Black Sabbath and "Back to the Beginning": A Farewell Worthy of History

It's not just the music. It's the memories, the friends, the stories. It's the guys, the neighborhood, the girlfriends, the streets, the nights, the dreams, the sleepless hours. It's the music woven into the fabric of life. It's a casual (more than causal) connection to unforgettable memories that make you who you are. It's the habit of repetition. Of a riff, a solo, a bass line, a chorus, a mood, a memory, a parte de la vida.

A sunny Saturday cleaning the house to the beat of "Crazy Train". The never-ending barbecue with friends and Masters Of Reality playing in the background. The fifteenth joint of the night and "Planet Caravan" to take you on a trip through the cosmos. The train ride home with "I'm Going Insane". Or "Electric Funeral" on the bus bringing you back from work. "Changes" playing softly while you stare at that text message that wrecked you. An unexpected mosh pit during a Black Sabbath cover at your favorite band's gig. And so on, ad infinitum. Every parte de la vida, a part of a song. And all of that because four guys decided to get together and play at a pub in Birmingham in the late '60s and named their band after an Italian movie starring Boris Karloff.

Back to the origin

As if it were a universal law, (almost) everything ends where it began. The return home. A classic trope of universal mythic literature: the odyssey. Not to mention the Yuga cycle of Hindu mythology; or the destruction and rebuilding of the world in Norse mythology. It's a clean ending, ontologically elegant. Right there, on the fine line between philosophy and self-help: life is an ascending spiral. That's why this concept of "Back to the Beginning" that Black Sabbath chose to frame their farewell from the stage, in tandem with Ozzy Osbourne's farewell and his solo legacy. A concert built around the charismatic figure he managed to build for himself, always on the fun side of life, but grounded in a musical career reserved only for the chosen few.

While rock is the musical genre I've spent the most time with in my entire life, I'm not entirely sure when it started. I don't even know if it's possible to pin down a specific date or if it's more of a "process." Yeah, in the end it's always a process. The most common opinions are that it started in the United States with rock and roll, with Elvis as the archetype of the modern popular icon, or else in England with the Beatles and the definitive triumph of the "rock band" concept (bass, guitar, drums, and vocals). Everyone must have their own theory.

With heavy metal, on the other hand, the consensus is almost unanimous: Black Sabbath. I say almost because there are also the contrarians who point to a hybrid origin shared with Deep Purple. In any case it doesn't go beyond that, but for me there's really no debate: what Black Sabbath did is in a whole other league.

Their first four albums (Black Sabbath, Paranoid, Masters of Reality, and Vol.4) form a perfect tetralogy that contains, in the fashion of the Big Bang or the Aleph, everything that would come after. A band that condensed an entire genre. A monumental body of work that, moreover, doesn't invalidate the rest of the group's history. The decade that the original lineup lasted was enough to leave a legacy that would give rise to a quasi-infinite universe. Metal Archives, the online encyclopedia dedicated to metal, has around 150,000 registered bands. Even the albums by Sabbath with Ronnie James Dio are gems for anyone brave enough to cross the threshold of Sabbath heterodoxy.

But the first four albums are like the four Gospels. They're canon. And by one of those strokes of luck, because it could well have been different, all four original members of the band were still alive to be able to say goodbye in a grand fashion. In a field with as many casualties as rock, with so many fallen to drugs, accidents, or suicides, it's almost a miracle.

Technically, Black Sabbath had already had their comeback, the retirement tour to guarantee a good life for their kids and grandkids. Maybe for another generation too. But that surprise return was somewhat truncated by the absence of Bill Ward. A Black Sabbath at 75% was still a hell of a lot and all the fans responded with total loyalty. However, there was still that lingering wish to see the lineup at 100%. And at last, it happened one final time.

The chosen venue was the Aston Villa stadium, an iconic club in the city of Birmingham, in whose streets the Sabbath members were born and raised. The same city that housed the factories where Tony Iommi, as a metalworker, sliced off his fingertips and was forced to recalibrate his guitar playing. His brilliant idea was to tune the guitar a whole step down to loosen the strings, and the rest is history. Another stroke of luck in the story of the greatest rock band of all time (sorry, Led Zeppelin).

Birmingham, the birthplace of Black Sabbath

As soon as you step off at Birmingham's modern train station, you can already pick up on certain aspects of the city. A giant bull in the central hall, named Ozzy. The moment you set foot on the street, you understand the fundamental difference between this city and London. Birmingham is a battered city, nice but pretty rough around the edges. Where the first thing you find is the facade of The Crown pub, ground zero of metal, closed but saved by the fans.

Black Sabbath is a prophet in its own land. They have their own bridge (Sabbath Bridge) in the middle of an area packed with bars for going out. Every important spot in the city has a reference to the band. This Saturday, July 5th, the city was flooded with heavyset guys dressed in black, vests and caps of every kind, beards, long hair, boots, all united in a final pilgrimage. They were the silver crosses of Black Sabbath.

On the way to the stadium you could see social housing, built quite neatly, houses that in Argentina would be almost a luxury, but with front yards full of garbage. Everything dirty and messy. Street markets packed with fruit and vegetable stalls with a largely Arab clientele. New infrastructure projects, under construction, coexist with old train stations that remind you of those on the San Martin line. The wooden roofs are the same. Here too, that infrastructure from the Industrial Revolution lasted over a century. A picturesque but grey city. I picture a cloudy Sunday at seven in the evening in Birmingham and I perfectly understand that dense atmosphere of the self-titled debut album, Black Sabbath.

The social media controversy

When the concert was announced, all the usual mechanisms of hype and confusion kicked in. Ironically, the biggest heavy metal accounts in terms of reach and audience are on Instagram. Not Twitter, not TikTok, nothing else: Instagram. I suppose it's because the bulk of the fans have accounts on that platform -- which spiritually replaced Facebook and, therefore, the digital common sense of the 30+ generation. I say ironically because it's at least amusing that the network where image, vanity, and fakeness are the norm is the one that "metal" uses to communicate. Such is life.

The digital reactions to the news covered the entire spectrum. From total euphoria to total outrage. Ah, yes, the age of weaponizing emotional reactions to generate engagement. In the end, the usual: "It's going to be the greatest show in history," "Ozzy cashing in again with another farewell," "These old guys just want money." Blah blah blah.

As the date approached and more bands were added to the lineup, the hype kept building. The day tickets went on sale, everything sold out in an instant. This humble writer got tickets thanks to the fine work of his wife (whom you can read here and/or follow here), who found a glitch in the matrix. Aston Villa members could access an early presale. And it turned out you could join the club without paying anything, just by filling out the web forms. We signed up, waited for the date, and when the first presale went live we were 22nd in the virtual queue. And the farewell was held at Villa Park, which could be translated as "park of the villa" -- or Villa del Parque if we stretch the wordplay a little. A nice wink to this humble writer.

Anticipation for the show became immense as more bands were added, younger than Black Sabbath but no longer young in absolute terms. Artists who shaped all of our lives. Lineups assembled, decimated, with soldiers fallen along the way, and more than one breakup and subsequent reunion behind them. Total heavyweights. Tool, Pantera, Metallica, Guns And Roses, Slayer, Alice In Chains, and a flood of surprise guests. One heavyweight after another. One legacy after another. The question was how such a massive number of artists was going to fit into a single day. The proceeds, moreover, would go to the Birmingham hospital to fight Parkinson's disease. As of this writing, the total amount raised and donated exceeds 140 million pounds sterling. The naysayers were already choking on their own words.

The state of the art

As the date approached and details kept coming to light, both those involved and us fans were realizing that this would be historic like nothing before it. On one hand, the farewell of the band that started it all. On the other, a roll call of the genre's greatest and a sort of "state of the union." Knowing where metal stands today and where it's headed.

The big question hangs in the air: what's going to happen when Ozzy is no longer around? Because one way or another, the old man was always there. Even though he threatened more than once to bow out, he always held his ground. He's the godfather and guardian of a genre with an incredibly long and fruitful history, one that today faces the reality of being nowhere near the top of the charts.

Although its ranks include worldwide number ones the caliber of Metallica, who can carry the weight on their shoulders, and later exponents with no small reach (Gojira was the first band in the genre's history to play at an Olympic Games), it's true that at classic metal concerts you hardly see any teenagers or kids under 25. We're a group of people who grew up and grew old alongside our idols. But who, from the 2000s onward, have been fighting in the trenches against a scene captured by more popular styles. This doesn't mean there aren't incredible bands, new faces, or anything like that. It's simply that back in the day you'd turn on MTV and hear Pantera or Metallica. And at the turn of the century, Limp Bizkit, System of a Down, or Linkin Park. But Significant Other is already 25 years old and today there are no metal bands or artists in the top of the global charts.

Rock was made for live performance

The concert/festival kicked off hard and in the middle of it all: Mastodon. The stadium erupted with "Blood and Thunder" and "Supernaut". Musical direction was handled by Tom Morello, who put together the broadest and most insane lineup of musicians of all time. While we all knew it was going to be mind-blowing, witnessing it live is something else entirely. Rock was made for live performance.

Albums, recordings, are a way to immortalize that music, but what happens on a stage when there's a drum kit, a bass, and a guitar sounding loud, fast, and distorted (or at least two of those), nothing else compares. And it's that ritual that keeps us all alive. That keeps the "genre" alive. Live music is irreplaceable. The energy of a good metal band performing live is irreplaceable. And even though it's not among the most popular, it has the fundamentals needed to survive the test of time.

Then it was the turn of a series of newer, protege bands trying to fill the generational gap but still far off in musical terms: Halestorm and Rival Sons. All good, no complaints. They also played Electric Funeral and Perry Mason. Good time to grab food and drinks. Oh right, concerts here are still a massive entertainment event with everything that implies: some sections more VIP than others, food stands right next to the seats, beer allowed in the stands during the show. Just like the Movistar Arena in Buenos Aires but on steroids.

Then came Anthrax, who delivered, and Lamb of God, who pulled off a tremendous cover of "Children of the Grave" (the only time it would be played all day). And then the first surprise: supergroup A, who played "The Ultimate Sin" and "Shot in the Dark" (a gorgeous pair), "Sweat Leaf", "Believer", and "Changes". The latter performed by Yungblud, who absolutely killed it with an impressive vocal range. After all of that came a video of Jack Black playing "Mr. Crowley" surrounded by kids in a School of Rock fashion, among them the sons of Scott Ian and Tom Morello. No big deal.

And then the first big hit: Alice in Chains. Watching the magnificent Jerry Cantrell play the riffs of "Man In The Box" is an injection of perpetual life. First time I heard William DuVall fronting the band and I have to say he's impeccable, a great singer. But the void left by Layne is impossible to fill and his absence is one of the great ones of the night. It wouldn't be the last: as we mentioned, every band went through its own loss. Then came "Would" and they closed with "Fairies Wear Boots".

Alice In Chains gave way to Gojira, perhaps the most internationally prominent metal band of the moment or the one with the most upside. They put on a very solid show, though they sounded a bit quieter than usual -- the same thing happened when I saw them at Movistar Arena, unlike the steamroller they were at Luna Park -- but they still delivered a tremendous set with the Du Plantier duo on fire, as always.

Then came the second supergroup moment. It opened with a three-way drum battle between Travis Barker, Chad Smith, and Danny Carey, backed by Tom Morello, Nuno Bettencourt, and Rudy Sarzo. An absolute beast. And then came the heavy hitter, superband B with Billy Corgan on vocals, who did "Snowblind" and "Breaking The Law". Then a lineup change with Sammy Hagar on vocals, and the whole thing peaked in a summit of killer rock with Steven Tyler and the one and only Ron Wood of the Rolling Stones. Absolutely insane.

After the supergroup we entered the final stretch. Pantera opened, with Zakk Wylde on guitar, and that's when the emotion hit me like a freight train. Phil Anselmo asked for a moment to salute Dimebag, and at the first chord of "Cowboys from Hell" you could see four or five mosh pits form in a matter of seconds. It continued with "Walk", which the entire stadium sang at the top of their lungs and, as it could be no other way, out came the cover of "Planet Caravan". That's when my heart gave out and I bawled my eyes out. Pantera is the foundational band for my friends from Villa del Parque. It marked us since we were kids, in the '90s, and became our identity in the 2000s.

We never really recovered from not being able to see them because we weren't old enough when they came to town, but fueled by the Vulgar Videos we had the most beautiful adolescence and youth we could have ever had. Partying, beer by the truckload, music, rehearsals, bands, destruction galore. Some of that was captured in 3220, my little novel that flew under the radar. Barefoot, Phil Anselmo sang "Electric Funeral" and the sadness of never having seen Vinnie Paul or Dimebag live was eased a little.

It was Tool's turn, and they sounded absolutely beastly as always. Maynard honored his place in the world as the weirdo among weirdos and played wearing a shirt that said "not local." They played "Forty Six & 2", "Hand of Doom", and "Aenema". Obviously the cover was in the middle because his obsession with symmetry never lets up. Then came Slayer, perhaps the heaviest band on the bill, opening like a steamroller with "Disciple" and closing with "Angel of Death" to remind us that they're not really a band but a war machine that fires up at the first chord and only shuts off when you're dead and lying in a ditch.

Then came Guns and Roses, who opened with three covers, one of them "Junior's Eye", which I sang at the top of my lungs like a madman. The people around me were cracking up and cheering me on since I was the only one -- at least in my section, the one in the back -- who sang it as if it were, I don't know, "Paranoid". They completed the trilogy with "Never Say Die" and "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath". Plus their classics "Welcome to the Jungle" and "Paradise City". Slash deployed all his magic, which was evident the moment two notes rang out, and Axl was a bit off tempo on one song. Beyond that, I saw Guns N' Roses live -- what more could I ask for?

And as the final act among the guest bands, none other than Metallica. Who delivered six songs, sounded absolutely massive, tighter than the last time I saw them, and reminded us why they're the biggest active metal band of them all. Perfect sound, perfect show. In this order, they played "Hole in the Sky", "Creeping Death", "For Whom the Bell Tolls", "Johnny Blade", "Battery", and "Master of Puppets". They say brevity is the soul of wit; I'd tell you a six-song set like that, throw in "Seek & Destroy" to complete the ritual, and it's about as close to perfection as you can get.

With no more bands waiting to play, other than the guests of honor, some of the questions about the current state of metal had been answered. Despite the passage of time and the fact that the vast majority of those in attendance are grey-haired gentlemen -- I've already entered that process myself -- the bands sound tremendous, at least live, with the volume cranked and the stadium mix. Maybe on the broadcast, with the channels equalized differently, the feeling might be different. What is clear is that the ones who take the most punishment from the passage of time are the vocalists, who have to face the natural deterioration of their instrument: the voice.

It's also clear that the peak moment of each band is part of the past. Black Sabbath composed their repertoire in ten years between 1968 and 1978, James Hetfield wrote "Master of Puppets" in his twenties, Dimebag Darrell has been dead since 2004, Layne Staley is a legend who grows larger with every orbit the Earth makes around the sun. Many of the most influential musicians in this genre appeared in metal's firmament and died before Black Sabbath even retired.

The passage of time and the effect of entropy on our favorite bands, on the genre itself, and on us is undeniable. But it was proven that none of that is an impediment for the musicians who composed these anthems to keep performing them throughout their lives, as long as they feel the need or are comfortable doing so. You can't turn back time. What was, was, and it's never coming back. But while we're alive, let's keep enjoying the present, who we are, and what brought us here. As the saying goes: "Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire."

Bring out the band, we want rock

And then it was the moment everyone had been waiting for. To see how Ozzy was doing. In the middle of a darkened stage, out came the Prince of Darkness, seated on a black throne. Visibly ravaged by Parkinson's, but with his spirit intact. Accompanied by his friend Zakk Wylde, with whom I had the honor of seeing him at Quilmes Rock 2008, a concert that changed my life forever. The chords of "I Don't Know" rang out and with that Ozzy's voice, as best he could, came forth from the icon's throat and sent the stadium into delirium.

Then came "Mr. Crowley", "Suicide Solution", and "Mama, I'm Coming Home" with visible emotion from the people's champion, who took us all on one hell of an emotional ride. Trying to stand up from his seat, waving his arms, pulling his trademark faces and urging us to tear the place apart. The tribute to Randy Rhoads, another one of the fallen, and the closer with "Crazy Train", when I could no longer hold back and bawled my eyes out, remembering the friends, the ones who are here, the ones who aren't, the ones still by my side, the ones who got mad over some stupid thing. In short, all of life. With Ozzy visibly exhausted from the tremendous effort it took him to sing, the final intermission came and the wait for the last show of the day. What we all came to see.

And after waiting for a while, during which we all wondered how Ozzy was going to keep going, the sirens sounded, the screens showed war footage, and the chords of "War Pigs" thundered. And there, as if we were in 1968, at The Crown pub, these four guys, each with their instrument, played the classic notes of the timeless anti-war anthem. Geezer Butler, Bill Ward, Tony Iommi, and Ozzy Osbourne were together on stage for the last time to say farewell before 50,000 people, in their hometown, at their football club's stadium, and for nearly six million people watching online.

Because they deserved a farewell worthy of their history. Because the greatest of this genre and of rock as a whole were present (Steven Tyler with Ron Wood!), because greetings were sent by everyone from Elton John to Judas Priest, including AC/DC and Dolly Parton, because they proved that despite the passage of time and even Ozzy's illness, they're more alive than we are. And then "N.I.B" played and it was impossible not to be transported back to the album that started it all.

And then "Iron Man" played and I couldn't help but think that it was the first song I ever heard by them (at 15, playing a text-based game called Drug Lord) and I couldn't help but think of Nacho and Roman, the only two metalheads in the entire school who by 2001 were already wearing Cannibal Corpse shirts and Napalm Death patches and initiated me into extreme metal. Impossible not to think of Guido, Emi, Negro, Pope, and Cabezon, the crew with whom I went to a thousand concerts, saw a thousand bands, and lived a thousand things, always with music as the bond. "And why the hell should you care about my friends?" you might be thinking, but I'm almost certain that anyone reading this has their own version of them. Those ride-or-die friends, unshakable, those friends with whom Sabbath and metal became fused forever. "To you, my friend," as Ricardo used to say.

And with no more bands waiting and no more songs in the chamber, "Paranoid" played. The anthem that made Black Sabbath a planetary cultural icon beyond the genre, beyond England, beyond rock. And in those final notes, that riff and that solo we all know by heart, we witnessed the rustproof spells of these four modern wizards who made the world a far better place than the one they found. And the last note rang out, and the lights went down, and they said goodbye. On par with the history they forged, before the privileged eyes of those of us who were able to be there. Before the screens of millions of people around the world who deserved to be here just as much as everyone else.

And with those lights going out, the story of Black Sabbath on planet Earth came to an end. The story of the musicians who made us immensely happy, who entered our lives and gave us meaning in return for nothing. One last act of moving generosity. One last farewell to let them know how much we loved them and how much they loved us. And as the lights finish dimming and a round of fireworks thunders across the sky, hand in hand with the love of my life I hurry toward the exit to beat the crowd to the bus that takes us to the hotel, to rest a little after this emotional steamroller, all I can think is that art is the greatest thing we have.

That, and the well-deserved rest that awaits these four titans of music, art, and the Earth.