Like a bat out of hell—or more accurately, like a weary traveler stumbling home after five decades of rock'n'roll debauchery—Ozzy Osbourne prepares to take his final bow. The 76-year-old icon, whose voice once shredded eardrums like a chainsaw through velvet, will reunite with Black Sabbath this July at Birmingham's Villa Park. Not for a marathon set, mind you, but for what he swears is his last performance: a victory lap punctuated by orthopedic chairs and lingering ghosts of his riotous past.
Picture this: the man who snorted ants off sidewalks and allegedly bit heads off winged creatures now dreams of tending to rescue dogs in Buckinghamshire. "I don't wanna die in a hotel room," growls the self-proclaimed "Godfather of Metal," his words dripping with the gravitas of a man who's cheated death more times than his own liver probably remembers. Wife and manager Sharon—equal parts drill sergeant and doting caretaker—confirms their Californian palace (complete with 11 bathrooms) is being traded for a reportedly haunted 17th-century English manor. Irony isn't lost when the Prince of Darkness flees sunshine for a house once used as an asylum.
Decades of parkinson's disease and spinal surgeries have left Ozzy wheelchair-bound, but his vocal cords remain untouched by time's cruelty. Recent recordings prove he can still snarl like a feral cat trapped in a cathedral—a minor miracle considering his vertebrae are held together by what might as well be spare parts from a Meccano set. For the farewell show, he'll reportedly hover above the stage on a throne, because if you're going out, you might as well do it levitating.
The man who once mistook a dove for chewing tobacco now spends days watching reality TV with grandkids. "I'm practically dead already," he quips, though his recent studio work suggests otherwise. This is Ozzy's true final act: not the explosive self-destruction we expected, but a slow, stubborn fade—with just enough pyro to keep things interesting.
