Read Online I Am Ozzy by Ozzy Osbourne;Chris Ayres - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ozzy Osbourne;Chris Ayres
Tags: General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, England, music, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Biography, Genres & Styles, Rock Music, Autobiography, Rock Musicians, Composers & Musicians, Heavy Metal, 1948, Composers & Musicians - General, Ozzy, Osbourne, Composers & Musicians - Rock, Genres & Styles - Heavy Metal
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Birchfield Road, who'd brought his electric guitar to school one Christmas, driving the teachers crazy with the noise. I hadn't seen him for about five years, but I'd heard about him. He'd become a bit of an Aston legend since leaving school. All the kids knew who he was. If you wanted to be in a band with anyone, it was Tony. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to feel the same way about me.
'C'mon, Bill,' he said to the homeless-looking bloke. 'This is a waste of time. Let's go.'
'Wait a minute,' said Bill. 'Who is this guy?'
'I'll tell you one thing: his name ain't "Ozzy Zig". And he ain't no singer, either. He's Ozzy Osbourne and he's an idiot. C'mon, let's get out of here.'
'Hang on a minute,' I interrupted. 'How did you get this address? How d'you know about Ozzy Zig?'
'"Ozzy Zig Needs Gig,"' said Bill, with a shrug.
'I told 'em to take that fucking sign down months ago.'
'Well, you should go and tell them again, 'cos it was up there today.'
'At Ringway Music?'
'In the window.'
I tried not to look too pleased.
'Tony,' said Bill, 'can't we give this guy a break? He seems all right.'
'Give him a break?' Tony had already lost patience. 'He was the school clown! I'm not being in a band with that fucking moron.'
I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just stood there staring at my feet.
'Beggars can't be choosers, Tony,' hissed Bill. 'That's why we're here, isn't it?'
But Tony just huffed and started to walk back towards the van.
Bill shook his head and shrugged at me, as if to say, 'Sorry, mate. Nothing more I can do.'
That seemed to be that. But then something caught my eye. It was Tony's right hand. There was something wrong with it.
'Fucking hell, Tony,' I said. 'What happened to your fingers, man?'
It turned out I wasn't the only one who'd had a rough time with jobs after being turfed out of school at the age of fifteen. While I was poisoning myself with the degreasing machine and going deaf testing car horns, Tony was working as an apprentice sheet-metal worker. Later, he told me his education mainly involved learning how to use an electric welder.
Now, they're lethal fucking things, electric welders. The biggest risk is being exposed to ultraviolet radiation, which can literally melt the skin off your body before you even know it, or burn holes in your eyeballs. You can also get killed by electric shocks, or end up poisoned by exposure to the toxic rustproofing shit they put on the panels. Anyway, Tony was doing this welding job during the day and playing in a band called the Rocking Chevrolets on the club circuit at night, waiting for his big break. He was always talented, but hammering out all those numbers by Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Eddie Cochran every night made him shit fucking hot. Eventually an agent spotted him and offered him a professional gig over in Germany, so Tony decided to quit his job in the factory. He thought he'd made it.
Then it all went wrong.
On Tony's last day in the workshop, the bloke who was supposed to press and cut the metal before it was welded didn't show up. So Tony had to do it. I still don't know exactly what happened - if Tony didn't know how to use the machine properly, or if it was broken, or whatever - but this fucking massive metal press ended up ripping off the tips of the middle and ring fingers on his right hand. Tony is left handed, so they were his fretboard fingers. It makes me shiver just to think about it, even now. You can't imagine what a bad scene it must have been, with all the blood and the howling and the scrambling around on the floor trying to find the tips of his fingers, and then Tony being told by the doctors in the emergency room that he'd never be able to play again. He saw dozens of specialists over the next few months, and they all told him the same thing: 'Son, your days in a rock 'n' roll band are finished, end of fucking story, find something else to do.' He must have thought it was all over. It would have been like me getting shot in the throat.
Tony
'C'mon, Bill,' he said to the homeless-looking bloke. 'This is a waste of time. Let's go.'
'Wait a minute,' said Bill. 'Who is this guy?'
'I'll tell you one thing: his name ain't "Ozzy Zig". And he ain't no singer, either. He's Ozzy Osbourne and he's an idiot. C'mon, let's get out of here.'
'Hang on a minute,' I interrupted. 'How did you get this address? How d'you know about Ozzy Zig?'
'"Ozzy Zig Needs Gig,"' said Bill, with a shrug.
'I told 'em to take that fucking sign down months ago.'
'Well, you should go and tell them again, 'cos it was up there today.'
'At Ringway Music?'
'In the window.'
I tried not to look too pleased.
'Tony,' said Bill, 'can't we give this guy a break? He seems all right.'
'Give him a break?' Tony had already lost patience. 'He was the school clown! I'm not being in a band with that fucking moron.'
I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just stood there staring at my feet.
'Beggars can't be choosers, Tony,' hissed Bill. 'That's why we're here, isn't it?'
But Tony just huffed and started to walk back towards the van.
Bill shook his head and shrugged at me, as if to say, 'Sorry, mate. Nothing more I can do.'
That seemed to be that. But then something caught my eye. It was Tony's right hand. There was something wrong with it.
'Fucking hell, Tony,' I said. 'What happened to your fingers, man?'
It turned out I wasn't the only one who'd had a rough time with jobs after being turfed out of school at the age of fifteen. While I was poisoning myself with the degreasing machine and going deaf testing car horns, Tony was working as an apprentice sheet-metal worker. Later, he told me his education mainly involved learning how to use an electric welder.
Now, they're lethal fucking things, electric welders. The biggest risk is being exposed to ultraviolet radiation, which can literally melt the skin off your body before you even know it, or burn holes in your eyeballs. You can also get killed by electric shocks, or end up poisoned by exposure to the toxic rustproofing shit they put on the panels. Anyway, Tony was doing this welding job during the day and playing in a band called the Rocking Chevrolets on the club circuit at night, waiting for his big break. He was always talented, but hammering out all those numbers by Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Eddie Cochran every night made him shit fucking hot. Eventually an agent spotted him and offered him a professional gig over in Germany, so Tony decided to quit his job in the factory. He thought he'd made it.
Then it all went wrong.
On Tony's last day in the workshop, the bloke who was supposed to press and cut the metal before it was welded didn't show up. So Tony had to do it. I still don't know exactly what happened - if Tony didn't know how to use the machine properly, or if it was broken, or whatever - but this fucking massive metal press ended up ripping off the tips of the middle and ring fingers on his right hand. Tony is left handed, so they were his fretboard fingers. It makes me shiver just to think about it, even now. You can't imagine what a bad scene it must have been, with all the blood and the howling and the scrambling around on the floor trying to find the tips of his fingers, and then Tony being told by the doctors in the emergency room that he'd never be able to play again. He saw dozens of specialists over the next few months, and they all told him the same thing: 'Son, your days in a rock 'n' roll band are finished, end of fucking story, find something else to do.' He must have thought it was all over. It would have been like me getting shot in the throat.
Tony
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