, like a true survivor.
Of course, no recounting of Ozzy's legend is complete without the bat. The infamous incident happened on January 20, 1982, at a show in Des Moines, Iowa. A fan tossed a live bat onto the stage (yes, a real bat). Ozzy, assuming it was a rubber prop, picked it up and – in a moment of pure rock theater – bit its head off. "I just thought it was a rubber bat… I just f--king bit into it… 'Oh no! It's real,'" Ozzy later remembered, when the reality (and taste of warm blood) hit him. Chaos ensued; Ozzy was rushed to the hospital for rabies shots. But the incident only solidified his myth as rock's premier madman. And believe it or not, this wasn't even the first time – a year earlier, in a meeting with record execs, Ozzy had intended to release two live doves as a peace gesture; in his intoxicated state he instead grabbed one and bit its head off too. (Even his attempts at kindness turned grotesque. That's Ozzy for you.) From pissing on the Alamo while wearing one of Sharon's dresses, to allegedly snorting a line of live ants on tour, Ozzy's outrageous exploits became the stuff of rock folklore. He was equal parts horrifying and hilarious – the id unleashed, a caricature he sometimes seemed to play up intentionally.
Yet through all the crazy headlines, the music kept coming, and the fans kept headbanging. The 1980s saw Ozzy scoring hits and refining his solo sound. Bark at the Moon (1983) produced the fan-favorite title track. The Ultimate Sin (1986) gave us "Shot in the Dark." In 1991, No More Tears went multi-platinum behind songs like the impassioned power-ballad "Mama, I'm Coming Home." He even notched an unlikely No. 1 pop hit in 2003 – a duet version of Black Sabbath's song "Changes" sung with his daughter Kelly. Under the lurid headlines, the man could still sing. That distinctive high-pitched nasal wail, equal parts menace and vulnerability, proved surprisingly durable. Ozzy's voice could convey both evil and empathy – sometimes in the same song – and it influenced countless singers from Metallica's James Hetfield to Soundgarden's Chris Cornell. Ozzy even kept one foot in the contemporary scene; as late as 2020, he was collaborating with chart-topping younger artists like Post Malone and Travis Scott (on his album Ordinary Man) to keep the momentum going. Few in his generation bridged that gap. The Prince of Darkness had earned his crown, and he wasn't about to give it up.
In the 1980s, at the height of his solo fame, Ozzy also became the unwitting bogeyman of Middle America – a convenient public enemy for the conservative establishment's war on rock. His music and antics sparked moral panic in some circles. Televangelist Jimmy Swaggart famously railed against Ozzy and heavy metal, calling rock music "the new pornography" in 1986. (Some stores actually pulled Ozzy's albums after Swaggart's screed.) Around the same time, a California family sued Ozzy, claiming his song "Suicide Solution" had driven their teenage son to take his own life. Never mind that the song's lyrics bemoan the slow suicide of alcoholism – the media frenzy painted Ozzy as a literal agent of Satan corrupting the youth. It was utter bullshit, of course, and the courts agreed. The lawsuit was dismissed in 1988, with the judge ruling the tragedy was not a foreseeable result of any song. And in a delicious twist of irony, Swaggart himself was caught in a sex scandal with a prostitute in '88. Ozzy had the last laugh, releasing the song "Miracle Man" mocking the fallen preacher ("Miracle Man got busted…" he sneered with glee). The Prince of Darkness always knew how to turn backlash into art.
For all his showmanship, Ozzy was grappling with real demons behind the scenes. Decades of substance abuse took a brutal toll on his personal life. There were times he truly lost control. In 1989, in a drug-and-alcohol-fueled blackout, Ozzy attempted to strangle Sharon – literally trying to kill the wife who had saved him. He was arrested and put in a mental health facility as a result. (Sharon would later recount that terrifying night in detail; incredibly, she forgave him, though she came close to leaving.) Ozzy fought an endless battle with addiction, often falling off the wagon. In the early 2000s he achieved a period of sobriety, only to relapse around 2012-2013, secretly binging booze and pills for over a year. "I was in a very dark place and was an asshole to the people I love most, my family," he admitted in a public apology. It was a raw, honest confession – the kind of accountability many rock stars wouldn't dare, but Ozzy did. That vulnerability only made his fans love him more. The immortal metal god was, after all, human. He screwed up, he owned up, and he kept trying to be better. In an odd way, there was a decency beneath the debauchery – a big heart that occasionally peeped out from under the bat-biting madness.
From Prince of Darkness to Pop Culture Icon
If you had told suburban America in 1982 that Ozzy Osbourne would become a lovable TV personality, they'd have laughed (or clutched their rosaries). But that's exactly what happened. The turning point was MTV's reality-TV sensation "The Osbournes." From 2002 to 2005, the show invited us into the daily home life of Ozzy, Sharon, and two of their teenage kids, Jack and Kelly. And it was eye-opening in the most hilarious way. Instead of a demonic madman, we saw Ozzy as a foul-mouthed, confused, but ultimately sweet TV dad – shuffling around in slippers, muttering "Sharon!?" as he wrestled with the TV remote and scolded misbehaving dogs. The same man who once terrified parents was now making millions laugh with his bumbling attempts to work the dishwasher. The show became a massive pop culture phenomenon – it even won an Emmy Award for Outstanding Reality Program in 2002. As his son Jack noted, "He'd made that leap from being that guy on the poster in your teenage son's bedroom to now the guy on the TV in the family living room – and mom and dad loved him just as much, in a different way." Ozzy Osbourne had crossed over. The Prince of Darkness was now America's quirky, mushy patriarch, and it was absolutely surreal.
For Ozzy, this late burst of mainstream celebrity was both baffling and gratifying. Here was a man who once literally growled "I am the Prince of Darkness" on stage, now mugging it up in commercials for cell phones and appearing as a guest star on sitcoms. And he rolled with it, because one thing about Ozzy: he never cared about looking cool by anyone's standards but his own. He'd already conquered the music world; why not have fun being a lovable goofball on TV? In interviews, he expressed astonishment that he was still alive and able to experience this kind of success so far beyond his expected expiration date. In truth, the MTV show humanized Ozzy to a whole new generation. Kids who had never heard Black Sabbath suddenly knew Ozzy as that funny old British guy who says "#@%&!" every other word on TV. And their parents, who once feared him, found him oddly charming. Ozzy's openness – swearing, stumbling, but clearly adoring his family – was real. It was the same authenticity he brought to his music, just channeled into domestic comedy instead of heavy metal. The world couldn't get enough.
Of course, true to form, even as Ozzy played the clown for the cameras, he never fully gave up his crown as Prince of Darkness. During this era he also reunited with Black Sabbath periodically for tours, reminding everyone that grandpa Ozzy could still howl with the best of them when duty called. Black Sabbath's original lineup toured again in the mid-2000s, and in 2013 they released the album 13, which hit No.1 in both the US and UK – a triumphant late-career feat. The man could stumble over a couch on Sunday night TV and then go headline Ozzfest and belt "Paranoid" on Monday. Range, thy name is Ozzy Osbourne.
The Long Goodbye and Eternal Legacy
In the 2010s, age and decades of hard living finally caught up with Ozzy Osbourne. No one can cheat fate forever – not even a madman who once laughed in its face. Ozzy's health began to deteriorate. In 2003 he had a near-fatal quad-bike accident that broke his neck and ribs (he technically "died" for over a minute before paramedics revived him). He was diagnosed with a form of Parkinson's disease in 2019, and ongoing spinal problems led to multiple surgeries. By 2020, he was struggling to stand and cancelled what was supposed to be his farewell tour, apologizing to fans with characteristic bluntness: "It just seems that since October, everything I touch has turned to shit," he lamented, after yet another health setback forced him off the road. It was a rare glimpse of defeat from a man who had always seemed invincible. After 50 years of defying death, Ozzy was pissed off to find that, at last, he was mortal.
But in true Ozzy fashion, he wasn't done surprising us. Fast-forward to summer 2025. Against all odds – body battered, hands trembling, voice weathered – Ozzy gathered enough strength for one final bow. On July 5, 2025, in his hometown of Birmingham, he reunited on stage with Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward for a farewell Black Sabbath concert aptly titled "Back to the Beginning." It was their first time all together since 2005, and less than three weeks ago they stood in front of a sold-out stadium crowd to celebrate where it all started. Ozzy was frail, needing help to get on stage, but once the lights hit him, he lit up. "I've been laid up for six years… you've got no idea how I feel. Thank you from the bottom of my heart," he told the roaring crowd, tears in his eyes. The metal community turned out in force that night – members of Metallica, Judas Priest, and newer bands all paying homage. Ozzy's voice cracked and quavered, but when he sang "Paranoid" and "War Pigs" that night, everyone knew they were witnessing history. The Prince of Darkness was writing his final chapter, live on stage, with the people who started the story with him. It was raw, ragged, and beautiful.
Just a few weeks later, on the morning of July 22, 2025, Ozzy Osbourne died peacefully, surrounded by his family in his adopted home of Los Angeles. No cause of death was given, but given his long battle with illnesses it wasn't unexpected. Still, the news felt unreal: Ozzy Osbourne – who so often joked that he should have died years ago – was actually gone. Tributes poured in from every corner of the music world. Tony Iommi hailed his old friend as "the one-of-a-kind voice that changed everything." Metallica's Geezer Butler (who had named his son after Ozzy) called him "a brother and a hero." Younger artists from Post Malone to Foo Fighters shared stories of how kind and supportive Ozzy was behind the scenes – far from the madman image. Fans lit candles outside Aston's old workingman pubs and in Hollywood Boulevard alike. Because everyone felt this loss. It's like a bright (and yes, dark) star in the rock universe just blinked out.
So what is Ozzy Osbourne's legacy? He was heavy metal's original frontman, the "Prince of Darkness" whose theatrical, eerie presence set the template for generations of rock rebels. His banshee howl, heard on Black Sabbath's earliest riffs, is essentially the birth cry of heavy metal itself. Every time you hear a metal vocalist roar or a guitarist chug an ominous riff, Ozzy's spirit is there. He brought darkness and danger back into rock at a time when it was in danger of becoming too safe. Black Sabbath made music feel mysterious and scary again – and fans loved it. Ozzy also embodied the idea of rock & roll as theater. He understood showmanship: sometimes that meant drenching the audience in blood (fake or otherwise), sometimes it meant self-parody. He was the villain and the clown, the rebel and the lovable fool, all at once. Who else could scandalize the world by biting a bat one decade and then charm the world on reality TV the next? There's a reason he's often called the Godfather of Heavy Metal – not just because he was there at the start, but because he nurtured the genre and kept it in the public eye for decades, always evolving, always creating a spectacle.
Beyond the music, Ozzy's life is a story of survival and redemption. Here was a kid from a poor, abusive background in Birmingham who found salvation in music. A young man who made terrible mistakes and battled addiction, yet kept picking himself back up. A wild rock star who by all logic should have burned out in the 80s, but instead reinvented himself and stuck around to influence not one, but multiple generations. His openness about his flaws – from addiction struggles to marital problems – made people root for him. He showed that even our heroes can be fragile and flawed, and that doesn't make them any less inspiring. In an era where so many celebrities curate a perfect image, Ozzy let it all hang out (sometimes quite literally). And because of that, fans trusted him. We laughed with him, not at him. We believed him.
In the end, Ozzy Osbourne gave us more than just a catalog of killer riffs and crazy headlines. He gave us a piece of his indestructible spirit. He taught us that rock and roll can be scary and comforting at the same time – a sanctuary for the freaks and outcasts, led by a man who was the biggest freak of all. As long as there are kids in their bedrooms blasting "Crazy Train" and feeling that surge of raw life it brings, Ozzy's not truly gone. The Prince of Darkness is immortal now – not in body, but in the permanent echo of that primal scream that set so many of us free.
Rest easy, Ozzy. Thank you for the music, the madness, and the honesty. The world's a lot less interesting without you… but somewhere in the distance, I swear I can still hear that crazy train, howling at the moon in your honor. Long live rock 'n' roll – and long live Ozzy Osbourne. Farewell to the one and only Prince of Darkness.
🎵 Soundtrack to This Post
🎵 “Crazy Train” – Ozzy Osbourne
🎵 “War Pigs” – Black Sabbath
🎵 “Mama, I’m Coming Home” – Ozzy Osbourne
🎵 “Changes” – Ozzy & Kelly Osbourne
👤 Tell Damone What You Think
What’s your favorite Ozzy moment? Drop it in the comments and pour one out. Preferably not bat blood.
📌 Filed Under
Obituary, Black Sabbath, Heavy Metal, Rock Icons, Damone Tribute
