Requiem for the Prince of Darkness
Ozzy Osbourne's music didn’t just shake walls — it shaped minds. This tribute reflects on the riffs, the madness, and the legacy he leaves behind.
Shortly after returning to school in September 1980, following a long summer break, I went to my friend Geoff Colby’s house for what I thought would be a regular afternoon of playing games or bullshitting about the things kids bullshit about. That day, though, Geoff pulled out an armful of freshly unwrapped albums.
Until then, I enjoyed a variety of bands — Van Halen, AC/DC, Foreigner, Kansas. But what Geoff threw on the turntable that afternoon was something entirely different.
“Dun-da-da-DUN... da-da-DUN… dun-da-da-DUN... da-da-DUN… da-da-da-da-da-DAAAH!”
The power riff that anyone who’s ever listened to rock music or attended a sporting event instantly recognizes — the opening guitar chords of Ozzy Osbourne’s Crazy Train.
Until that moment, I had no idea who Ozzy was. I’d heard of Black Sabbath — the British band credited with creating heavy metal — but knew little about them or their songs. I didn’t know about Ozzy’s falling out with the other members of that legendary band, which predated Led Zeppelin, or that Blizzard of Ozz was his debut as a solo artist. All I heard was that guitar, expertly shredded by the equally legendary Randy Rhoads.
Crazy, but that's how it goes
Millions of people living as foes
Maybe it's not too late
To learn how to love and forget how to hate
Mental wounds not healing
Life's a bitter shame
I'm going off the rails on a crazy train…
While I credit the Canadian power trio Rush with being my lifelong muse — inspiring my personal philosophy and sparking my passion for writing — it was Ozzy who opened the door to exploring the darker, more mysterious parts of the world.
Dubbed the “Prince of Darkness,” Ozzy embraced the macabre — wrapping himself in the imagery of Satanism, the occult, and black magic. His music was pure power, projecting boundless energy that could transport listeners into transcendent states. Parents and preachers hated him and his influence on youth. But for kids like me, Ozzy was jet fuel for the soundtrack of the early 1980s.
Blizzard of Ozz was nearly a perfect heavy metal album, with tracks like I Don’t Know, Suicide Solution, and the enigmatic Mr. Crowley. These were high-octane songs that told stories no one else in rock was telling at the time.
In 1981, Ozzy followed Blizzard with his sophomore effort, Diary of a Madman. The album cover showed him painted up like someone who had lived in an asylum for years — ashen face, wild unkempt hair, tattered clothes — standing in a stone-walled room that gave the scene a medieval air. In my opinion, Diary is his best album, filled with powerful songs, none more impactful than the title track — the story of a man descending into madness through isolation.
That year, my eighth-grade English teacher assigned our class to write a short story on any topic we wanted. Most of the other kids leaned on tired tropes, ending their stories with “…and then I woke up.” I took a different route.
Using maps from my father’s National Geographics, I concocted a story about a man traveling from Hanover to Bremen in Germany by horse-drawn coach to a castle atop a hill. There, he learns of a legend: the castle’s previous owner went insane. As time passes, the man experiences his own transformation, slowly slipping from a lucid aristocrat into a madman. Diary of a Madman directly inspired the story. My teacher was impressed.
In the pre-internet era, when real news about musicians was hard to come by, Ozzy still managed to dominate headlines. Biting the head off a dove in a record company meeting. A tragic plane crash that killed Randy Rhoads and nearly took Ozzy’s life. Persistent rumors of satanic rituals. Ozzy stood out in a sea of musicians and artists who mostly played it safe.
As I got older, Ozzy’s music appealed to me less. I gravitated toward more cerebral artists — Rush, Pink Floyd, Alan Parsons, Kate Bush. The last Ozzy single I truly embraced was No More Tears from his 1991 album — a track full of heavy bass lines and soaring guitar solos. Still, I never lost my awe for what Ozzy had accomplished despite his drug and alcohol abuse, family drama, and creative struggles. He broke molds long before anyone realized there were molds to break.
Over time, Ozzy’s onstage persona shifted from power-mad showman to addled rock statesman. His move into reality television with his family softened his image, but also reminded the world of the toll that years of touring and substance abuse had taken. News of his Parkinson’s diagnosis wasn’t surprising — it seemed an inevitable outcome of the life he had lived.
He passed yesterday at the age of 76, just weeks after his final farewell concert. Friends who attended the show in his native Birmingham, England, panned the performance. Ozzy wasn’t just past his prime — he was onstage when he arguably shouldn’t have been. And yet, he did it for the fans.
Ozzy Osbourne was never everyone’s cup of tea. But he inspired and entertained millions — including me. The world feels a little emptier, a little darker, without the Prince of Darkness in it.