First light. A quality all of its own. Filtering into the house through windows I didn’t even think faced the sun. It’s so tranquil as I sit on the bottom step and peel back the tongues of my site boots that I feel a little light-headed.
The preparation of PPE is like getting ready to go for a ride, which fills me with anticipation and makes me want to climb onto the Black Bullet and disappear, and not come back. I might get as far as Afghanistan before some paranoid war pig snuffed me out - for riding without due care and attention for Imperialism, or Jihad - but if they looked at the wreckage of this poor traveller and it made them really, really sorry, might it not be worth it?
Probably not, actually, definately not. Neither of these tyrants is likely to wait up to consider the lot of the free spirit in their schemes. The one that does not bend to their will is not useful, does not contribute to the cause. They would just pick me off and insist their work is righteous, unfortunate at times but nonetheless righteous. The world is full of people making allowances for their own shoddy behaviour, without giving an inch to the next man.
Wild and dreamy thoughts to start the weekend, which I indulge for a time as the rest of it is work. Even the farming programme on Radio 4 is in another place as I start the van. A female reporter comes on air mid sentence, she’s talking about lambs, and redemption, and I think I’ve got the long wave version where the Christians live. This dawn fervour is now getting out of hand so I slot in some Black Sabbath to push it all over the edge and pull out of the lock-up nodding to the beat of Am I going Insane (Sabotage, 1975, Warner). Sun floods into the cab, I change up and we’re off in a twirl of dust.
A schoolfriend introduced me to Black Sabbath with the double album We Sold Our Souls (1975, Sanctuary/Vertigo), which is rare in being an excellent compilation. I’m working in the Midlands today, also home of the Black Bullet, so Sabbath is an appropriate choice even though their experiments with production are now hurting my ears. Ozzy’s screaming voice is clashing with Tony Iommi’s sibilant guitar and these speakers just aren’t up to the job but I can’t listen to it quietly, what would be the point of that? So I sing along as loud as I can and give myself a cough.
Another real stormer from Sabotage is Symptom of the Universe, it’s like they sat down one day decided to try and find the meanest riff known to man. Even the economy of movement up and down the fretboard is mean. It chugs along with heavy dissonance, each phrase punctuated by a discordant jab. A messy swirl of overlaid slapback guitars finally gives way to what is, for me, a musical moneyshot. A completely unexpected jazz ending, with a guttural splat of Ozzy singing bluesy soul. Mesmerising.
I had a seven inch of this with Hard Road on the flip side, this is more traditional rock fare but I really like it too. It’s the chugging riff and the singalong chorus. Unimprovable.
In some ways it reminds me of the Blizzard of Oz track, Shot in the Dark (Follow the Reaper, 2000, EMI). This is altogether more slick and of-its-time but it has essentially the same ingredients. It also has a cool key change right at the start of the main solo, lubricated by a juicy squirt of slide. Nice.
The rock guitar solo has become much maligned, and for good reason in the majority of cases, however I would recommend Warning off the eponymous Black Sabbath album (1970, Nems), if you like it raw. Sleeping Village sets the scene and what follows is a gruelling trip though Iommi's virtuosity, squeezed out with single-minded grit and determination. It feels like it hurt him to do it and it's compelling for that reason alone. It makes me screw up my face and waggle my head.
Sabbath recorded some terrible tripe as well, it has to be said, but when they weren’t addled with cocaine, they were often inspired. Who knows, maybe drugs were also part of that inspiration, it could have gone either way. Snowblind (Vol 4, 1972, Sanctuary/Vertigo), for example, is reputed to be about cocaine use, and it’s a corker. In fact, there's a thinly veiled credit to their LA coke dealer in the sleeve blurb on Vol 4, and some other great tracks (also check, Wheels of Confusion), so bang goes another crackpot theory.
At least Ozzy went on armed with a rep and was able to afford some of the most accomplished musicians and producers for his ongoing solo projects. I haven't followed his career closely, moving on into an appreciation of other genres as I grew up, but I do sing along to Ozzmosis once in a blue moon. I picked it up in a charity shop - one of the best 50 pees I ever spent.
