Live music review: Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath – The Tired King of Metal Gets His Final Bow

Someone online said something profound about Ozzy’s final performance with Black Sabbath at Villa Park in their hometown of Birmingham, England on July 5: they called him a tired king. And as that tired king looked out over his court, with the whole world watching, he gave one last welcome to those still loyal to his heavy metal kingdom.

As the Back to the Beginning celebration unfolded, the armchair quarterbacking began in real time. David Draiman of Disturbed got booed. You can make the case if it was over his politics or just that he fronts the mall metal one-hit wonders Disturbed. Guns N’ Roses were spectacularly mediocre, with Axl Rose sounding like Mickey Mouse as he squeaked his way through “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath.” The rest of the set was boring bar tunes. 

Slayer, though, played with the kind of fury that makes you wonder why Tom Araya ever quit. The Pantera tribute? Nothing but karaoke with a budget. I get why people want to hear those songs, but having seen Pantera with Vinnie and Dime, I can tell you: this is a ghost, a hollow echo of what that band once was. The real Pantera was electric. This was just something to please the fans. Down should have been on the bill instead, at least then it would feel like Phil Anselmo protecting his legacy rather than jamming with his friends.

The tribute sets—Tom Morello, Chad Smith, Billy Corgan, and whoever else they could wrangle—were fine. Memorable? Not really. I could speculate on who wasn’t there and why, but I don’t make contracts or plan summer tours. Metallica, ever the machine, showed up and did what they do best: hit the gas, deliver the hits, and keep the brand alive. “Battery.” “Master of Puppets.” Boom. Done.

It’s worth mentioning that Lamb of God, Gojira, and Mastodon all had solid sets. All of them brought the energy exactly as they were scheduled to do. No notes. Same with Alice in Chains. Say what you want about losing Layne Staley, William Duvall holds it the fuck down. Every band doing a Black Sabbath/Ozzy cover during their sets was a nice touch, with HaleStorm doing the best as they ripped through “Perry Mason.”

But Ozzy Osbourne and the Back to the Beginning final show was the real draw. Seeing the metal lord rise in his throne, overlooking the community he helped create, was worth the price of admission. “Mr. Crowley” was black magic, but “Mama, I’m Coming Home,” penned by his late friend Lemmy, was the gut stab. That one ripped through the crowd and the side stage alike. Knowing the finality of the moment, that was something that will echo in the history books of music. His solo set had moments of joy, but the Black Sabbath tribute was the soul of the night.

As the Birmingham boys played together one last time, the birthplace of heavy metal did them justice, howling every word, giving Sabbath the sendoff they deserved. And seeing Bill Ward there added the final, necessary bow on a career that changed the course of music.

I watched it all with my brothers. Our parents raised us on the Sabbath. Now our kids hear it in the car. Our wives, our friends, my girlfriend, we made a day of it. During most of the other bands, we laughed and made jokes. But when Sabbath hit the stage, we went quiet. Reverent. We knew what we were seeing. One of our cultural heroes was stepping down. The king was passing the torch—or extinguishing it.

It’s easy to praise someone after they’re gone, to retroactively talk about their influence. But Ozzy is still here. And he got his flowers while he could still smell them. He got to see what he had created. Not just a sound, but a whole world. A generation of weirdos, metalheads, punks, and misfits—all connected by this thing he and a few friends brewed up in the smoggy depths of Birmingham. Just a blues band named after a horror movie.

And when Ozzy, Bill Ward, Geezer Butler, and Tony Iommi tore into “Paranoid” one last time, it was worth remembering: that song was written on the spot, as filler. They needed something fast. And they accidentally created a song that would live forever, something that transcends taste, genre, and time. It’ll still be blasting long after we’re all skeletons.

As long as there’s darkness in the world, some kid will find the song “Black Sabbath” and feel like it’s speaking directly to him. Not in words. In riffs.

 Thank you for what you created. Without your music, I sure as hell wouldn’t be the weirdo I am today.

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