Dinner with the Prince of Darkness

Chicago, August 1978. The city was melting under the sultry summer sun, but in the evenings, a cool breeze blew from Lake Michigan, carrying with it the smell of asphalt and the promise of a thunderstorm. It was on such an evening that Polina, the leader and visionary of the band “The Tsesarevnas,” sat in a quiet hotel restaurant, trying to gather her thoughts after another concert. Their American tour was in full swing—a whirlwind of cities, hotels, soundchecks, and endless miles flying by the bus window.
That same evening, Black Sabbath was staying at the same hotel. Their tour in support of the album Never Say Die! was thundering across America. It was to be the last tour with Ozzy, although no one knew it at the time.
Polina noticed him almost immediately. He was sitting alone at a corner table, slowly stirring a spoon in his tea. Without the stage makeup, without the glare of the spotlights, he wasn’t the Prince of Darkness but simply a tired man. John Michael Osbourne from a working-class neighborhood in Birmingham. Their eyes met by chance. He gave a slight nod, and Polina, yielding to a sudden impulse, walked over to his table.
“Mr. Osbourne? I’m Polina. We’re musicians too, playing in the city tonight. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
He looked up, and his eyes held none of the stage madness she had expected. Only fatigue and something like polite interest.
“Have a seat, Polina,” his voice was quiet, with an unmistakable Birmingham accent. “Another soldier on the touring front.”
Thus began their dinner, which would become one of the strangest and most poignant memories of Polina’s life. She had expected anything: shocking antics, drunken confessions, stories about bats. But Ozzy spoke of other things.
With a certain boyish warmth, he recalled how they started in 1968. Four lads from an industrial city who just wanted to escape the bleak prospect of factory work.
“We were called Earth at first and played the blues. But then Geezer (bassist Geezer Butler) brought in a song inspired by an old horror film. ‘Black Sabbath.’ And we realized people liked to be scared. We found our sound.”
He spoke of his love for The Beatles and how all the wild stage antics were just part of the image people expected of him. At one point, he chuckled, looking at his untouched cup of tea.
“Everyone thinks I’m some kind of monster. But I was never a bad guy. Deep down, I’ve always been a clown. I’m just a kind rock-and-roll clown. People needed a madman to make them feel normal, and I became that for them.”
These words were spoken without bitterness, but rather with a philosophical sadness. Polina realized she was sitting across from a man on the brink of great change. A year later, he would be fired from the band. But on that night, he was just a musician sharing his doubts with a fellow traveler on this endless tour.
They talked about music, the stage, and the loneliness in crowded arenas. When they parted, he shook her hand.
“Good luck to you, Polina. Don’t lose yourself in this business. It’s the only thing we truly have.”
Polina often recalled that dinner. Especially now, as the news feeds announced that the Prince of Darkness was gone forever. She didn’t remember the icon of heavy metal, but a tired man with kind eyes in a Chicago hotel, who on that evening confessed to being just a “kind rock-and-roll clown”.
And as they say, of the dead, either speak good or say nothing at all. In the case of the Ozzy Osbourne she met that evening, nothing but good came to mind.