BREAKING: Black Sabbath Guitarist Tony Iommi Ca…read more.
Tony Iommi sits in his quiet studio, the hum of his amplifiers silent, the strings of his guitars untouched. He still can’t quite believe it. Ozzy is gone. His friend, his bandmate, the man who turned every day into an adventure gone forever.
“I go to text him sometimes,” Iommi says, his voice catching. “It’s like a reflex. I think of something stupid or funny, and I want to share it with him. Then it hits me he’s not here anymore.”
They’ve spent over fifty years together: from teenagers messing around in Birmingham’s backstreets to becoming the architects of heavy metal. Along the way, they shared more laughter, tears, and chaos than most people experience in ten lifetimes. For Tony, Ozzy isn’t just a rock icon he’s family.
“I’ve lost a brother,” he says softly, his eyes glistening. “It’s a hole that’ll never really close.”
The world is still reeling from Ozzy Osbourne’s death. His funeral at St. Martin’s Church in Birmingham is a deeply personal ceremony, full of tears and memories, but outside, the streets overflow with thousands of fans. They sing Sabbath songs in ragged unison. They hold candles. They cry and laugh, because that’s what Ozzy inspired in people pure emotion.
Inside the church, Iommi stands at the pulpit, his hands trembling slightly. He shares stories of sleeping on floors, of eating cheap takeaway, of endless nights writing songs that would change music forever. He recalls the mischief the pranks, the wild laughter and the moments of deep, unspoken understanding.
“He could drive you mad,” Tony admits with a sad smile. “But he could also make you laugh when no one else could. He always knew what to say or what ridiculous thing to do to break the tension.”
Iommi’s phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since the news broke. Friends and musicians from around the world reach out to share their grief and love. James Hetfield tells him how hearing Black Sabbath made him pick up a guitar. Bruce Dickinson calls to say Ozzy showed him what it meant to truly perform. Dave Grohl texts with memories of a hilariously awkward dinner he once had with Ozzy, who spent most of it throwing bread rolls at him.
“They all say the same thing,” Iommi says. “That Ozzy changed their lives. And I know he did, because he changed mine too.”
Since the funeral, he admits he can’t bring himself to play music yet.
“I walk into my studio, and it feels empty,” he confesses. “I look at my guitar, but my hands just don’t move. It doesn’t feel right without him.”
Though grief hangs heavy, Iommi also finds comfort in remembering Ozzy’s humor, which stayed sharp until the very end. “A few days before he died, we talked on the phone,” he says, a hint of a laugh breaking through. “He told me, ‘Don’t cry too much when I’m gone you ugly bastard.’ That was Ozzy. Making jokes, even at the edge of the abyss.”
Plans for a tribute concert are beginning to take shape, but Tony says it must truly reflect Ozzy’s spirit. “It has to be loud,” he insists. “It has to be a bit unhinged. And it has to be full of love. That’s the only way to do it justice.”
For now, though, he’s letting himself feel the loss. He finds himself scrolling through old photos, hearing Ozzy’s voice in his head, remembering moments only they shared. A late-night hotel conversation in Japan. A silly argument in the studio over how many times to repeat a riff. A triumphant embrace after a comeback show.
“He wasn’t just the ‘Prince of Darkness,’” Iommi says, his voice warm. “He was kind, generous, and had the biggest heart. He gave everything to his fans, to his family, to his friends. I was lucky so lucky to know him.”
As he looks down at his phone, Tony pauses. His thumb hovers over Ozzy’s name in his contacts. He knows the number will never ring again.
“I still pick it up, thinking I’ll hear his laugh,” he whispers. “Then I remember… he’s not there anymore.”
