← DISGRACELAND
DISGRACELAND
Ozzy Osbourne: The Prince of Darkness, Randy Rhoads’ Plane Crash and the Saving Grace of a Strong Woman
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- [00:00]
Jake Brennan
Foreign Elvis.
- [00:08]
Co-host or Announcer
It's hot guys. Summer is here in full force down.
- [00:12]
Jake Brennan
In the part of the country where I'm at.
- [00:14]
Co-host or Announcer
I'm emptying out my closet.
- [00:15]
Jake Brennan
I'm reorganizing and donating a bunch of clothes I don't wear anymore. What do I wear? What?
- [00:20]
Co-host or Announcer
What am I constantly going back to my Quince short sleeve T shirts. Quince's base layer T shirts are gonna great. They're lightweight and they look good if I'm going out to dinner or if I'm just chilling at home working throughout the day.
- [00:34]
Jake Brennan
I rock the black. I rock the green. I rock the navy.
- [00:36]
Co-host or Announcer
These are high quality T shirts like everything else at Quint, high quality and reasonably priced. Quint works directly with top artisans to cut out the middlemen and give us luxury pieces without the markups. I've even turned my wife onto quint. Quint has 100% European linen shorts and dresses for $30, luxe swimwear, Italian leather plat sandals and so much more. And again, the best part, everything with Quince is half the cost of similar brands. Give your summer closet an upgrade with quints. Go to quints.com disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. That's Q-U-I-N-C-E.com disgraceland to get free shipping and 365 day returns. Quints.com disgraceland so one thing you probably don't know about me is that I just picked up golf and as you can likely assume, I am horrible at it. Okay? That said, I'm also loving it. And I don't care how annoying it is to be trapped behind me on the course. I might not be banging any holes in one anytime soon, but I am banging back 5 hour energy transfusion shots on the course. That's right. It's inspired by the unofficial golf cocktail. This energy shot tastes great. Hints of grape, ginger, lemon and and. And it's all without alcohol but with as much caffeine as a premium cup of coffee. So look, if you're playing behind me and I just missed my chip shot for like the fourth time a chill B know that I'm doing the best I can, man. I'm hitting that five hour energy transfusion to keep me going as fast as I can. And you should be doing the same. It's easy to stash your five hour energy anywhere in your bag. Ready for your early morning tea time, a late round, whatever 5 hour energy is there to help you tee off 5 hour energy transfusion flavor is available online or in stores. Head to www.fiveourenergy.com to order yours today.
- [02:41]
Jake Brennan
Disgraceland is a production of Double elv. The stories about Ozzy Osbourne are insane. He bit off the heads of small winged creatures, urinated on historical landmarks, catapulted raw meat at audiences, woke up in the middle of a freeway after one of his all too frequent blackouts. He had drugs delivered by the truckload. His tour bus was cut in half by a low flying plane. And it took the life of someone he loved like a brother. And during his stints as frontman for Black Sabbath and as a solo artist, from his highest highs to his darkest lows, Ozzy Osbourne made great music. That music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called Mellow San Francisco treatment MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Cold Hearted by Paula Abdul. And why would I play you that specific slice of hit and run cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on September 3, 1989. And that was the day that Ozzy Osbourne woke up in a prison cell, charged with a heinous crime that he couldn't even remember committing. On this episode, headless animals, soiled landmarks, truckloads of drugs, and the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne. I'm Jake Brennan and this is disgrace. Ozzy Osbourne was in trouble again. He was always in trouble. Trouble had a way of finding him. And when trouble would disappear, Ozzy would go looking for trouble. This time he found it. And he was in deep. The thing was, he couldn't even remember how he got into it in the first place. He had no idea how long he'd been passed out when he finally came to, or how in the hell he wound up on his back laying in the meat median strip of a busy stretch of a Memphis highway. His head rang. Felt like it was in a vice. Each time a car screamed by, the vice tightened and the headlights burned into his eyes. He smashed his eyelids shut and pressed his hands against his ears. Maybe if he squeezed every part of his head, just flatten the whole thing and the noise would stop, the pain would stop. The pain didn't go anywhere. If anything, it intensified. And then he felt another pain down below. Ozzy Osbourne was 35 years old. Rock and roll's quote unquote, Prince of Darkness unchallenged on his throne. He'd been living the party hard Lifestyle for more than a decade now. First as the lead singer of Black Sabbath, arguably the first and greatest heavy metal band of all time. And now out on his own as a successful solo artist. The Blackouts. These were new, a sign of too much partying. They started around the time that Randy died. But Ozzy took it all in stride. It was like a marathon runner getting leg cramps. You can't be a professional partier for this long and not expect to black out here and there along the way. As he lifted his head off the ground, he felt the heaviness of the night before. Blow, Cognac. Benihana. He'd been out with the boys and Motley Crue, the up and coming LA band he had tapped to open his 1984 North American tour. And the night featured the usual vices. Bottomless bottles of booze, drugs, girls, more girls. And they were knocking back shots at a Japanese steakhouse. When Ozzy lost all grip on reality, lost consciousness. And now he was here, stuck inside of Memphis with the immobile blues again, in the middle of the goddamn highway to boot. Man, he had to take a leak. But first he had to get himself the hell out of the way. Ozzy bobbed and weaved across three lanes of oncoming traffic to get to the side of the highway. It may as well have been 30 lanes. Felt like that arcade game with the frog. His knees buckled as each giant hunk of metal roared by. He closed his eyes, trusted his life in the hands of fate and made a run for it. He made it. Thankfully, surprisingly, and on the side of the highway he felt reinvigorated and mostly awake. He needed a drink to take the edge off. But first he had a piss. Like A racehorse in 1984, Ozzy Osbourne was his own racehorse. He'd been groomed for this lifestyle. With his Black Sabbath bandmates, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward, Ozzy Osbourne invented heavy metal. Sabbath's 1970s albums with Ozzy contained some of the heaviest music of all time. The band deployed rhythm, groove and space via backbreaking guitar riffs and skull crushingly simple power that is to this day unmatched in its originality and authenticity. Born of their native Birmingham, England's low hanging industrial heaviness, Black Sabbath wrote the playbook. Scores of heavy metal bands since have followed, incorporating everything from the horror film inspiration of their self titled debut to Ozzy's incongruous Beatles esque vocal melodies that blanket most every one of their albums to the proto mosh parts of Ozzy's last Sabbath record, Never say Die. Simply put, Black Sabbath rule. They still rule. And in 1984, Ozzy Osbourne was thoroughly enjoying the fruits of his kingdom's labor. On this particular morning, though, it would take more than a morning cup of joe to power rock and roll. That was the heaviest of the heavy. First it was pints of bitter lager stout. Then speed pills. The stuff to get you going. The stuff to keep you going. And that was just breakfast. Whatever Ozzy took the day before wouldn't cut it the next day. Every day, the stakes were higher. By the late 70s, Ozzy's daily regimen had escalated to a mix of beer, weed, cognac, speed, cough syrup, barbiturates, acid and cocaine. He called it waffle dust because it would keep you up till breakfast. He did so much coke that he tore his epiglottis in half. Half severed it hung down the back of his throat and nearly choked him to death. Loaded on every conceivable substance, Ozzy felt the need to defend whatever title or reputation he'd garnered up to that point against the hard, partying upstarts in Motley Crue who aspired to take heavy metal bacchanalia to a level yet unseen. But Ozzy was so gonzo that when it came to his own antics, he wasn't even sure what was true and what was a myth anymore. Did he really snort a line of ants off of a Popsicle stick or the side of the road? He couldn't remember, but it sure sounded like something he would do. He did remember when he bit the head off that dove. That really happened. CBS Records headquarters, 1981. Century City. Suits, execs, PR cronies, squares, all of them. And Ozzy Osbourne making like his hero, John Lennon and starting over. Starting a solo career, that is. Black Sabbath were moving on without him with that munchkin Ronnie James Dio. And Ozzy had something to prove. He had brought these doves to the meeting and he was supposed to release them as a gesture of peace. That was the gag. Let them fly around the room in a real Kumbaya moment. Instead, ever the entertainer or ever the troublemaker, Ozzy pulled a real Prince of Darkness. His power move. He sat on the arm of one of the PR executive's chairs. Slowly and surprisingly pulled the dove from his pocket. Some of the suits caught the move. What the fuck? Ozzy had that gleam in his eye, that schoolboy troublemaker smirk. He scanned the room. He could feel the tension. All eyes on him. And he Loved it. It's just like being on stage. What the was Ozzy about to do? His smirk widened into a shit eating grin. He then slowly brought the dove from his pocket to his mouth, opened his mouth and bit down, snapping the little bird's head clean off. A round of gore induced moans from the conference room full of executives and industry brass. Ozzie opened his mouth slowly, somehow maintaining that troublemaker smirk. The dove's head fell out and onto the lap of the executive sitting to his left. The CBS executives in the room couldn't believe they just seen the feathers, the busted beak, the blood, all of it goateeing around Ozzy Osbourne's mouth and that shit eating grin. They promptly threw him out of the room. Instantly the story was legend. Word spread throughout every boy's bathroom in every high school in America. In between puffs of Marlboro Reds. Ozzy Osbourne was fucking crazy. Damn right. I bought my copy of Blizzard of Oz. And then there was the story about the bat. Ozzy did remember that one that really happened. That was at the Veterans Auditorium in Des Moines, January 20, 1982. 8000 rabid Ozzy Osbourne fans. Diary of a Madman tour. Randy Rhodes, Rudy Sarzo, Tommy Aldridge standing in place behind Ozzy between songs. The show was hot, the crowd hyped and the bat was hurled towards the stage by a fan. Ozzy grabbed it quick, assumed it was a fake. The crowd went batshit, no pun intended. Was he gonna do it? Really? Was Ozzy really going to do it? Just like the rumored biting of the dove, Ozzy wrapped his teeth around the bat's tiny head and bit down. The crowd went crazy. Ozzy felt that familiar sensation of winged animal blood running down his chin and just went with it. Fuck, he thought, I've done it again. Ozzy also remembered pissing on the side of the Alamo. Also 1982. Ozzy had gotten good and drunk in his hotel room. His manager and soon to be wife, Sharon Levy had left with all of his clothes. She knew that the odds of Ozzie finding trouble were greatly reduced when he was drunk in a room and had no clothes to wear. But she left one of her green evening dresses behind and Ozzy was nothing if not adaptable. So Ozzy put the dress on, grabbed his bottle of Courvoisier and hit the streets of San Antonio. He was scrambling past the Alamo like a non committal drag queen when he felt his bladder inflate. It was sudden, urgent and the Alamo was just right there, just begging to be Pissed off now, standing on the side of the highway in Memphis, he looked at a parked car. It, like the sacred Alamo, was just begging to be pissed on as well. As he undid his pants, he thought of the Alamo, thought of the cops with the Texan draws that put him in cuffs, the cramped jail cell that he spent a few hours in before he was inevitably turned loose. All for pissing on a big chunk of limestone. To the Texans, Ozzie had messed with a symbol of their heritage, representative of their bravery. And he don't mess with Texas and walk away. As Ozzie pissed on that car at Memphis, he remembered the Alamo. He snapped too, when the blue lights came on and a quick whoop of a siren. Son of a bitch. The car he was relieving himself on was an unmarked police car. Of all the roads in Memphis, of all the cars sitting on the side of the road, he had to pick this one. Like Ozzy, this car had trouble written all over it.
- [15:02]
Co-host or Announcer
So the convenience of being able to pay for almost everything these days, digitally, yeah, it's easy. But guys, I don't know about you, it's also very easy to lose track of what I'm spending my money on.
- [15:16]
Jake Brennan
Okay.
- [15:16]
Co-host or Announcer
I looked at my credit card statement.
- [15:17]
Jake Brennan
A couple weeks ago and the amount.
- [15:19]
Co-host or Announcer
Of garbage I realized I was spending money on was staggering. I don't think I spend a lot of money on takeout food, but I do.
- [15:27]
Jake Brennan
I don't think I spend a lot.
- [15:28]
Co-host or Announcer
Of money on buying garbage that I don't need on a random Sunday afternoon walking through town with my family, but I do. Did I really need that Uber XL ride both to and from the airport? Probably didn't. I realized all this from using Monarch Money, which is an award winning budgeting app. Helps you not only manage your money, but like I said, for me, it helps me track what I'm spending on and identify where I can save. I use it weekly now, every Saturday morning as part of my routine when.
- [15:58]
Jake Brennan
I'm drinking my coffee, paying my bills.
- [16:01]
Co-host or Announcer
I track my weekly spending with my Monarch money. Apple and I can do it by category. And because of this, I'm saving a ton of money now. Monarch Money is the real deal. Over a million households are using it.
- [16:13]
Jake Brennan
Not just the Brennan household.
- [16:15]
Co-host or Announcer
Wall Street Journal named it the best budgeting app of 2025 and it has over 30,000 five star reviews. Get control of your overall finances with Monarch Money. Use code disgraceland@monimalmoney.com in your browser for half off your first year. That's 50% of your first year at monarchmoney.com with code disgraceland. Hey Discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly After Party Bonus episode where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these After Party Bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails and DMs and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpodmail.com or disgracelandpod on the socials and join the conversation every Thursday in our.
- [17:12]
Jake Brennan
After Party Bonus episode.
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Jake Brennan
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- [18:23]
Jake Brennan
2H24 product analysis Ozzy knew trouble from an early age. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him going. In Aston, a bombed out ward of Birmingham, England, he grew up poor, one of six kids. He was born John Osborne, named after his father, but his father was never called John. They all called him Jack, and his son followed sue with his own nickname. The kids at school shortened his last name and simply dubbed him Ozzy. Aston was a factory town, the sort of black hole that would consume its inhabitants who weren't lucky enough to escape. People worked, and then they died. Often they died because they worked so much. The Osbourne household, like many in Aston, had no indoor bathroom, and when they did visit the outdoor facilities, they used newspaper instead of toilet paper because it was cheaper and they had money for pants and boots, but not for underwear and shoes. Ozzy hated school. He was dyslexic, had difficulty paying attention. In 1964, when he was 15, he left school and entered the workforce. For two years he worked as a plumber, then in an industrial plant that made car parts, then as a car horn tuner, then in a slaughterhouse where he dealt with the sloppy innards of sheep stomachs. After scooping guts at the factory, he'd pop Dexedrine and stay out dancing to soul music and clubs like every other teen in the uk. He discovered the Beatles and became obsessed. Music became an escape path, a way to possibly break out of the sepia toned, humdrum beatdown of life in Birmingham. He decided he would make like a beetle. Find a ticket to ride to get the hell out of there. He slicked his hair back with soap and gave himself his first tattoo with Indian ink and a needle o z zy across the knuckles of his left hand. In his mind he was the badass beetle. Every time he'd look down at his fists, he'd be reminded that he wasn't long for Birmingham. And if he didn't want to be testing car horns for the rest of his life, he needed to find out what lay beyond the gloomy shadow of his Aston neighborhood. But first, trouble would find him. 17 years old. Too much time on his hands. Late at night he made his way through the window of a shop up the street from his folks house. He didn't even bring a flashlight. He couldn't see a thing in the dark, but the sensation was thrilling. He stumbled around, arms outstretched to guide him. He felt a rack full of clothes and took as much as he could to make a pretty penny on the resale market. As soon as he made it home, he wanted that high again. Wanted to experience it all over that high. Of fumbling around in a strange place and snatching something that wasn't his. The next night he brought a flashlight and back inside the store he shone the light on a 24 inch telly. A thing of beauty. The kind of opulent picture box that a family like his can only dream of. But the thing was like a 24 inch box of bricks. As he tried to climb over a wall behind the store, he lost his grip and fell to the ground. The TV came down straight on his chest with a thud and pinned him there. Once he pushed the set off his belly, he decided it wasn't worth it. He'd leave the TV behind. But it wasn't the only thing he left behind. His fingerprints were all, all over that TV and all over that store. As a result, he spent a few months at Winson Green, a notoriously violent and anarchic Birmingham prison, while his heroes, the Beatles, release Revolver, Ozzy served prison food to child molesters. It was too much, too much trouble. He needed a new idea and he needed it. Fuck. When Ozzy took an ad out in a local paper and formed a band that would be called the Pokotuck Blues Band and then called Earth before settling on Black Sabbath, it saved him from a life of crime. It was the first time music saved his life, and it wouldn't be the last. Sabbath was not only democratic, they were pragmatic. All four members were equals. There was no frontman. Guitarist Tony Iommi summoned the heaviest of riffs. Drummer Bill Ward brought the wisdom of the experienced musician in, pummeling beats. Bassist Geezer Butler, a vegetarian who was into contemporary politics, and Aleister Crowley naturally, wrote the lyrics. Ozzy was the melody man. It was a true wizard's brew. For a while, Sabbath's fan base was 100% bloke. It's not like they were singing pretty pop ditties with well coiffed dues and come hither stairs. They were Birmingham boy noise and they looked it. Sullen, withdrawn, unwashed and in need of vitamin D. Black Sabbath's self titled debut was released on Friday the 13th, 1970. The superstitious release date only added to the band's mystical allure. The whole Prince of Darkness role that Ozzy would inhabit and eventually embrace was more of a marketing ploy than anything else. The band weren't exactly thrilled about the inverted cross in the inside artwork of their debut, but it meant that the band attracted a particular type. Fans of the occult, of paganism, of fantasy novels and horror films. Dennis Wheatley, Bela Lugosi the dark Sabbath was approached by Satanists and black magic dabblers, Anton lavey Heads. So the band started wearing crucifixes around their necks to ward off any curses that may have been placed on them. Ozzy's dad made them for the band to protect them. Ozzie didn't mince words with the would be Hexers. He told them straight up that the only evil spirits he cared about were the ones that were at least 80 proof and gave him a hell of a buzz. When Sabbath's second album, Paranoid, was an unexpected hit, suddenly it wasn't just pentagram wearing blockheads who came around on their first tour of America. Sabbath was was swimming in a sea of groupies. At least a rooftop pool of groupies at a Holiday Inn in California. Ozzy ascended to the hotel's roof to find a veritable orgy in full swing. So while making music destined for rock's hallowed canon, Black Sabbath also busied themselves with drafting a blueprint for the cliched sex, drugs and rock and roll lifestyle. And by 1972, the band was fully out of control. They decided to record their fourth album in Los Angeles and rented 20023 Stradella Drive in the exclusive neighborhood of Bel Air. The opulent mansion was owned by John Dupont, heir to the Dupont fortune and 20 years later, the convicted murderer of an Olympic wrestler. Six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, one swimming pool, a movie theater. The place was extravagance incarnate, and Sabbath look forward to defiling it. And they were there for two months while they recorded what would become Volume four, a record they wanted to name Snowblind, which was also one of the songs they recorded. One of the greatest songs they ever recorded. Snowblind is a succinct encapsulation of that particular moment in the band's lifespan spent high to the gills on cocaine. The record cost about $60,000 to make, but the cocaine cost them closer to $75,000. You couldn't walk into the next room without tripping over another cardboard box full of the little sealed vials. Cocaine was delivered whenever they needed it, which was pretty much always. Occasionally, they'd find their way to the record plant in LA to make music. For a band that recorded the entirety of their first three albums in what was less than a total of three weeks. Having two months to work on one record was both an eternity and a luxury. It was hard to keep track of all the people who came by Stradella Drive. And there was one guy who hung around all the time. He didn't fit in. He had great posture, press suits, dark sunglasses. Didn't say much. Was always there when the coke truck pulled up. It was too obvious, Ozzy thought. He's a narc. What if he's a narc? Why wasn't he more undercover? Look at him. He clearly was not one of them. Ozzy continued to hoover lines, Only he'd do it with one eye cocked to the side, never letting the sunglasses and suit out of his sight. His paranoia was validated on the day he heard sirens. Lapd. They were coming up the road fast. That polished narc with the great posture. He made them. He must have made the whole mansion. Ozzy knew he should have trusted his gut. So Ozzie went into Full panic mode. He grabbed the tiny vials and the baggies and dashed into one of the seven bathrooms. The vials and baggies were turned upside down. Powder and grass hit the porcelain. He slapped at the toilet handle and it all swirled away. He grabbed another handful of drugs and those followed. They started down and then there was a wet clunk and the toilet's guts and the murky coke, weed, water burbled back up. Ozzy had clogged the damn thing. Ozzy slapped at the handle some more, but the water in the bowl kept rising. He heard the sirens get louder. Any minute now, the cops would be banging on that front door. There were six more bathrooms. Ozzy lumbered out into the living room and found six unsuspecting roadies paralyzed with fear. He yelled at each of them to grab a handful of the stash, split up and work as a team. Pick a bathroom, find a working toilet, flush all of it. They all snapped to attention, took as much as they could in their arms and fled in opposite directions. There was still too much stash left over. Ozzy heard tires pull up outside, heard the slam of at least four car doors in quick succession. Shit, they were going to be cooked as soon as L. A. S finest walked in through the door. The cocaine had to go. If the cops caught them with this much blow, they'd never tour again. Ozzy made a split decision. Band members, crew member, groupie, friend of a friend of a friend. It didn't matter who you were. If you were in the room, you were now part of phase two. The cocaine had to disappear up their noses now. They all dropped to the knees. Sealed vials popped open. Piles of waffle dust hit the floor. Nose snorted, sucked, sniffled. Presto. And the blow was burning holes in all of their sinus cavities. When they realized the cops were only there simply to respond to an emergency call switch that had been tripped. The police didn't even make it through the door. The crazy train didn't slow down. And a few Years later, in 1978, Black Sabbath grew tired of Ozzy's antics. Which was nuts, because the whole band was just as engaged in the destructive, unholy trinity of sex, drugs and rock and roll. Tony, Bill and Geezer forced Ozzy out. Sabbath would continue on. But for the first time in almost a decade, Ozzy Osbourne was out on his own to fend for himself. When it came to the kind of trouble he could get into, the possibilities were endless. We'll be right back after this.
- [29:16]
Kristen Bell
Word, word, word.
- [29:18]
Unknown
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- [29:53]
Hi, I'm Kristen Bell, and if you know my husband Dax, then you also know he loves shopping for a car. Selling a car? Not so much.
- [30:00]
Jake Brennan
We're really doing this, huh?
- [30:01]
Unknown
Thankfully, Carvana makes it easy. Answer a few questions, put in your VIN or license, and done. We sold ours in minutes this morning and they'll come pick it up and pay us this afternoon.
- [30:12]
Co-host or Announcer
Goodbye, Truckee.
- [30:13]
Unknown
Of course, we kept the favorite.
- [30:17]
Jake Brennan
Hello other Truckee.
- [30:18]
Unknown
Sell your car with Carvana today. Terms and conditions apply.
- [30:24]
Kristen Bell
On WhatsApp. No one can see or hear your personal messages. Whether it's a voice call message or sending a password to WhatsApp, it's all just this. So whether you're sharing the streaming password in the family chat or trading those late night voice messages that could basically become a podcast, your personal messages stay between you, your friends and your family. No one else, not even us. WhatsApp message privately with Everyone.
- [30:56]
Jake Brennan
Randy Rhoades hated planes. They made him dizzy, nauseous, anxious. He was happiest with his feet firmly planted on the ground. He was grounded, just the kind of guy that he was. Randy was a lot of things that his boss, Ozzy Osbourne, clearly was not. Randy didn't drink or do drugs. His biggest vices were Coca Cola and cigarettes. He was a classically trained musician. He could read and write music. He didn't waste time between shows chasing skirt and snorting blow. He tutored kids who were just learning how to play. And he sure as shit wasn't a thrill seeker. So why did he get on that plane? And why did the tourist makeup and costume artist Rachel Youngblood join him? She had a heart condition and was just as likely to not get on an airplane as Randy was. All of these questions and more raced through Ozzy's head in March 1982. The horrific aftermath of the crash played over and over like a loop in his brain. But here he was, standing in a field in the middle of Leesburg, Florida. The tour bus nearly cut in half. The wreckage of a small plane smoldering and choking the sky with thick smoke. Part of a wing found its way to a house nearby which was on fire. Flame, smoke, chaos. And Rachel and Randy were dead. Randy Rhodes was one of two people that saved Ozzy life when it really needed saving. The first was Sharon. Sharon believed in Ozzy at a time when he didn't believe in himself. His first marriage was falling apart. His music career was on hold. Sharon believed in him enough to take him on as a client at her father Don Arden's management firm. She helped him reconstruct his identity after he'd been sacked by Sabbath. Sharon had the future locked in her gaze. She had a crystal ball. She would take Ozzy and make him bigger than he ever was. In Black Sabbath. Her gaze went so far into the future, she saw her life with Ozzy. He would leave his first wife and take Sharon as his bride. And with Sharon's guidance, solo Ozzy would dominate. Sharon introduced Ozzy to Randy. Ozzy thought Randy was so pretty that he had to ask point blank if he was a dude. Randy was used to it. At 22, he rocked impressively plumed long blonde hair. Played a flying V painted in polka dots. When he was still a teenager, he co founded Quiet Riot in Los Angeles. He was the prettiest guitar slinger on the Strip and he was immensely talented. All it took was Randy to warm up with rudimentary scales on his guitar. Ozzy wept. Randy was hired. Finally, Ozzy was weeping about something besides himself. He had spent the majority of a two month period feeling sorry for himself. In a room at Le Parc Hotel in West Hollywood, the Prince of Darkness went real dark. The booze and the coke were delivered around the clock. He came to expect knocks on the door. The sun from the outside world would brutally invade the room. And there stood a dealer bringing him the next round of coke. Or a groupie looking for a romp in the sack with a heavy metal hazband. One day a knock came on the door that sounded different than the rest. Ozzy couldn't tell if it was a Hescher with a bag of drugs or a horny coed. It was neither. It was Sharon, quick, sharp and to the point. She told Ozzy to get his shit together. With Sharon managing him and Randy playing blistering leads by his side, Ozzy Osbourne was unstoppable. His first solo record, 1980s Blizzard of Oz, was certified Gold League platinum. The year after that One of its singles, Crazy Train, peaked at number nine on the mainstream rock charts in the us Diary of a Madman followed the next year. It was another resounding success. Flying High Again, the leadoff single, went to number two on the US charts. It was just like Sharon had envisioned. Ozzy was on top. His reputation as a crazy performer was the tops too. His insane stage show included a mock execution, a catapult that flung raw meat at the audience, and the aforementioned occasional animal who was unknowingly beheaded. The newly formed PETA threw a fit about that last bit. So Ozzy assured them that the bat at least was already dead when he caught it. That beef was squashed decades later and now Ozzy is one of PETA's animal loving spokesmen, if you can believe that. And the Blizzard of Oz band tour. It melted faces and rendered Black Sabbath nearly irrelevant. Ozzy was the future. It was on that tour in March of 1982 that Randy confided in Ozzy. In the back of the bus. Randy told Ozzy he was tired of touring. He was ready to wrap it up, start a new chapter, maybe go to college. Randy wanted off Ozzy's Crazy Train sooner than later. Ozzy told Randy they'd talk about it another time. Poured himself another gin and tonic and then passed out. Ozzy awoke the next morning to the sound of metal on metal. The sound of a quick demonic screech, the sound of life going off the rails. And then he could feel the world rumbling around him from below. Something low and mean to counter what was up top. In his ears, a high pitched death squeal. Tinnitus on 10. There were flames. He could feel them. There was smoke. It was filling his nostrils. His first thought was that a house been dropped square onto his tour bus. His head was heavy, his eyes were bloodshot. The gin from the night before still coated his tongue. He smelled gasoline, smelled something burning, smelled death, destruction. Ozzy was dazed, hungover, panicked. It was like he was in a waking dream, some sort of post traumatic Sabbath stress apocalyptic vision come to life. He stumbled around the wreckage, found Sharon, found the other guys in the band. But no Randy, no Rachel. They were gone. What in the hell, Ozzy wondered, had just happened? Only later did he find out. The tourist bus driver, Andrew Acock, pulled a Casey Jones the night before. He was driving high on cocaine, so doped up to endure he would stay up all night to keep the tour rolling on to the next city. But the AC in the bus was on the fritz and Andrew stopped at a bus depot to see if he could get the cooler working. While half the tour slept off their highs. The bus depot in Leesburg also had an airstrip. And as a surprise to those who were awake, Andrew revealed he was a pilot. There was a Beechcraft Bonanza, a single engine, six seater plane parked at the depot and they were making good time. Andrew looked at the Beechcraft Bonanza and then back to Randy and Rachel who were stretching their legs outside. How about it? He asked. Want to get up high in the friendly skies? They'd go up and come back down in a flash and then they could get on with the tour. The Beechcraft Bonanza airplane has an infamous nickname, the Doctor Killer. It is referred to as such due to a high number of high profile crashes involving wealthy hobby flyers who underestimated the power of the small plane and after losing control of the aircraft, wound up dead. Andrew's impromptu flight would only add to the plane's reputation. They climbed into the Doctor Killer with Andrew at the wheel. They were airborne quickly, didn't ascend too high. Before too long, the plane looped back around, adjusted its course and began to descend straight for the idling bus. As soon as they got close, close enough to see through the windows at the sleeping tour crew inside, they knew they were in trouble. The Doctor Killer was coming in hot. Andrew pulled up on the yoke. The whole plane shook as it struggled to rise. The plane's wing dug into the top of the tour bus, bending the bus in half. The collision happened within the blink of an eye and the destruction was swift. Death from above. Did Andrew try to clip the bus as a joke? Just another prank pulled by a tour full of pranksters? Or was he just careless? Tired from driving, tired from being high? Icarus Underestimating the Doctor Killer, Andrew Acock died in the crash, along with Randy Rhodes and Rachel Youngblood. And took any answers down with him. To this day, no one knows what happened. Some think it was the result of a careless or wasted bus driver turned airplane pilot out on a lark. The deadliest of fuck ups. Ozzy was devastated. He had brought trouble to Randy, put him in the bus with Andrew, high on cocaine, put Randy in the crosshairs. It was almost too much to bear. Ozzy wasn't sure he could move on, but he had to try. Probably easiest just to forget it all, get it off his mind. Booze would help. So would pills and blow. He wouldn't remember much of anything, including why, years later, he'd wake up alone in a cold jail cell. The first thing Ozzy Osbourne saw The morning of September 3, 1989, was a puddle of his own droop on the floor there, right next to where his chin rested against the concrete. His eyes blinked open. His lids were thrown back by the rapid movement beneath them. So rapid, so forceful that his lids couldn't keep things under control anymore. They opened under extreme protest. Ozzy was thrust violently from a dream into this. This wasn't a dream. If it was a dream, it would be a nightmare. He was most definitely awake. Alive. He lifted his head, looked around. He was in a small, cramped jail cell. The floor was dirty, sticky, soiled. It smelled like piss and vomit, smelled like the raw meat catapult he used on stage after a show. And before they hosed it down, he heard a scream from a deep, gravelly voice bounce down the hallway. Heard the sound of something hard rapping against metal bars. The clang of doors ringing shut and clamoring open. What in the hell am I doing here? Ozzy thought to himself. It hurt his brain to ask himself a simple question. Like the devil himself had smacked him upside the head and left him to rot alone on a dank, sticky, piss stained floor. What had he done? Knocked someone's block off in a bar fight? Liberated the head off another winged mammal? Did he murder someone? He genuinely had no clue. His head pounded, his ears rang. He called out for help and the sound of his voice just echoed down the dark hallway. And the blackouts were still happening. It was one thing when Ozzy was the only one affected by his comatose detours. When it was just his life on the line. When he woke up on the median strip in Memphis, when he passed out cold on the tour bus. It took him a while to get to this point. Shortly after Randy's death, Ozzy had a breakdown. Once the IV drip of sedatives stabilized him, he went right back to the hard stuff. He and his first wife were finally divorced. He married Sharon. But even their courtship was rocky. Ozzy would go full Ozzy, drink too much, snort too much, sleep around too much. And Sharon would throw her engagement ring into the wind. And they went through over a dozen rings before they got hitched. Sharon had Ozzy check into the Betty Ford Clinic. As soon as he checked out, he was back on the hunt for trouble. He learned how to be sneaky. He hid vodka bottles in the oven. He installed outdoor lights in his garden. Not because he caught the bug to plant carrots and beans at all hours. The lights were there so he could find the bottles of booze he had buried in the vegetable beds when he went searching for them late at night. And then he tested positive for hiv. He didn't actually have hiv, but his immune system was so busted from all the alcohol and drugs that it thought he had the virus. The doctors had to run the tests a few times to make any sense of it. The lab had never seen results like these. Near fatal amounts of alcohol and cocaine in his bloodstream. Never mind his body thinking it had hiv. His body had no right to be functioning at that moment. Ozzy's body was blacking out on him just like his mind. Through it all, he remained a vital cog in the American heavy metal machine. Next to blistering albums by Metallica, Judas Priest and Slayer, his 1986 record, the Ultimate Sin was his highest selling to date. Its single, Shot in the Dark, was an instant metal classic. His next album, 1988's no Rest for the Wicked, peaked at number 13 on the Billboard 200. The 80s were big for Ozzy, but damned if he could remember any of it. Just like he couldn't remember why he had woken up in a puddle of his own spit in a jail cell on this foggy morning in September 1989. He couldn't remember the night before. Walking down the stairs in nothing but tighty whities, sitting next to Sharon on the couch. He couldn't remember telling her he had no choice but to kill her. To end her life right then and there in the moment. It was clear as day. Sharon was going to die. Ozzy was gonna kill her. And he knew what he had to do. Put his hands around her throat and squeeze. Was it the cocaine talking? Or the Hennessy? Maybe it was the gin or the pills. Could be the pills, but was it the uppers or the downers? There was no reason, no real reason anyway, to lash out at Sharon. It wasn't Ozzy talking. It was trouble. As usual, trouble was in control. And it took over. His body. Told Ozzy when to stand and how to stand. So then he stood up, straddled Sharon. Sharon screamed. And then Ozzy got his hands around her throat and suddenly she couldn't scream anymore as she struggled to bring her arms up to Ozzy's face. Her nails went right for his eyes. The weight of Ozzy's half naked body pressed down on his wife. He watched her fight for her breath, fight to toss him onto the floor. And then, just like that, he blacked out. Fully out. The next thing he knew, he was pleading with a prison guard to tell him why he was behind bars. The guard looked at him in disgust and ran it down. Simple. You're an you attempted to kill your wife. Attempted murder by strangulation. Ozzy had tried to kill Sharon. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. After 36 hours alone with his own thoughts, Ozzy was sent to court. The judge let him go on bail, but he had to agree to three ground rules. He couldn't talk to Sharon, he couldn't go home, and he had to go back to rehab immediately. He channeled Randy Rhodes while in rehab and cut his vices back to smokes and Coca Cola. After a few months, Sharon paid him a visit to let him know that she was dropping the charges. She knew that wasn't Ozzy who had attacked her. It was something, somewhere, one truly different. Something truly dark. Something that had taken over. It was trouble. Wasn't Ozzy Osbourne. Just like she had seen the promise in Ozzy almost a decade prior, holed up in a hotel room with the shades drawn, she saw it again here in rehab. She would stick it out with him. But he'd have to make more music. With Sharon at the helm, managing his career, Ozzy would have to keep making great music. Sharon wasn't playing. Sharon Osbourne was all business music and the influence of a strong woman. His wife, his manager. The combination had saved his life before, and it would save his life again. Ozzy Osbourne climbed back on top. No more tears, Mama. I'm coming home. Ozzfest. With Sharon Osbourne and the music guiding him, Ozzy Osbourne would never again let trouble lead him all the way astray, lead him to total disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Dis.
- [47:24]
Co-host or Announcer
Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis.
- [47:29]
Jake Brennan
Credits for this episode can be found.
- [47:31]
Co-host or Announcer
On the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening. As a Disgraceland All Access member, thank.
- [47:38]
Jake Brennan
You for supporting the show.
- [47:39]
Co-host or Announcer
We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland and ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rockarola He's a bad, bad man.