Well, I know I could be just another stranger, but to you I guess, I’m just another fool. – Breaking All The Rules. From February 15, 1989. – JDW
This is just between you and me. If word gets out about this, my soul is doubtlessly doomed to an eternity of City Council meetings. I went to last month’s Ozzy Osbourne concert. There. I said it; I feel better. I hope you’ll forgive me. I couldn’t help myself. I don’t know what got into me. Probably free tickets. Gratis ducats, doubtlessly, dat’s what did it.
Basically, I’ve always been a forbidden fruit kind of guy. I admit it. Some reptilian-type offers me a big juicy red apple and I’ll take a bite when I think nobody’s looking. Of course, I have learned Somebody always has His eye on me, so I have toned down my act. Considerably.
Mr. Osbourne seems to have done much the same. That’s maturity.
Adolescence is when somebody says you shouldn’t do something, so you go out of your way to accomplish precisely that which is proscribed.
It could be argued this is the entire point of rock music. It’s a point apparently lost on those local citizens who sought to prevent the forty-year-old father-of-three’s recent performance at Memorial Coliseum.
Censorship is more dangerous than free expression, and prohibition is practically an engraved invitation.
Here’s some free advice to concerned parents and self-appointed watchdogs of community ethical/spiritual matters.
IGNORE THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU.
As Norma Louise says, “Don’t give it any energy.”
Figure it out. The more you protest, the bigger Mr. Osbourne becomes. And frankly there are other problems, bigger threats that merit your attention.
Hint to parents: buy three albums – Julio, Barry and Ozzy. Bring them home. Pretend you like them equally. Learn the lyrics. Go to Ozzy’s next concert and sing along. Take your spouse. Take your parents. In two years, the guy will selling his albums on late night TV with Mr. Willie.
And, by the way, who names their kid “Boxcar?”
Can’t tell you how direly dismayed I was to learn, Anthrax will not be opening. Now that’s a name for a rock and roll band. Anthrax.
I looked it up. “An infectious disease of warm-blooded animals (as cattle and sheep) caused by a spore-forming bacterium, transmissible to humans, especially by the handling of infected products and characterized by external ulcerating nodules or by lesions in the lungs.” You can just imagine my disappointment.
Winger opened instead. I’d rate this group, two earplugs.
Each ear. Obviously, they’re paid by the decibel. A large percentage of the crowd (less than five thousand paid the $19.50) stayed outside the performance hall. You didn’t have to go inside to hear the “music.”
In truth, the concertgoers were themselves the best part of the show. Certainly the price of admission. Why is it the guys look like… like a little league squad, while the gals, the same age, look like movie starlets? WHO LETS THEIR DAUGHTERS OUT OF THE HOUSE ALMOST-DRESSED LIKE THAT!?
Girl rockers in the mist. Hairspray, cigarette smoke, pheromones combine to cloud the air. The ozone layer is depleted over Northeast Weidler. Black eyeshadow and misspelled tattoos. Stuart Anderson never saw this much black leather.
Another generation announces its individuality by dressing identically. Entirely in black and white, this group needs Ted Turner. They all looked at me like I was a truant officer.
I looked at the souvenirs. A plastic keychain costs four dollars and a program goes for a ten-spot. The “No Rest For The Wicked Tour 88-89” long-sleeve T-shirts retail for only $18.
On the back of the shirt is a multiple-choice quiz. “Ozzy is… 1) My Granny Favorite Singer; 2) The Demon King; 3) A Swell Guy Who Likes Pets; 4) A Heavy Metal Madman; 5) Imperator Of The Dark Legions; 6) All Of The Above.”
For those of you playing from the safety of your home, number six (6) is the correct response.
It’s time for the headliner. Most everybody rushes inside, I move to the john. On the way, somebody who looks old enough to vote hollers “Ozzy for President in ’92.” Makes as much sense as Al Haig or Gary Hart.
There’s a security guard inside the men’s room There’s a guard inside all of the males’ lavatories. I asked. Nobody is exercising such vigilance over the distaff’s population’s bodily functions. You figure it out.
The Oz himself rises through the bandstand floor in the de riguer cloud of smoke. Two towering stove pipes, like those on the Loveboat perhaps, throw off more effluent than Wah Chang on a busy day.
Mr. Osbourne is wearing a specially-designed – would you imagine anything else? – ensemble of black tails, sequins, with black tights. Farrah Fawcett hair, only darker. Some sequiny stuff creates a spider web down his right leg. On his jacket, more spangles spell out brief messages. “Peace,” for example. Another is a vulgarity for human reproduction. If you guessed, “procreate,” you’re wrong.
The jacket comes off during the first song. So much for formality. He’s wearing a belt Mike Tyson would covet.
Ozzy’s tank-top exposes multitudinous designs on his skin. No mention of MOM. I can see the name O-Z-Z-Y correctly spelled across the knuckles of one hand. These are very good seats.
On the second song, Mr. Osbourne removes his shirt. It’s a sight I could’ve grown old without seeing. He won’t make Norma Louise forget Dennis Quaid.
Ozzy is a showman in much the same tradition as Liberace. (Show that comparison to your offspring!)
He ran through a list of standards which included “Devils’ Daughter,” “Crazy Babies,” “Bloodbath In Paradise,” and “Demon Alcohol.”
Seemed like he was talking to me directly.
Truly the show’s highlight was the performance of Osbourne’s lead guitar player. Jimi Hendrix would’ve paid to hear Zakk Wylde. He’s big-A Awesome. Not to mention the longest head of bland hair in rock. He strokes his axe and spits into the spotlights. He’s sweating like a summer rain, when he howls, “Is this a rock concert or is this Mr. Roger’s neighborhood?”
He plays so loud the gold fillings in my teeth move. My clavicle is vibrating. I counted two banks of thirty (30) speakers facing the audience, and two more groups of speakers pointed down towards the stage.
All that noise made me tired, so I headed to the Parents Courtesy Room just to check out the scene there.
The Oregon State Beavers – my favorite mascot name – were on the big screen.
Two fathers, one the CEO of a one and a half-billion-dollar company, admitted they had been playing gin rummy with a fifty-card deck.
One mother was reading The Grave. Another was reading The Haunting.
Obviously these people need a self-help group. POOF.
Pronounced “poof.” Parents of Ozzy Fans.
Nobody hears the things I say, I guess nobody cares. – Breaking All The Rules