I Am Ozzy (19 page)

It was Bill who told me I was fired.
The date was April 27, 1979 - a Friday afternoon.
We were doing some rehearsals in LA, and I was loaded, but then I was loaded all the time. It was

obvious that Bill had been sent by the others, because he wasn't exactly the firing type. I can't remember exactly what he said to me. We haven't talked about it since. But the gist was that
Tony thought I was a pissed, coked-up loser and a waste of time for everyone concerned. To be honest
with you, it felt like he was finally getting his revenge for me walking out. And it didn't come as a complete
surprise: I'd had the feeling in the studio for a while that Tony was trying to wind me up by getting me to
sing takes over and over again, even though there was nothing wrong with the first one. I didn't let it affect my friendship with Bill. I felt bad for the guy, actually, 'cos his mum had just died.
Then not long after I was kicked out of Black Sabbath, his father died too. When I'd heard the news, I
thought, Fuck the war, I'm still his mate, we're still the same people who lived in a GMC together for
months on end in America. So I drove straight up to Birming ham to see him.
He'd taken it really badly and I felt terrible for him. Then his dad's funeral turned into a joke. They
were carrying the coffin out of the church when they realised that someone in the funeral party had nicked
the vicar's car. The vicar refused to continue with the service until he got it back, but whoever had nicked
the fucking thing couldn't get the steering lock off, and ended up crashing into a garden. Imagine that kind
of bullshit going down when you're trying to lay your old man to rest. Unbelievable.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel betrayed by what happened with Black Sabbath. We weren't some
manufactured boy band whose members were expendable. We were four blokes from the same town who'd
grown up together a few streets apart. We were like a family, like brothers. And firing me for being fucked
up was hypocritical bullshit. We were
all
fucked up. If you're stoned and I'm stoned, and you're telling me
that I'm fired because I'm stoned, how can that fucking be? Because I'm
slightly
more stoned than you
are?
But I don't give a fuck any more - and it worked out for the best in the end. It gave me the shove up
the arse I needed, and it probably made it a lot more fun for them, making records with a new singer. I
don't have anything bad to say about the guy they hired to replace me, Ronnie James Dio, who'd
previously been with Rainbow. He's a great singer. Then again, he ain't me, and I ain't him. So I just wish
they'd called the band Black Sabbath II.
That's all.

Part Two
Starting Over

7

ll of a sudden I was unemployed.

Des Moines

A

And unemployable.
I remember thinking, Well, I've still got a few dollars in my pocket, so I'll have one last big fling in LA - then I'll go back to England. I honestly thought I'd have to sell Bulrush Cottage and go and work on a building site or something. I just resigned myself to the fact that it was over. None of it had ever seemed real, anyway. The first thing I did was check myself into a place called Le Parc Hotel in West Hollywood, paid for by Don Arden's company, Jet Records. I was amazed Don had forked out for it, to be honest with you. The second he realises I ain't going back to Black Sabbath, I said to myself, they're gonna kick me out of this place - so I might as well enjoy it while I still can. You didn't get a room at Le Parc - you got a little apartment-type thing with its own kitchen where you could make your own food. I never left. I just sat on the bed and watched old war films with the curtains closed. I didn't see daylight for months. My dealer would come over and give me some blow or some pot, I'd get booze delivered from Gil Turner's up on Sunset Strip, and every once in a while I'd get some chicks over to fuck. Although I dunno why anyone was prepared to fuck me, not in those days. I was eating so much pizza and drinking so much beer, I had bigger tits than Jabba the Hutt's fat older brother.
I hadn't seen Thelma or the kids for ages. I'd call them up from the phone in my room, but it felt like they were slipping away from me, which made me feel even more depressed. I'd spent more time with Black Sabbath than I ever had with my family. We'd come back from months on the road, take a threeweek break, then go straight off to some farm or castle where we'd fuck around until we came up with some new songs. We did that for a decade, until all our personal lives were ruined: Bill's marriage failed, Tony's marriage failed, Geezer's marriage failed. But I didn't want to accept it, because it would mean losing my home and my kids, and I'd already lost my dad and my band.
I just wanted to shut everything out, make everything go away.
So I hid in Le Parc and drank.
And drank.
And drank.
Then, one day, this bloke called Mark Nauseef knocked on my door. He was a drummer, also managed by Don Arden, and he'd played with everyone from the Velvet Underground to Thin Lizzy. He told me that Sharon from Jet Records was coming over to pick something up from him - he was staying in one of the other apartments - but that he had to leave town for a gig. Then he handed me an envelope.
'Would you do me a favour and give this to her?' he asked. 'I told Sharon just to call for you at reception.'
'No worries,' I said.
As soon as I closed the door, I got a knife and opened it.
Inside was five hundred dollars in cash. Fuck knows what it was for and I didn't care. I just called up my dealer and bought five hundred dollars' worth of coke. A few hours later, Sharon came over and asked if I had something to give her. 'No, I don't think so,' I said, all innocent.
'Are you sure, Ozzy?'
'Pretty sure.'
But it didn't take Einstein to work out what had happened. There was a massive bag of coke on the table next to a ripped-up envelope with 'Sharon' written on it in felt-tip pen.
Sharon gave me a monumental bollocking when she saw it, shouting and cursing and telling me I was a fucking disaster.
I guess I won't be shagging her any time soon, then, I thought.
But she came back the next day, to find me lying in a puddle of my own piss, smoking a joint.
'Look,' she said. 'If you want to get your shit together, we want to manage you.'
'Why would anyone want to manage
me
?' I asked her.
I couldn't believe it, I really couldn't. But it was a good job that
someone
wanted me, 'cos I was down to my last few dollars. My royalties from Black Sabbath were non-existent, I didn't have a savings account, and I had no new income coming in. At first, Don wanted me to start a band called Son of Sabbath, which I thought was a horrendous idea. Then he wanted me to team up with Gary Moore. I wasn't too keen on that, either, even though me and Sharon had gone to San Francisco with Gary and his bird one time, and we'd had a lot of fun. (I really thought I was in with Sharon on that trip, to be honest with you, but nothing happened: she just went back to her hotel at the end of the night, and left me dribbling into my beer.)
The worst idea that Don Arden had was for me and Sabbath to do gigs together, one after the other, like a double bill. I asked Sharon, 'Is he having a laugh?'
But then Sharon started to take more control, and we decided that I should make a proper solo album.
I wanted to call it
Blizzard of Ozz
And little by little, things started to come together.
I'd never met anyone who could sort things out like Sharon could. Whatever she said she would do, she'd get it done. Or at least she'd come back to you and say, 'Look, I tried my best, but I couldn't make it happen.' As a manager, you always knew exactly where you stood with her. Meanwhile, Sharon's father would just shout and bully like some mob captain, so I tried to stay out of his way as much as I could. Of course, before I could make an album and go on tour, I needed a band. But I'd never held auditions before, and I didn't have a clue how or where to start. So Sharon helped me out, taking me to see all these young, up-and-coming LA guitarists. But I wasn't really in any state for it. I'd just find a sofa in the corner of the room and pass out. Then a friend of mine, Dana Strum - who'd auditioned to be my bass player - said to me, 'Look, Ozzy, there's one guy you really have to see. He plays with a band called Quiet Riot, and he's red hot.'
So one night this tiny American bloke came over to Le Parc to introduce himself. The first thing that came into my mind was: he's either a chick or gay. He had long, wet-looking hair, and this weirdly deep voice, and he was so thin he was almost not there. He reminded me a little of David Bowie's guitarist, Mick Ronson.
'How old are you?' I asked, as soon as he walked through the door.
'Twenty-two.'
'What's your name?'
'Randy Rhoads.'
'Do you want a beer?'
'I'll take a Coke, if you have one.'
'I'll get you a beer. Are you a bloke, by the way?'
Randy just laughed.
'Seriously,' I said.
'Er, yeah. Last time I checked.'
Randy must have thought I was a fucking lunatic.
Afterwards, we drove over to a studio somewhere so I could hear him play. I remember him plugging his Gibson Les Paul into a little practice amp and saying to me, 'D'you mind if I warm up?'
'Knock yourself out,' I said.
Then he started doing these finger exercises. I had to say to him, 'Stop. Randy, just stop right there.'
'What's wrong?' he said, looking up at me with this worried expression on his face.
'You're hired.'
You should have heard him play, man.
I almost cried, he was so good.
Soon we were flying back to England for rehearsals. I quickly found out that although Randy looked like Mr Cool, he was an incredibly sweet, down-to-earth guy. A real gentleman, too - not at all what you'd expect of a flash American rock 'n' roll guitar hero.
I couldn't understand why he even wanted to get involved with a bloated alcoholic wreck like me.
At first, we stayed at Bulrush Cottage with Thelma and the kids. The first thing we wrote was 'Goodbye to Romance'. Working with Randy was like night and day compared with Black Sabbath. I was just walking around the house one day, singing this melody that had been in my head for months, and Randy asked, 'Is that your song, or a Beatles song?' I said, 'Oh no, it's nothing, just this thing I've got stuck in my head.' But he made me sit down with him until we'd worked it out.
He was incredibly patient - I wasn't surprised at all when I found out that his mum was a music teacher. It was the first time I'd ever felt like I was an equal partner when it came to songwriting.
Another vivid memory of working with Randy was when we wrote 'Suicide Solution'. We were at a party for a band called Wild Horses at John Henry's, a rehearsal studio in London. Everyone else was fucked up on one thing or another, but Randy was sitting in a corner experimenting with riffs on his Flying V, and all of a sudden he just went Dah, Dah, D'La-Dah, DAH, D'La
Dah
. I shouted over, 'Whoa, Randy! What was that?' He just shrugged. I told him to play what he'd just played, then I started to sing this lyric I'd had in my head for a while: 'Wine is fine, but whiskey's quicker/ Suicide is slow with liquor'. And that was it, most of the song was written, right there. The night ended with everyone on stage, jamming.
Phil Lynott from Thin Lizzy was there. That might have been the last time I saw him before he died, actually. He was a tragic case, was Phil. I mean, I thought he missed his mark so badly. Great fucking performer, great voice, great style, but the old heroin got him in the end.
Thank God I never got into that shit.

Randy loved Britain.

Every weekend, he'd get in the van and drive somewhere, just to have a look around. He went to Wales, Scotland, the Lake District, you name it. He also collected toy trains, so wherever he went, he'd buy one. He was a quiet bloke, very dedicated, didn't like showing off, but he could be a laugh, too. One time we were in this bar and there was a guy in the corner playing classical music on the piano, so Randy goes up to him and says, 'D'you mind if I join you?' The guy looks at Randy, looks around the bar, sees me, and goes, 'Er, sure.' So then Randy gets out his Gibson, hooks up his little practice amp, and starts playing along to this Beethoven piece or whatever it was. But as he goes along, he starts throwing in all these rock 'n' roll moves, and by the end of it he's on his knees, doing this wild solo with his tongue hanging out. It was fucking hilarious. The whole bar was in stitches.

The funny thing is, I don't think Randy really ever liked Black Sabbath much. He was a
proper
musician. I mean, a lot of rock 'n' roll guitarists are good, but they have just one trick, one gimmick, so even if you don't know the song, you go, 'Oh, that's so-and-so.' But Randy could play anything. His influences ranged from Leslie West to jazz greats like Charlie Christian and classical guys like John Williams. He didn't understand why people were into 'Iron Man', 'cos he thought it was so simple a kid could play it.

We had arguments about that, actually. I'd say, 'Look, if it works, who cares if it's simple? I mean, you can't get much easier than the riff to "You Really Got Me" - but it's awesome. When I first bought that single, I played it until the needle on my dad's radiogram broke.'

Randy would just shrug and say, 'I guess.'
One thing Sharon's brother managed to get done when we were in England was find us a bass player - Bob Daisley, an Aussie bloke who'd been signed to Jet with a band called Widowmaker, which was how David knew him. I liked Bob immediately. He was a proper rock 'n' roller - he wore denim jackets with cutout sleeves and had his hair all blown out - and we'd go down the pub and do a bit of coke once in a while.
Another good thing about Bob was that he wasn't just a bass player. He could chip in with songwriting, too.
And we had a laugh together - at first, anyway.
Getting a drummer wasn't so easy.
We seemed to audition half of Britain before we finally came across Lee Kerslake, who'd played with Uriah Heep. He was all right, Lee - one of those big old pub blokes. Solid drummer, too. But the guy I'd really wanted - Tommy Aldridge, from the Pat Travers Band - wasn't available.
Another early member of our line-up was a keyboard player from Ipswich called Lindsay Bridgewater. He was a very educated boy, was Lindsay, and he'd never met the likes of us before. I told him, 'Lindsay, you look like a fucking school teacher. I want you to backcomb your hair, put on a white cape, get yourself some black lipstick and some black eyeliner. And while you're playing, I want you to
growl
at the audience.'
The poor bloke didn't last long.
I'd be talking out of my arse if I said I didn't feel like I was in competition with Black Sabbath when we made
Blizzard of Ozz
. I wished them well, I suppose, but part of me was shitting myself that they were going to be more successful without me. And their first album with Dio was pretty good. I didn't rush out and buy it, but I heard some tracks on the radio. It went to number nine in Britain and number twentyeight in America. But by the time we'd got
Blizzard
in the can at Ridge Farm Studios in Surrey, I knew we had a cracking album of our own. We had a couple of cracking albums, actually, because we had a lot of material left over when we were done.
And it was magic to be in control - like I'd finally pulled something off. Then again, even if you think something's brilliant, you never know if the general public's going to pick up on it. But as soon as the radio stations got hold of 'Crazy Train', it was a done deal. The thing just exploded.
When the album came out in Britain in September 1980, it went to number seven in the album charts. When it came out in America six months later, it peaked at number twenty-one, but it eventually sold four million copies, making it one of
Billboard
's Top 100 bestselling albums of the decade.
Reviews?
Didn't read 'em.

A few nights before the tour started, I got Sharon in the sack for the first time. It had taken fucking long enough. We'd been at Shepperton Studios in Surrey, rehearsing for our first gig - which was going to be in Blackpool under the fake name of The Law - and we were all staying at the same hotel across the road. So I just followed Sharon back to her room. I think I might even have used my extra-special pick-up line: 'Can I come back and watch your telly?' The usual reply to this was, 'Fuck off, I ain't got one.'

But this time it worked.
I was shitfaced, obviously. So was Sharon - she
must
have been. All I remember is her deciding to take a bath, and me ripping off my clothes and jumping in with her. Then one thing led to another, as things tend to do when you jump in a bath with a chick.
I fell for Sharon so badly, man.
The thing is, before I met her, I'd never come across a girl who was
like
me. I mean, when me and Sharon went out, people used to think we were brother and sister, we were so similar. Wherever we went, we were always the drunkest and the loudest.
We got up to some crazy shit in those early days.
One night in Germany, we went to a big dinner with the head of CBS Europe, who were releasing
Blizzard of Ozz
over there. He was a big, bearded, cigar-chomping bloke, and very straight. I was out of my fucking clock, of course. So we're all sitting there at this huge table, and halfway through the meal I get the idea to climb on the table and start doing a striptease. Everyone thinks it's funny for a while. But I end up stark bollock naked, take a piss in the CBS guy's carafe of wine, kneel down in front of him, and kiss him on the lips.
They didn't think
that
was very funny.
We didn't get a record played in Germany for years afterwards. I remember being on the plane, flying out of Berlin, with Sharon ripping up the contracts and saying, 'Well, that's another country gone.'
'It was worth it for the striptease though, wasn't it?' I asked.
'That wasn't a striptease you were doing, Ozzy. It was a fucking Nazi goose-step. Up and down the table. That poor German bloke looked mortified. Then you put your balls in his fucking wine.'
'I thought I pissed in his wine?'
'That was
before
you pissed in his wine.'
Then we went to Paris, and I was still wasted from Berlin. I was
crazy
drunk, because people kept giving us all these free bottles of booze. By then, everyone had heard about what went on in Germany, so these very nervous record company people took us out for a drink at a nightclub. Everyone was talking about business, so to relieve the boredom I turned to the bloke next to me and said, 'Hey, will you do me a favour?'
'Sure,' he said.
'Punch me in the face.'
'What?'
'Punch me in the face.'
'I can't do that.'
'Look, I asked you to do me a favour, and you said you would. You
promised
. So punch me in the fucking face.'
'No!'
'Just punch me.'
'Mr Osbourne, I'm sorry, but I can't do that.'
'Come on! YOU FUCKING PROMIS--'
BLAM!
The last thing I saw was Sharon's fist approaching my face from across the table. Then I was flat out on the floor, my nose bleeding, feeling like half my teeth were gonna fall out.
I opened my eyes and saw Sharon looking down at me. 'Are you happy now?' she asked me.
I spat out some blood and snot. 'Very happy, cheers.'