I made this one sometime around 2012, back during the “Golden Age” of Facebook pages — when fan communities were raw, alive, and full of shared noise. We weren’t just clicking “like.” We were connecting over riffs, solos, lyrics, and legends. And for me, like so many others, one name stood louder than the rest: **Ozzy Osbourne**.
I’ve been listening to Ozzy with Black Sabbath for over 40 years. His voice, that eerie howl echoing through the first chords of “War Pigs” or “Black Sabbath,” wasn’t just music — it was a part of my growing up. A piece of rebellion. A hymn to the lost, the angry, the misunderstood. And when he went solo, I followed. “Crazy Train” hit like a lightning bolt and never left my playlist.
Ozzy wasn’t just an artist — he was a part of my life. A backdrop to every high, low, and everything in between. From blasting **“Mr. Crowley”** in my room as a teenager to drunken karaoke renditions of **“Mama, I’m Coming Home”** with friends who are no longer around… his music stitched itself into my memories.
So when the news broke — that he had passed — it felt like a giant chunk of my past dimmed.
But as I sat there, stunned and trying to process it, I thought of something that made me smile through the sadness: **Ozzy is with Randy and Lemmy again**.
Think about that. Somewhere, in whatever afterlife heavy metal deserves, the trio is together again — maybe jamming, maybe raising hell, maybe just sitting around telling stories only legends could tell. Randy Rhoads, the prodigy taken too soon. Lemmy Kilmister, the rock ‘n’ roll outlaw with a heart of gold. And Ozzy, the Madman who somehow survived it all… until now.
There’s a strange kind of peace in that image.
Ozzy was never about perfection. He was about chaos. Humanity. Survival. Falling and crawling back again. And if you ever felt like the world didn’t make space for you, Ozzy’s music *did*. That screeching voice, those heavy riffs — they screamed **for** us, **with** us.
Even his struggles — the very public ones — made him real. Honest. We didn’t love Ozzy *despite* his madness. We loved him *because* of it.
And now he’s gone.
But as long as there are speakers, as long as someone’s flipping a Sabbath record or pressing play on a playlist, **he’s not really gone at all**.
So tonight, I’ll pour one out. I’ll crank up **“No More Tears”**, and I’ll close my eyes and imagine that thunderous voice belting across the stars.
Rest easy, Ozzy.
You gave us the soundtrack to our rage, our healing, our lives.
And now — may you finally find peace.
**RIP to the Heavy Metal Madman.**