In the summer of 1981, I had just finished 8th grade, getting ready to move on to high school at Taylor Allderdice. Though I had darkened the door of Jim's Records in Bloomfield, it would be another six months before I dove headfirst into punk rock and all its byproducts. At that point, I was still heavily into '60s music, having just discovered Moby Grape, Spirit and Iron Butterfly around that time. For radio, I was devoted to WDVE-FM 102.5, which at that time was all about the AOR (Album Oriented Rock) format. Fine with me. I was into all that stuff and I showed my devotion with a DVE jersey.
When it was suggested on-air that people going to the Three Rivers Regatta should wear their DVE shirts, you can bet I was willing to do it. Strolling through Point State Park that weekend, I was approached by DJ Marsy McFerrin. "Would you like two tickets to see Ozzy Osbourne," she asked, not really caring that I looked like a kid. Sure, why not, I thought. I liked Sabbath when I was younger, since the first five albums were in the house. Sounds like a cool idea.
For some reason, my parents didn't object. I invited my best buddy Gene, who was still going by his first name of Garlyn, to come along with me. He probably knew Sabbath but might not have heard "Crazy Train," the only solo Oz song I knew, to be honest. But he was up for it. We had been comedy partners in crime all through 8th grade, cracking each other up with little provocation, often at the worst times.
When we got to the Stanley, a crowd was swarming around front doors and sidewalk. Maybe it was sold out, I'm not sure. But some dude asked us for tickets and Gene, thinking he worked there, wanted me to give them to him. Luckily I didn't. Though for some time after that, I thought we could have made a fast couple of bucks and spend the rest of the evening getting hopped up on Little Debbie's and root beer.
The opening act was Def Leppard, who had only released On Through the Night at that point. They were cool but to this this 13-year old, they were soooooooo loud. I screamed at Gene and couldn't hear myself. Oh my God, am I going to go deaf? My dad will kill me! After a few minutes, my ears had adjusted and the overwhelming swell of noise felt cool.
Now, two 13-year olds probably think they can blend in easily in a place like this and I just wanted to look cool and fit in. So when the crowd started chanting "Ozz-ZEE! Ozz-ZEE!" between sets, I wanted to kill Gene when that goofball started chanting, "Harri-ETT! Harri-ETT!" Apparently, he associated the name more with Ricky Nelson's dad than heavy metal. Rather progressive for a young African-American kid, in retrospect. But I had to make him stop. Kudos to him for not caring. Shame on me for worrying too much.
Then Ozzy came on, with a roar of guitar that felt even louder than Def Leppard. The man, the myth, the legend. "Are yooooo high?! I said, are yooooooooooo high?! Well, SO AM I!" That actually came a few songs into the set, which I believe also included "Mr. Crowley." My memories are kind of fuzzy about details. What I recall is that after about five, maybe six songs, Gene looked at me and said, "I'm going to go. I'm bored."
But, but, but.... I mean, I wasn't totally wrapped up in the show but I didn't want to leave. Yet, I couldn't stand the idea of being there alone. Or of Gene getting home by himself. So we left. Had I know that Randy Rhoads would die in a plane crash less than a year later, maybe I'd've hung out. But no one can predict that.
I called my dad, who said he pick us up. We agreed to meet down the street and around the corner from the Stanley in the doorway of the building where I had once taken piano lessons. It was an easy meeting place but the thing is, the block of Liberty Avenue between locations was full-on red light district in 1981, despite the fact that Lomakin's Music Store was sandwiched in between a couple peep show theaters. The site of two dorky kids, one white and one black, standing on a street corner, must have looked suspicious to the regular denizens of the area. Maybe we looked like runaways, in good clothes.
One guy took advantage of the situation. He came up and asked us for money, either a quarter or a dollar. We demurred. "I asked nicely," he said. We declined again. "I said," he did a high kick in front of us, "I asked nicely." Looking at the ground, neither of us were giving in. "I SAID," another high kick, "I ASKED NICELY." With that, one of us gave him some change and he was on his way. And we sunk into the corner of the doorway.
My dad thought nothing of giving Gene a ride to Homewood, where he lived. Me, the naive kid, wondered if that was a good idea for a white guy and his son to be driving into a predominantly black neighborhood. "Don't worry, I'll tell the guys to leave you alone," Gene said, cracking up as he assured me I really had nothing to worry about.
When we got to his house, I walked Gene up to the porch and got to meet his mom, who I had only talked to quickly on the phone before she handed it over to her son for one of our marathon calls. (It's not just teenage girls who tied up the line back then.) She was sweet and thanked me for getting him home. I'm glad I did get to meet her that night because later that fall, the family moved to Baltimore. Though Gene and I keep in touch now, I've only seem him once since then, and his mom passed away not too long after my mom did.
This entry was not really about Ozzy Osbourne, but it was about how his visit to Pittsburgh made a bunch of events transpire. I didn't mention being there for years because seeing Ozzy just seemed a little... uncool for awhile. Until you're talking to a Randy Rhoads fan, or an Ozzy fan. Then it has its charm. I've listened to Master of Reality and some of Volume 4 since getting the news that Ozzy has left us. While I could expound about those records, many already have. But few have had the concert journey that I had with him.
Thanks, Ozzy.
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