And in 1997 Ozzy Inc. turned the festival into a tour. I recognized some of the bands on the roster, and I nodded with the arrogant approval of a young man who knows things. I was also broke, jobless, and didn't own a car. The seeds of my ambition germinated through round after round of begging my parents, wearing them down until I heard "we'll see if there are any tickets at work." It's the way your humble narrator used to see concerts. My parents worked for large corporations, and the execs owned plum seats at the big venues. Mom and dad could claim those tickets, provided the disinterest of the big fish. They landed ZZ Top in 1994, the J Geils Band in 1999, and on one sweaty June day they gave me four pieces of paper for Ozzfest.
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| credit: The Birmingham Mail |
My jubilation soon turned complicated. Neither I nor any of my friends could drive, and all of our parents were at work. So three adolescent boys anxiously waited in a sweltering house, trying to will my mother's car up that blacktop driveway. We squirmed with agony in every pore and neuron, recognizing that sets from Type O Negative, Neurosis, and Fear Factory were drifting out to the ether. It was four o'clock before my mom came home. Three over-eager teenagers raced to the front door, arguing about who should ride in the front seat of a hot and cramped two door car. The victor won a scalding leather perch and an unobstructed view of of bumper-to-bumper, traversing the long suburban wastes between Bloomfield and Clarkston. I-75 at rush hour is not a pleasant experience, but we were losing vital bragging rights. Minute by minute we relinquished our chances to gloat about the bands we didn't really know, playing songs we'd never heard before. How else could we trumpet our superiority?
Those pretensions melted before the dreary leviathan of Pine Knob. I'd never been to an amphitheater before, and had no experience with the frustration of finding a parking spot, shuffling through security lines, or waiting for the ushers to admit you. Hell, I didn't even know that the first several rows were reserved for corporate sponsors. It birthed a great resentment in me. My ire remains.
I think we caught the last song or two by Pantera. They were on the Trendkill tour, and I was seriously impressed. Ozzy Osbourne performed a decent solo set, albeit with a band that I didn't recognize. They hewed to his first three solo albums, and I was pleased. Ten silly metal anthems were accompanied by gratuitous destruction of the lawn. The man next to me leaned over, shouting "those drunk idiots keep on digging and they'll hit garbage. This shithole used to be a landfill." This was a popular urban legend, but it proved satisfying enough that I clutched the lie to my bosom for another decade.
A short intermission later, and I had what I was there for: Black Sabbath. I screamed like Bobby Hill, one squee amid a deafening roar. I didn't know that Bill Ward was absent, and at this point in my life I didn't care. I was listening to songs that I'd spun dozens of times, and something that was new to me... "Into the Void?" I needed to hear it again. Instant love. All of those open and closed palm mutes, the trills and the slow blues coda at the conclusion. The hooks were in my flesh.
Which is why I didn't consider my mother's reaction to all of the literal flesh on display. The jumbotron documented a great many women who were lifting their shirts. Cathode rays flickered with exposed mammaries for the cheering amusement of seven thousand drunk idiots. I, being a 16 year old boy, believed myself to be the culmination of human achievement and on the verge of transcendent greatness. My brain simplified this to "boobs are awesome."
Later, my mother told me that she liked Ozzy Osbourne. She also said that if it weren't so, she would have yanked us all from our seats and ended the evening. Really mom, which songs? "I like those slow ones from his newer albums." Oh thank you sappy radio ballads. Even if I knew that "Mama I'm Coming Home" was written by one of the dirtiest dogs in rock history, I wouldn't have the heart to tell her.
My mother would never accompany me to a metal show again, though I would see Black Sabbath three more times. I finally caught them with Bill Ward during the aughts, though Ozzy's grip on the English language was severely diminished. He slid further into the grip of genetic disease, and my appreciation for Ozzfest slipped with him. I try not to gloat so much in my middle age, particularly as concerts recede into the mists of memory, but I make a few special exceptions. Man, I saw Black Sabbath in the twilight of something great. The old magic sparked and the dark flame was lit. You shoulda been there.
