Ozzy Osbourne was in a state of what you might call ‘matrimonially enforced sobriety’ when at the start of 1987 the newly launched UK edition of Metal Hammer magazine flew photographer Tony Mottram and me to Los Angeles to do a cover story.
Word had it that, despite shaving his head once again to prevent Sharon from sending him on tour, Ozzy was behaving with unusual decorum. The hair had grown back a little, but now he resembled a Teddy boy. When photographed next to an old-fashioned jukebox, all he needed was a pair of brothel creepers and his hair slicked back with Brylcream.
Our meet took place at the Osbournes’ house in Beverly Hills – not to be confused with the later abode which featured in The Osbournes reality TV show. Situated in an affluent street lined with towering, well-manicured palm trees, this house seemed slightly smaller but was no less palatial.
We were ushered in through a side gate. Their three children – Jack, Kelly and the now rarely seen Aimee – played noisily in the back garden. When Ozzy appeared and invited us into the house, one of them cried: “Daddy! Daddy! Don’t go!”
“Daddy’s not going anywhere,” he assured them, and led us into a living room overflowing with toys.
So far so good, then.
“I used to take plenty of drugs but it didn’t work out for me, so with the help of my wife and her left foot I managed to stop,” Ozzy said with a completely straight face. “It’s the kids, I suppose. When you come in coked to the gills and can’t look them in the eye, you do feel guilty.”
We had gone to talk to Ozzy about Tribute, a double-live album from an era when his guitarist was the late, great guitarist Randy Rhoads, the existence of which had been rumoured for years. Ozzy explained that a previous live record, Speak Of The Devil, released in 1982, had simply been a stopgap.
“The contracts had been signed and they wanted a live album, so I gave them one of Sabbath stuff with Brad Gillis on guitar and kept this in the can,” Ozzy explained. “I didn’t want people to think I was cashing in on Randy’s death.”
So why release it now?
“Randy’s mum called before Christmas and asked if we could put a live album together, and I replied: ‘Yeah, just about’,” he said. “But it’s as good as any other live album I’ve heard.”
Ozzy was prepping a follow-up to the previous year’s studio album The Ultimate Sin. “That was a good album,” he said, “but there were all these people trying to get me to make a hit single, and it turned out a little too lightweight.” Even back in 1987, Ozzy was talking about reducing the amount of time spent on the road from nine months to a maximum of four.
“Being away that long drives me nuts,” he said.
Sharon had suggested we all went for a meal in the evening, and several hours later collected Mottram and me from our hotel on Sunset Strip and we headed to the studio where Ozzy was rehearsing with his band.
Ozzy had a large grin as he slid into the front seat of the car, turning to face us both in the back and announcing: “Did you ever have one of those days when you want to go out, buy an enormous bag of coke and dive into it face-first?” So much for sobriety.
No surprises, then, that the more ‘colourful’ side of his character emerged when we reached the plush restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. “No, madam, he cannot come in wearing a leather jacket and T-shirt” sneered the maître d, shooting a pitiful glance at yours truly. But Sharon eventually got her way and I was loaned a jacket and shirt.
By now several sheets to the wind, Ozzy revealed a novel way of summoning the waiter – “Oi! Shithead!” – while ordering yet another bottle of champagne. Towards the end of the evening he was encouraging us all to down glasses of it in one swig. It all got completely out of control.
Afterwards, looking to hail a taxi, Ozzy seemed to forget he was in America and strolled out into the road, where he would have been flattened like a human pancake but for Mottram’s last-ditch intervention.
Dropping us back at our hotel, the legendary Riot House, Ozzy spotted a tattoo parlour across the road. “Let’s get a tattoo!” he roared. “Come on, guys, it won’t hurt…”
Offer politely declined, we gratefully, and unsteadily, got out of the car before it pulled away into the Los Angeles traffic. We had gone on the piss with Ozzy Osbourne and lived to tell the tale.
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