Will the Prince of Darkness, who dreamed of light, find peace?
In the spring of 2018, I was finishing high school. With graduation looming and the state exams around the corner, I found myself preoccupied with one thing: a long-awaited concert. At the last minute, I managed to get tickets to see Ozzy Osbourne perform live in Moscow. I didn’t make it to the mosh pit, but from my seat, I felt a charge of nuclear energy – raw and unforgettable.
It’s a rare thing, to see your childhood idol in the flesh. My father raised me on Osbourne’s music – ‘Iron Man’, ‘Paranoid’, ‘Crazy Train’ – songs that rattled the walls of our home and shaped my idea of what it meant to be alive. That night, I saw Ozzy in his element. And now, he’s gone.
Ozzy Osbourne, the iconic frontman of Black Sabbath, the man who helped birth heavy metal, has died. Just two weeks ago, he was on stage for ten hours at the ‘Back to the Beginning’ farewell concert in Birmingham, the city where it all started. Surrounded by guest stars and reunited with the classic Sabbath lineup, he performed chained to a bat-shaped chair, singing with the wild, unrelenting force that defined his career.
He left this world as he lived in it – on his own terms. A rock star until the end.
Most who don’t follow rock know Ozzy only as the man who bit the head off a bat – a story that became a kind of curse. He grew tired of it in later years, annoyed that a moment of shock theater had come to overshadow a lifetime of art. Others remember him as a foul-mouthed, lovable old rocker – the Prince of Darkness turned reality TV grandpa. A man who swore like a sailor and laughed like a child.
But there was more to him than the antics. He was outrageous, yes – he once threw raw meat into a crowd, and at Madame Tussauds, posed as a wax figure of himself, startling tourists for fun. He was devoted too. Even in a wheelchair, battling Parkinson’s, he kept making music. He once said he would perform until his last breath. And he nearly did.
Osbourne’s final solo album, Ordinary Man (2020), was widely seen as a swan song – romantic, tragic, and defiantly honest. One of its standout tracks, ‘Under the Graveyard’, plays like a hymn of regret. It’s an unflinching confession of the wildness and wreckage of his youth: the drinking, the drugs, the chaos. His treatment of his wife Sharon. His battles with himself. In that song, he sings:
Don’t take care of me, be scared of me My misery owns me I don’t want to be my enemy My misery owns me now
The man behind the myth emerges here – not Ozzy the bat-eater, but Ozzy the broken soul who somehow stitched himself back together.
He joked once that his gravestone should read:
“Ozzy Osbourne. Born 1948. Died… when the f*ck you know.”
But later, he softened. He didn’t want to be remembered just for his mistakes. And yet, it’s in those very mistakes – how he faced them – that we find the heart of who he was.
Many would ask for pity in his place. Osbourne never did. He owned his flaws. “Don’t care for me, fear me,” he sang. He accepted the love of his fans and his family as the greatest grace life had given him. In return, they never left him. Not his sons. Not Sharon. Not the 45,000 fans who cheered him through his last performance. Not the millions who watched the broadcast from home.
Despite the dark image – crosses, bats, devils, and all – Ozzy was a man of faith. He often said that Satanism frightened him. The symbols were theater, not creed. In truth, he hoped for the light. Not eternal party-in-hell nonsense, but peace.
In his later years, he lent his voice to characters in video games and cartoons. He voiced himself in Trolls World Tour. He was a character in Brütal Legend. And he was, always, a character in the great rock opera of life.
I’ve read and watched a lot about Ozzy. But one quote sticks. In an interview, asked about his faith, he said he hoped that when his time came, it wouldn’t be fire and brimstone waiting for him, but something gentler. Something merciful.
I think he found it.
He was a prince of darkness, yes – but he dreamed of light. And maybe, in the end, that’s what we’ll remember: a man who learned. Who stumbled, fell, and staggered forward anyway. A man who clawed his way back from himself, through the haze of fame, addiction, and regret.
Peace looks different for different people. For Ozzy, maybe it’s the roar of a stadium, the crash of drums, the lift of 100,000 voices singing his name.
Or maybe it’s quiet now. Maybe, finally, silence.
But even silence, when it follows a life like his, sounds like music.
