Steven Tyler stepped up to the podium, his iconic frame slightly bowed with the weight of grief. A hush fell over the chapel. The air was thick with silence, save for the soft sobs and the occasional clearing of throats—little human sounds trying to make sense of an impossible loss.
The microphone stood ready, draped with a cascade of colorful scarves—Tyler’s signature. But today, they felt less like stage props and more like mourning ribbons. He didn’t rush to speak. He didn’t rush to sing. He simply stood there for a moment, eyes scanning the pews filled with familiar faces etched in sorrow: bandmates, rock legends, family, fans. Some wore leather jackets like armor, others all black like ash. Everyone wore pain.
He leaned in slightly, gripping the podium, the veins in his hands prominent and trembling. His voice, that legendary rasp that once shook arenas, now trembled under the weight of what he had to say.
“I used to call him the Prince of Darkness…” Steven began, a weak smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “But to me, Ozzy was always the light in every room he walked into.”
There were soft murmurs—shared memories rising like smoke. Heads nodded. Shoulders shook.
Tyler looked down, collecting himself. “He saved me more times than I can count. Not just from the madness of this business, or from myself… but from silence. From feeling alone. He was the only person who could scream louder than my demons, and still make it sound like love.”
He paused, letting the words settle like dust on the shoulders of everyone in the chapel.
“He taught the world that we have the right to be loud,” Tyler continued, voice breaking. “To be wild. To be weird. To be exactly who we are—even when the world tries to quiet us. He gave us all permission.”
The casket stood at the front of the room, dark and glossy like a grand piano closed forever. It was surrounded by flowers—black roses, lilies, orchids—and a few strange touches only Ozzy would’ve approved of: a single bat plush toy, a dog-eared copy of *Lord of the Rings*, and a bottle of Crown Royal, uncorked.
Steven stepped away from the podium, moving slowly, reverently, to the casket. He placed a trembling hand on the polished wood, his rings clicking softly as he touched it.
“I’m gonna miss you, brother,” he whispered. His forehead leaned against the casket for a heartbeat, two, maybe more.
Then he turned. A silent nod to the organist. No band. No stage. Just him.
He cleared his throat, then opened his mouth—and sang.
“*Every time when I look in the mirror…*”
His voice cracked. But he kept going. The raw, aching rendition of *Dream On* filled the chapel, each note unvarnished, bleeding with loss. He didn’t sing it like a rockstar; he sang it like a man mourning a friend, a brother, a fellow misfit who had made the world feel a little more magical and a lot more possible.
As the song soared and broke and soared again, the room followed. Grown men sobbed openly. Sharon Osbourne clutched her chest. Geezer Butler covered his face. Axl Rose stared into his lap, unmoving.
When Steven hit the final scream—ragged and full of 50 years of friendship and madness—it echoed like thunder through the cathedral rafters. It didn’t just end a song; it cracked something open in everyone.
Silence followed. But it wasn’t empty.
Steven wiped his eyes. Then turned back to the casket, gave it one last tap like the end of a set, and walked away slowly—his scarves trailing behind like a comet’s tail.
Ozzy would’ve loved it.
—
Let me know if you’d like a version told from another perspective, like Sharon’s or Jack Osbourne’s.