I’ve been immersed in Ozzy Osborne’s memoir the past week.  After reading that Pete Townsend finds it the best rock autobiography of all time, I had it sent to me from Amazon.  Of course, I concur.  I’ve never been a fan of Black Sabbath nor of metal nor of Ozzy, but I am a fan of honesty, and this book seems to epitomize the truth of what it had been like to be a rock star from a poor English town in the early 1970s.

Why this matters is the book shines a light into the souls, by implication, of talented boys and girls for whom formal education holds little or no allure, and whose lives, hence, take place on the streets, in bars, and factories rather than in more intimate settings.

The drugs and alcohol are excessive in the book, but then, too, is the abundance of the food.

Ozzy talks about eggs and sausages and the sheer dreadfulness of what he ate growing up, and then turns to his discovery of pizza in New York City.

I concur.


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