Flashbacks of The Ozzy Gig

What the fuck is in this vodka? It smells like nail polish remover. The taste is pretty spot on too. Been sitting here staring at a wall and an hour melted into a minute, like that. Anyway, I went out last night as Ozzy Osbourne, the Prince of Pitch Black was in Melbourne. Caught the train and wore a white shirt. A mistake? Fuck it. When I got there, it was, as expected with fat glutton guts, big spike beards, tight arse titley group gropies with back tatts pointing to quick sex spots, people with night coloured shirts sprayed with fuck this and fuck that mottos chosen specifically to showcase small ink stains, fifty to seventy dollar slave labour shit shirts, expensive spiked sugar water poured into plastic cups, small quantitives of greasy grease edible materials and all the usual specialities that make metal gigs the best. Hear the screams. It begins! Gotta hurry. Tip back brown beer bubbles into bloated gut. Crush the thin cup. Finally find the tiny seat row ZZZ of aisle 245060. Multi million dollar visuals of the Prince plastered into famous TV shows followed by a crucifix projected dropping curtain. Then there he was in all of his elder glory. The originator of metallus symophonics. Dispute it if you like, maybe there were some before him, or maybe better after, but he is the prince, no, the king of suicide songs and metal melodies pushed from vocal pipes. He’s had some brain beatings from slushy substances, parent groups and legal wranglers but he was having a good time. You could tell, despite the TV shows, and the T-Shirts, and the other movie cameo bullshit, this is what he was produced to do. And he’s aged gracefully, he never cut his hair, he only just quit the substances (Not long ago?), he still swears with ferocity, and he jump, hop and skips around a fuck of a lot. War Pigs was in there. And Ozzy just laughed when he tried to get the audience to sing along to one tune, and nobody knew the lyrics. Unbeknownst to me until lights were spotted around that the beater of the strained skins on this occasion was greylocked Mike Bordin. The power beat basher of Epic, We Care A Lot and the full FNM repertoire. Then it was revealed that the thick ladles of bass being laid out were plucked by Rob Zombie cohort, Blasko. This is truly fucking all-star thought me. Zakk Wylde played and sprayed fingers like a madman on his black and white spiral strings. And they finished with Paranoid. Yep. Hands were shaken and people agreed to meet again at the Black Sabbath reunion. Smile smilies everywhere. When I climbed down from the mountain seats I smelt like vomit. Tried to kept moving away from people at the train station thinking that it was them, but it was me. I never vomited. Good night, and as Ozzy would say I fuckin’ love youse all!

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