One Day This Metal God Will Not Be With Us on This Planet
To the one and only Godfather of Metal, Ozzy Osbourne,
This is not just a letter. It’s a love song in words — a tribute to the man who rewrote the rules of music and etched his name into the bones of rock history. I don’t know if words could ever do justice to the legacy you’ve carved, but as a lifelong fan who owes much of his spirit to the thunder you brought into this world, I’m going to try.
Thank you, Ozzy. From the deepest, loudest, most metal part of my heart — thank you.
You once said, “I’m not the devil. I’m just a rock and roll singer.” But to us, you were so much more than that. You were the voice of darkness and defiance. You were the echo in the night that let us know we weren’t alone. You didn’t just sing songs — you cast spells. You summoned something primal in all of us, a raw and beautiful chaos that gave permission to feel everything: the rage, the ecstasy, the sorrow, and the freedom.
When Black Sabbath dropped that first album in 1970, the world changed. I wasn’t even born yet, but when I first heard the opening riff of “Black Sabbath” years later, it was like hearing the sound of thunder rip open the sky. I can still remember the chill that ran through me. I had never heard anything like it. No one had. It was dangerous. It was powerful. It was alive.
And at the center of that storm — there was you. That voice. My God, that voice. Like a ghost screaming from beyond the grave and an angel singing through a broken amplifier, all at once. You weren’t just performing music; you were channeling something older, something ancient, something… true.
From “Paranoid” to “Iron Man,” from “Crazy Train” to “No More Tears,” your songs became the soundtrack to my life. They were there during the long drives, the heartbreaks, the drunken nights under city lights, and the moments of triumph when the world finally made a little sense. Your music gave me strength when I felt weak, and rebellion when I felt trapped.
You showed us that it was okay to be different, to be wild, to not fit into the world’s mold. You were never afraid to be yourself — even when that self was outrageous, unpredictable, or controversial. And we loved you for it. Because through the madness, there was always honesty. Always heart.
And man, did you make us laugh. Whether it was biting the head off a bat (still not sure how planned that was), shouting unintelligibly in “The Osbournes,” or screaming “Sharon!” at the top of your lungs while half-asleep, you gave us moments of joy that still make us smile.
But more than the antics, what truly makes you unforgettable is your resilience. The battles you’ve fought — addiction, illness, personal loss — would’ve broken most. But you never stayed down. You always got back up, microphone in hand, ready to scream into the darkness once again. That takes strength. That takes soul. That makes you immortal in ways no record ever could.
Still, I know a day will come — maybe not today, maybe not for a while — when the Prince of Darkness will take his final bow from this earthly stage. And when that day comes, the world will feel quieter, emptier, like a cathedral that’s lost its choir. But make no mistake: your voice will never fade. Your legacy is carved into the bedrock of music. Every riff, every scream, every headbang in a packed arena is a piece of you echoing forward.
Until that day, we will keep playing your music loud and proud, blowing the dust off our vinyls, cranking the amps to eleven, and screaming every word like it’s a prayer. Because it is a prayer. A prayer to rebellion. A prayer to freedom. A prayer to the god of metal: you.
We’ll pass it down to our kids, and they’ll pass it to theirs. Little ones who’ll hear “Mr. Crowley” or “War Pigs” for the first time and feel that same electric jolt that we did. That’s what true legends do — they live on, not just in memory, but in every soul they’ve touched.
Ozzy, thank you for giving us more than just music. Thank you for giving us a reason. A reason to raise our horns. A reason to shout. A reason to believe that even in a world that often feels gray and broken, there’s still magic. Still madness. Still metal.
From a kid who used to headbang alone in his bedroom to a man who still turns up “Bark at the Moon” every Friday night, I salute you.
With the deepest respect,
Your eternal fan,
Craig Siderio
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