The Leeward Side

I had a sheltered childhood. Kiss were demonic boogeymen, AC/DC were the devil's children, and Ozzy was the guy who pissed on the Alamo. At some point, like most suburban boys, a copy of Paranoid came into my possession. And... it was okay. The air raid sirens and the sped-up ending of “War Pigs” felt like gimmicks bookending simple rhymes, and “Iron Man” was a lead-shod stomper that paid off after the head-scratcher of “Planet Caravan.” Blues? Jazz? That was grown-up music—dad music.

The songs I did connect with? “Flying High Again” played regularly on the radio. It was catchy and anthemic, even though I had no idea that "anthemic" was a word that could mean anything beyond what you saluted the flag with at sporting events. Then college happened. Underground music hipster cosplay. Later came the day job, shoegaze, noise rock, and a steady background drip of Wax Trax! Sabbath? The Butthole Surfers’ “Sweat Loaf” was enough of a nod—though it would be years before I’d recognize and cherish the lysergic absurdity of their tribute.

Fast forward a bit. Nancy and I were "vacationing" (a working holiday at a bed and breakfast learning Linux) in the Texas Hill Country, an hour or so outside Austin. One evening after a lovely dinner, we did our due diligence at Waterloo Records and picked up a copy of Black Sabbath—their debut, on CD. This was years before remasters became a cottage industry, but back when "midline" rock catalog mainstays came with “The Nice Price!” stickers. It was an atypical choice, considering how firmly we were indie “kids” at the time.

Driving back along a dark highway, scanning for deer, we put it on. “N.I.B.” came on, and for the first time I realized how endearing it was in its longing—even (or especially) if it was a lovelorn Lucifer. We still sing the opening riff and go "Oh yeah!"

Later, I’d spring for the 8-disc Ozzy Years box set from Rhino, adroitly remastered by Bill Inglot. At some point, I returned to Black Sabbath and began to marvel at the interplay between Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler—Geezer’s bass work, in particular, would become a quiet revelation. Still, for whatever reason, I’d usually stop after Master of Reality. Did I really want to explore what I assumed was the leeward side of the band—those odd albums just before the Blizzard?

I dug out that box set again today after hearing of Ozzy’s passing. I jumped to Sabotage, Technical Ecstasy, and Never Say Die—albums I’d barely touched. And they were... remarkably solid. I never knew Bill Ward sang lead on a couple of tracks. I suppose I should’ve done a forehead slap. I pulled up the Wikipedia entries for those records and found myself mentally arguing with the low scores and dismissive reviews. On the other hand, those records were products of changing times, turbulent band dynamics, industry pressure, and copious amounts of drugs (although the story about the band cleaning out cocaine from the mixing board after The Eagles puts the substance consumption in perspective).

The band played their "farewell" show just weeks ago. That finality sparks both sorrow and a strange sense of awe—like how Bowie stuck around just long enough to release Blackstar before heading out like Major Tom. Coincidence or design, the brain sorts that out in the rearview mirror.

And I still remember driving to Luckenbach in a VW Golf—the one they marketed with Nick Drake—Nancy and I grooving out to “The Wizard.” Somehow, it all makes sense now.