Picture this. I'm standing in crowd. A large number of those around me are dressed from top to toe in faded denim. With gusto they cheer wildly at a 40 ft high screen print of a menacing skull. In my left hand I'm holding a flimsy plastic cup containing overpriced weak frothy beer. All around me there is signage to remind patrons that "official merchandise is available in the foyer and concourse". I'm already down to the last coins in my pocket and all I've bought is a burger and a drink. I focus on the music playing through the house P.A. and try to ignore the fact that someone nearby has issues bordering on deadly when it comes to controlling their bodily odour.
What situation is this? Where have I come to stand amongst the great unwashed? That's right kids; this week I have taken a trip into the curious world that is "Enormo-Arena Rock".
I shouldn't laugh. I paid my money and went along quite willingly. Once upon a time It would've been me wearing all-black and feverishly queuing up to hand over 25 quid in return for an official tour t-shirt and program. Times change, and perhaps it was more out of loyalty than genuine enthusiasm that I found myself at Wembley for the London date of Ozzy Osbourne's world tour.
It is no secret that I have much love for the music of Black Sabbath. Those first four albums will remain on my playlist until the day that I die. I would absolutely, whole-heartedly recommend them. I have equal enthusiasm for Ozzy's early solo work. Both "Blizzard of Ozz" and "Diary of a Madman" firmly established themselves as the soundtrack to my teenage years, and the geek fan boy within me could harp on for hours about the genius of guitar player Randy Rhodes. Over time I've remained faithful. I've turned a blind eye to the whole "Osbournes" phenomena. I've ignored the fact that everybody's Grandma now knows Ozzy as the bumbling fool from the television. Foolishly, and in full denial, I take quiet comfort in the fact that, in my heart, the Ozzy that they watch shuffling around on T.V., surrounded by chiwawas is not MY Ozzy. My Ozzy is the wild man of rock. My Ozzy pissed on the Alamo, chewed up live animals and tried to kill his wife. He also made some cracking albums.
Over the years I've dutifully bought each new record and listened as each one has become more formulaic than the one before. Mercifully, his latest output could almost be considered a comparative improvement. Ozzy actually sounds like he's enjoying himself and puts in a fairly charged performance. The band, however, seem content to churn out one mid paced riff after another and the production suffers from the now all too common (please don't get me started) use of Pro Tools.
Funny isn't it? After all this, why do I keep coming back for more? Simple answer. I'm just too damn fond of the old bastard!
Bearing this in mind you'll understand why I took myself on a trip into town eager to see if he can still deliver the goods live. I'd feared the worst after seeing some Youtube footage from "Jimmy Kimmel live". On it he seems to be using some kind of auto-tune effect or backing track to enhance his voice. Not what I wanted to hear. Ozzy sounds shaky at the best of times, and that's exactly how I like it!
The gig began and, thankfully, there was no sign of any lip-synching. Unfortunately by the second song I was beginning to wish that there had been!!
Ozzy's voice was shot to bits. The soundman was trying to compensate by lathering on mountains of delay. This seemed to be throwing the band off and you could see them working hard just to stay in time. It was becoming painful.
Curiously, the new album was largely ignored. In fact, the set seemed to avoid any output from the last ten years. Was this recognition from the man himself, that his best days are long behind him?
My disappointment drove me out to the bar to get another beer. Ozzy had left the stage, leaving Zack Wylde to do the obligatory arena rock guitar solo. Subconsciously I was praying for a miracle.
Is divine intervention a real possibility? Or did that beer put things into a different perspective because when I went back into the venue things definitely began to improve.
Out of nowhere Ozzy seemed to find his voice again. With renewed confidence the band found their mojo and began to fly. All of a sudden the whole thing started to feel like fun.
My relief quickly turned into warm nostalgia. Songs from my past tumbled by and finally the show gathered momentum.
Of course I had to endure the tired routine of each of the last six songs being introduced as "the final number" but I'll forgive that for the sheer quality of the climax.
There is very little in the world of rock and roll that compares to hearing "Paranoid" on this scale fronted by Ozzy Osbourne. This night proved to be no exception.
It's a guilty pleasure and a tough one to admit, but for three and a half minutes on a Tuesday night in London, I was in fucking heaven!
Stay safe.
What situation is this? Where have I come to stand amongst the great unwashed? That's right kids; this week I have taken a trip into the curious world that is "Enormo-Arena Rock".
I shouldn't laugh. I paid my money and went along quite willingly. Once upon a time It would've been me wearing all-black and feverishly queuing up to hand over 25 quid in return for an official tour t-shirt and program. Times change, and perhaps it was more out of loyalty than genuine enthusiasm that I found myself at Wembley for the London date of Ozzy Osbourne's world tour.
It is no secret that I have much love for the music of Black Sabbath. Those first four albums will remain on my playlist until the day that I die. I would absolutely, whole-heartedly recommend them. I have equal enthusiasm for Ozzy's early solo work. Both "Blizzard of Ozz" and "Diary of a Madman" firmly established themselves as the soundtrack to my teenage years, and the geek fan boy within me could harp on for hours about the genius of guitar player Randy Rhodes. Over time I've remained faithful. I've turned a blind eye to the whole "Osbournes" phenomena. I've ignored the fact that everybody's Grandma now knows Ozzy as the bumbling fool from the television. Foolishly, and in full denial, I take quiet comfort in the fact that, in my heart, the Ozzy that they watch shuffling around on T.V., surrounded by chiwawas is not MY Ozzy. My Ozzy is the wild man of rock. My Ozzy pissed on the Alamo, chewed up live animals and tried to kill his wife. He also made some cracking albums.
Over the years I've dutifully bought each new record and listened as each one has become more formulaic than the one before. Mercifully, his latest output could almost be considered a comparative improvement. Ozzy actually sounds like he's enjoying himself and puts in a fairly charged performance. The band, however, seem content to churn out one mid paced riff after another and the production suffers from the now all too common (please don't get me started) use of Pro Tools.
Funny isn't it? After all this, why do I keep coming back for more? Simple answer. I'm just too damn fond of the old bastard!
Bearing this in mind you'll understand why I took myself on a trip into town eager to see if he can still deliver the goods live. I'd feared the worst after seeing some Youtube footage from "Jimmy Kimmel live". On it he seems to be using some kind of auto-tune effect or backing track to enhance his voice. Not what I wanted to hear. Ozzy sounds shaky at the best of times, and that's exactly how I like it!
The gig began and, thankfully, there was no sign of any lip-synching. Unfortunately by the second song I was beginning to wish that there had been!!
Ozzy's voice was shot to bits. The soundman was trying to compensate by lathering on mountains of delay. This seemed to be throwing the band off and you could see them working hard just to stay in time. It was becoming painful.
Curiously, the new album was largely ignored. In fact, the set seemed to avoid any output from the last ten years. Was this recognition from the man himself, that his best days are long behind him?
My disappointment drove me out to the bar to get another beer. Ozzy had left the stage, leaving Zack Wylde to do the obligatory arena rock guitar solo. Subconsciously I was praying for a miracle.
Is divine intervention a real possibility? Or did that beer put things into a different perspective because when I went back into the venue things definitely began to improve.
Out of nowhere Ozzy seemed to find his voice again. With renewed confidence the band found their mojo and began to fly. All of a sudden the whole thing started to feel like fun.
My relief quickly turned into warm nostalgia. Songs from my past tumbled by and finally the show gathered momentum.
Of course I had to endure the tired routine of each of the last six songs being introduced as "the final number" but I'll forgive that for the sheer quality of the climax.
There is very little in the world of rock and roll that compares to hearing "Paranoid" on this scale fronted by Ozzy Osbourne. This night proved to be no exception.
It's a guilty pleasure and a tough one to admit, but for three and a half minutes on a Tuesday night in London, I was in fucking heaven!
Stay safe.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
The book was fantastic! Tell you wife to stay away from the internet or any sort of press (that includes the BBC, ITV, SKY, or the radio)...she'll get spoilers all over the place!