Like millions of other people worldwide, the news of Ozzy Osbourne’s death on Tuesday, 22nd July, has affected me. I was sitting in a restaurant on Frith Street where my friend broke the news to me, and I lost my appetite.
As a gay boy born in 1989 and growing up on the edge of the music video era, part of the MTV generation, winessing the birth of reality television – and having heard all his chaotic lore and avidly watched The Osbournes - Ozzy is an absolute icon in my world and someone that I have always really admired for multiple reasons. I have always had a soft spot for alternative people.
Where I grew up loving Madonna, Tina Turner, and David Bowie… my brother was into harder stuff. You’d regularly hear Metallica, Black Sabbath, TOOL, Meshuggah, and Ozzy blasting from his room, or the chaotic sounds of him practicing his drum kit to their iconic and intimidating anthems. The drum kit was so fucking loud that one time I remember him taking it in a wheelbarrow to the local park to practice there. My big bro was really into metal, and through his influence, I began to get interested in it, too. Ozzy, especially.
And then The Osbournes TV show happened. You probably don’t need me to explain just how huge that show was… but if you do, it was fucking stratospheric. They became pop culture icons, overnight. Suddenly, Ozzy wasn’t just in our CD collection - he was a household name. Even the kids at my school who’d never heard a single Black Sabbath track were quoting him and talking about the family. Everyone knew who Ozzy was now… but I felt like I’d known him first.
This surge in his popularity, along with the spotlight on his alternative lifestyle, touring, recording, and rockstar persona, made me somewhat fixated on that entire scene. I wanted to dip my toes in, but I had no idea how. I used to get bad FOMO that would manifest physically. It’s hard to explain, but I just really wanted to be part of something. I didn’t want to be in a band or become a rock star, but I just wanted to experience a slice of that life.
And then I remembered… my brother regularly got the train to Charing Cross, to record in music studios in central London. In my head, this was extremely rock and roll, so I decided that this would be my slice of the action.
My first foray into the alternative scene was my brother taking me, his annoying tagalong, to band practice at the famous Denmark Street, also known as Tin Pan Alley, in Soho after I’d begged and pleaded to come. Enterprise Studios was based in a back alley behind the street, close to the famous 12 Bar (RIP).
This was back in 2003 (I was 12 or 13), and it was a whole new experience for me, and one of the most seductive first experiences I had ever had. The studio and the street are both now long gone (fuck you, Laurence Kirschel and Crossrail).
There was a certain smell in those old Soho buildings and units at that time that just reeked of history and ‘if these walls could talk’. Walls were adorned with guitars, drumsticks, gig posters, band advertisements, and signed photos of people I couldn’t recognise (I probably could now). I was immediately greeted by lots of intimidating guys in bands standing around, queuing and chatting, and some sat alone with their headphones in or writing notes and lyrics.
These guys all had great style, ripped biceps, alternative hairstyles, piercings, tattoos, et al. My mind is probably romanticising it to a degree, but I instantly felt inferior. And as a little blonde-haired-blue-eyed gay boy who was in a strict Roman Catholic school… they were the most impressive and attractive people I’d ever seen in my life. To this day, I stand by the fact that alternative men are the best-dressed men you’ll meet. Fight me.
The smell, atmosphere, these fascinating-looking people, and the haunting sounds of the bass of various bands playing in studios behind soundproofed walls turned this into a sensory experience that really was a bit of an revelation for me. But you know what surprised me the most? They were so, so friendly to me.
I’d been used to any teenage or young man I’d met being homophobic or dismissive of me, but in this studio, I was greeted with kindness and even allowed to flick through records and magazines as my brother practiced.
This was an awakening for me and was a pattern that would repeat throughout my life, where the kindest people I’d meet were alternative.
The thing about alternative people is that they are stereotypically very accepting, because they know what it’s like not to be accepted. Rock, punk, metal, goth, etc, music is a magnet for outcasts, those who had hard childhoods, and those without friends.
Something about these lived experiences manifests incredible music talent, style, and (for the most part) a liberal worldview. I felt like I fit in here… and I did! Punk and metal bars in London are very queer-friendly and are, without a single doubt, the places where I’ve had the best nights of my life.
I am still upset about the loss of Cro Bar in Soho, where I’d end up every single night after (or sometimes during) a night out, and act a fool, people watch, chat, and drink very strong drinks. There was an atmosphere in that place that was special, and I’ve yet to experience that somewhere else. The only other venue that has ever come close was the late Black Cap queer pub in Camden.
As I got older and began to mix with people, the first ‘scene’ to accept me wasn’t the queer scene. It was the alternative scene and the eccentric group of characters within it. The people who originally allowed me to express myself authentically weren’t waving rainbow flags and dancing in G-A-Y... they had piercings in their lips, were tattooed, and had heavy black eyeliner. They drank at iconic spots like The Intrepid Fox, Cro Bar, and 12 Bar. They were weirdos, as was I, and that suited me just fine. But they were so fucking cool, too.
Through this kindness and Ozzy’s continuous mainstream relevance throughout my life, I’ve always had an attachment to him. Not just because of his music, but because of how my interest in him and his music, through my brother, led me to a scene of people who changed my life completely.
Ozzy wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness or a celebrity. To me, he was the unexpected gateway to belonging somewhere, finally. His music blasted through the walls of my childhood home and forced open the doors to a world that welcomed a little gay boy when so many others didn’t. His death doesn’t just mark the loss of a legend… it feels like the loss of a little piece of my origin story.
I am grateful to my brother for being brave enough to be alternative and for introducing me to aspects of it. And I am grateful to Ozzy for being Ozzy.
Thank you, Ozzy, for the chaos and the kindness your world showed a kid like me.
Long live the weirdos.