Review by Stuart Lynch
East Coast Correspondent
Chased by the Devil, we all need a guide to find our way through Hell. Ozzy Ozbourne seems to be at the right hand of the fiendish one, but really he’s just escaped the grasp of the claws. He’s like a cat running in front of a speeding car at night, pumped with adrenalin from the rush.
During a show at Star Lake Ampitheater, 25 miles east of Pittsburgh near Burgettstown, Black Sabbath delivered a performance that would rival any fiery pulpit. I could hear the Bible beaters banter in my brain to beware of the bad influences that awaited me at this gathering. I thought: how stupid, we have a champion of the dark, not the antichrist! Whoever committed suicide is just using Sabbath for an exuse to exit this dreary and sad planet.
There were 14 scheduled bands that day, including Pantera and Marilyn Manson, but I chose to go at the last minute, I ONLY wanted to see Ozzy Osbourne with Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler. As I pulled in the parking lot, Ozzy’s current band was halfway through their set and his voice was unmistakable, shouting “Come on you !@#$ers!”
“AAAAAAAHhhhhhhhhh.”
I paid my $32 and walked onto the grass section. I saw a lot of tired, frazzled, sun-burn spectators, and was glad I didn’t go earlier. Two guys with massive contusions, cuts and abrasions and blood strode their way out, they had had enough. Who knew what the fight was about? Probably territorial stirrings of ego.
“Im going off the rails, on the crazy train!!” boomed Ozzy during the encore of his current band, along with the guitar sound that epitomizes metal, with high-piched screeching overtones when he used the whammy bar. I don’t even know his name, I thought. Oh, well — OZZY!
It was then twilight, and just as it was turning dark, Black Sabbath was already starting their “service,” an almost chilling and demonic mood. In fact, I was getting chills, hearing classic songs from the late 60’s and easrly 70’s done with enthusiasm, raw power and emotion. Tony Iommi’s Gibson SG notes, red or black, left-handed, cut through the air perfectly to reach my ears. He was great, and so was Ozzy. I only noticed once that he was throat-tired, who wouldn’t be after singing 2 back-to-back sets — 50+ years old and the original Heavy Metal master?
DOW DOW!, ma na-na, nana-nanana, DOW DOW, ma na-na…
“I love you!” Ozzy screamed into the mike…
What was cool was the back drop of psychedelic spinning shapes after he asked the crowd “does anyone still smoke pot?” And you could smell driftings of awful cheap-grade mexican pot that probably sat around for 3 years at least — this was Pittsburgh after all. The black crosses framed the stage and matched the dark make-up under Ozzy’s eyes, as his singing became more moodful than during his previous set. He was in the zone; he was a zombie under Satan’s control.
When they played “Black Sabbath,” the title track from the first album, the darkness was aglow with lighters lit everywhere and goosebumps erupting on my skin as I was gripped by the scene, becoming part of it. His Satan’s laugh and panic was real.
There were fires being set in the grass section of the arena using plastic cups, plates, anything that could be found. A dedicated unit of firemen in yellow bouncer uniforms ran here and there with extinguishers (sometimes hassling people or escorting them away) during the entire show, which lasted just over an hour. “Paranoid” was the encore, and the firemen had lived up to it. Two decades later, and Sabbath still has America running for cover.
