By Buzz Drainpipe
Look—every myth has its murky preamble. Before Blizzard of Ozz burned its circuitry into the cracked cassette decks of every dropout on the bus, there was a peculiar hum—a strange broadcast from the dying beast that was Sabbath ‘76–‘78. Two records. Two anomalies. Two half-lit corridors into Ozzy’s gilded madhouse future.
I’m talking about Technical Ecstasy and Never Say Die!—those albums you’ve pretended not to like to maintain your doom cred. You know the type: “I only dig the first six” types. I see you. I used to be you.
But here's the thing: Technical Ecstasy is a séance in progress. And Ozzy was already crossing over.
🌫️ “Somewhere between doom and drama… Ozzy found the fog machine.”
‘Back Street Kids’ is a prison break. You can hear the handcuffs rattling. It’s not just about growing up rough—it’s about not wanting to. It’s the proto-‘Crazy Train’ riff session, played through a speaker clogged with cigarette ash and divorce court paperwork.
Then there’s ‘You Won’t Change Me’, which is practically Mr. Crowley’s godfather—organ swirl, mournful howl, desperate romanticism. Imagine Dracula gets dumped and writes a suicide note on a Mellotron. That’s the vibe.
And for the “deep thinkers” among us, ‘She’s Gone’ is where you start scribbling poetry and think about death in the mirror. Sound familiar? That’s Revelation (Mother Earth) with the lights dimmed and no encore.
🛠️ “Blueprints, baby. Just badly Xeroxed ones.”
Ozzy wasn’t asleep at the wheel—he was scouting escape routes. While Iommi plugged in jazz chords and dodged bassists, Ozzy quietly studied hooks, keys, and melodic arcana. You can feel the schism forming like a hairline crack in a cursed statue.
“Rock ’n’ Roll Doctor” is Crazy Train with a hangover and a leather vest.
“Gypsy” is what happens when you try to write a road song during an existential meltdown.
“It’s Alright”? That’s a Beatles B-side Ozzy probably slow-danced to at age 13, wearing his uncle’s cologne.
Even Never Say Die!, chaotic as it is, sounds like a band trying to launch a solo career against its will. It’s the sonic equivalent of a marriage counseling session recorded on 8-track. But hidden inside? New wave metal, punky power-prog, and one absolutely psychotic saxophone.
❄️ “And then the Blizzard came.”
When Blizzard of Ozz dropped in 1980, people acted like it beamed in from another planet. Wrong. It was summoned through a ritual begun on Technical Ecstasy—only this time, the sigils were drawn in eyeliner and guitar tab.
What changed?
- Randy Rhoads: A spirit medium with a Flying V. He heard the blueprint and lit it on fire.
- Clarity: Where Technical Ecstasy is smeared mascara on a cracked mirror, Blizzard is a laser etched in obsidian.
- Confidence: Ozzy’s voice no longer asks permission. It commands the séance.
📜 Final Verdict:
“Technical Ecstasy is not Sabbath dying. It’s Ozzy dreaming.”
If the first six albums were about apocalypse and ruin, TE and NSD! are about what comes after—when the smoke clears and you have to build something from the ash. Maybe that’s why they freak people out.
They don’t sound like death. They sound like transformation.
“The real sin isn’t liking these albums… it’s pretending they don’t matter.”
— Buzz Drainpipe, backstage at the Lynn Auditorium, 3 beers deep, 1981
SIDE BAR: CREASE CAPSULE — Top 5 Signs Blizzard of Ozz Was Born in the Technical Womb
- “Back Street Kids” = “I Don’t Know” in overalls and eyeliner.
- “You Won’t Change Me” walked so “Mr. Crowley” could levitate.
- “Dirty Women” is just “Steal Away (The Night)” on quaaludes.
- The synths on TE? First whispers of Don Airey’s cathedral keys.
- Ozzy leaves the band one album later. Coincidence? Nah.
No comments:
Post a Comment