20 Black Sabbath & Ozzy Osbourne Solo Classics

This heart-rending duet is both a strange song and a totally logical one to endure as Osbourne’s biggest Billboard Hot 100 chart hit. It’s not the first song any metalhead would plug into the bar jukebox or vote for on the local rock station’s all-time Memorial Day countdown, but it remains a haunting love song with enough edge to avoid falling into power-ballad pap — Lita Ford still thinks it’s badass, and who are you to question Lita Ford? — while also demonstrating that though Ozzy would forever be synonymous with freaking out middle America, he also had the juice as a pop star. — ANDREW UNTERBERGER

This poignant duet with Elton John is a late-period meditation on rock-star mortality, delivered by a pair of legends from different ends of the pop spectrum (and with Watt, the new-school producer who’s got a knack for conjuring out the best in rock veterans, helping to corral their voices together). Hearing Ozzy sing a line like “I’ve made mama cry, don’t know why I’m still alive/ Yes, the truth is, I don’t wanna die an ordinary man” is especially heavy in the aftermath of his passing, but the self-awareness of “Ordinary Man” sounded heartfelt upon its release as well. — JASON LIPSHUTZ

“Children of the Grave” stands out as a rallying cry for change. Blending ominous, driving riffs with socially conscious lyrics, tony Iommi’s thick, down-tuned power chords pairs with Geezer Butler’s relentless bass lines and Bill Ward’s tribal-style drumming to create a dark and hypnotic groove. Meanwhile, Ozzy Osbourne’s haunting vocals deliver a message of hope in the face of chaos. At a time when young people were grappling with the uncertainties of the Vietnam War and societal turmoil, “Children of the Grave” urged the next generation to rise up, reject apathy and fight for a better world — a striking call to arms disguised as apocalyptic doom. — ISABELA RAYGOZA

The opening track to Osbourne’s second solo album picks up with no time to waste, launching immediately into a rapid-fire drum fill and a Randy Rhoads riff that sounds like it’s pissed off at having previously been interrupted mid-chug. “I heard them tell me that this land of dreams was now/ I told them I had ridden shooting stars and said I’d show them how,” Ozzy proclaims on the refrain, positively stunting on any haters who thought he couldn’t keep up the momentum of his blistering solo debut. — A.U.

You can practically see the white surrounding the fuzzy guitar riff and the hazy symbol crashes. Of course, it’s not precipitation that’s f–king with Ozzy’s perception in this one — after he details the “icicles within my brain” in the opening verse, a voice helpfully whispers “Cocaiiiiine…” for anyone who doesn’t already get it. But for however lost Osbourne feels within his own self-induced storm, the impact of the song’s narcotic groove is undoubtedly purposeful, giving an uncomfortably alluring edge to his “Don’t you think I know what I’m doing?” protestations. — A.U.

Perhaps the most impactful use of harmonica in metal history — from Ozzy himself, who honks on that thing with all the swagger and insidiousness as any of his six-string sideman have ever managed. The rest of the band comes correct too on one of their funkiest and hardest-hitting early shuffles, but it’s Ozzy’s blowing that makes “The Wizard” indelible in Sabbath’s catalog, and which decades later caused it to be revived via sample by artists as wide-ranging as Cypress Hill and Enigma. — A.U.

The song that got Ozzy in more trouble than all the others, when it was used as the basis for a lawsuit against Osbourne and his label following the death by suicide of 19-year-old John Daniel McCollum. The suit was obviously ridiculous — the “Solution” presented by the song is an obviously sardonic one of slowly poisoning yourself with alcohol, which it makes sound appropriately hellish — and the unnerving-but-intoxicating song has outlived its legal associations, even earning a spot in Ozzy’s Back to the Beginning farewell set. — A.U.

If you’re thinking about suicide, or are worried about a friend or loved one, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, available 24 hours, at 1-800-273-8255.

Osbourne waits until the third verse of “N.I.B.” to reveal that he’s singing from the point of view of Lucifer, trying to suck away the soul of his subject through promises of a new life and infinite (read: evil) love — and to that end, the Black Sabbath classic hypnotizes the listener with a blistering guitar line, funked-up bass and a vocal take that turns howling at the exact right moments. “N.I.B.” might not be the most iconic song from Black Sabbath’s 1970 self-titled debut album, but it perhaps best foreshadowed the band’s sonic range in the years to come. — J. Lipshutz

It’s widely understood that Osbourne didn’t really like this song, which nonetheless met the moment by fusing his traditional metal with the L.A. glam rock popular in 1986, the year the song and the album from whence it came, The Ultimate Sin, came out. While the stadium rock anthem would be noticeably left off of Osbourne’s later compilations, it remains a fan favorite and finds Osbourne leaning into a hookier and more melodic vocal delivery than on previous work, while the whole thing builds into a face-melting and very ’80s guitar solo from Jake E. Lee. Forecasting his crossover radio hits of the late ’80s and early ’90s, “Shot In the Dark” was Osbourne’s first solo to hit the Hot 100, where it spent nine weeks in the spring of 1986, peaking at No. 68. — KATIE BAIN

Starting with a Don Airey keyboard solo that gives new meaning to the word “funereal” and ending with a Randy Rhoads guitar liftoff routinely rated as one of the great solos in rock history, “Mr. Crowley” is as singular an anthem as exists in the Ozzverse. In between those towering twin solo showcases, though, Osbourne ensures the song remains his first and foremost with an acidic ode to his Prince of Darkness predecessor, occultist Aleister Crowley, including such delectably only-Ozzy lyrical turns as “Mr. Charming/ Did you think you were pure?/ Mr. Alarming/ In nocturnal rapport.” — A.U.

After all but inventing metal with its first two albums, Black Sabbath laid the seed for stoner rock on this 1971 highlight from junior LP Master of Reality. Opening with a looped cough from Tony Iommi ripping a joint, “Sweet Leaf” is heavy enough to headbang to but sludgy enough that the most stoned-out listeners can keep up, it makes sense that the band recorded this one in the same state of blissed out buzz Osbourne is wailing about in a tone that’s endearingly earnest, cheeky and hypnotically habit-forming.  — JOE LYNCH

The ’90s saw the dawn of soft-focused Ozzy in the form of his ’91 album No More Tears. And nowhere were the feelings more heart on sleeve than the album’s second single “Mama, I’m Coming Home,” which is of course not about Osbourne’s actual mother but his wife Sharon. Balancing soaring power balladry with Zeppelin III-style pastoral delicacy, the song was written in a few hours alongside Lemmy from Motörhead and remains Osbourne’s highest-charting solo single, spending 17 weeks on the Hot 100 and peaking at No. 28. A watershed moment in introducing the rocker to younger audiences via MTV, the song remained a staple in Osbourne’s live shows for decades. — K.B.

Few songs in the Ozzy Osbourne catalog blended the heavy with the melodic as well as “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath,” which inverted the rock formula with crashing verses of ripping guitar and doomsday drums giving way to a soft acoustic chorus — one pretty enough to be the foundation for a later cover from Swedish pop-rockers The Cardigans. But of course, both verse and chorus turn out to be mere prelude for the crunching climax, as rumbling a musical threat as the band ever produced, with Ozzy howling over tectonic guitars, “Sabbath bloody sabbath!/ Nothing more to do/ Living just for dying!/ Dying just for you.” — A.U.

Not all critics liked this song’s bridge, which takes over at the halfway point of the seven-and-a-half minute epic. F–k ’em. Weaving synths, strings, piano and sensibilities spanning prog rock, grunge, orchestral and just a little Phantom of the Opera, this section ultimately breaks open like a hard rock sunrise, setting the stage for Zakk Wylde’s staggering solo, arguably one of the greatest of all time. Osbourne himself said he considered this title track from his 1991 album “a gift from god.” Maybe now he’s getting the chance to personally say thanks for it. — K.B.

A frantic declaration of existential unrest, 1970’s “Paranoid” launched Black Sabbath to the forefront of heavy metal, while offering a darker, grittier counterpoint to the optimism of the hippie movement. The song’s razor-sharp riffs and relentless rhythms drive the song’s lean, no-frills urgency, while the prowling bass and Ozzy Osbourne’s pleading vocals capture the isolation and anxiety of its time: “Can you help me occupy my brain?,” Ozzy shouts menacingly. Written during an era of cultural turbulence, “Paranoid” peaked at No. 61 on the Hot 100, and became a generational anthem for alienation and disillusionment. Its enduring appeal is evident in countless movies, like Dazed and Confused, Almost Famous, and Suicide Squad, and the song remains a streaming perennial, having amassed well over a billion plays on Spotify. — I.R.

The title track from Osbourne’s 1983 album gave fans a narrative ripper about a murdered man who returns to terrorize his tormenters, to match an eternal Jake E. Lee solo that continues to torment guitar heroes (and Guitar Heroes) to this day. But perhaps just as importantly, “Bark at the Moon” soundtracked the Prince of Darkness’s first foray into music videos. Ozzy plays the perfect mad scientist, drinking a potion that turns him into a fanged, werewolf-like creature who cannot be restrained — neither by straitjacket nor casket. For a man whose theatrics predated the MTV era, Ozzy’s highly anticipated visual contribution delivered, with a scorching guitar and haunting tale to match. — CHRISTINE WERTHMAN

Perhaps taking a cue from Bo Diddley (who carved new lanes for rock with the 1955 song “Bo Diddley” from his self-titled album Bo Diddley), Black Sabbath’s title track from their eponymous album is a startlingly coherent, fully-formed introduction to a band that sounded nothing like anything that came before it. Sure, some psych and blues bands had gotten heavy and dismal, but this was death, decay and despair distilled into six soul-crumbling minutes. Even with a different vocalist, a song like this would have shaken audiences to their core, but it took Ozzy’s once-in-a-generation tone, timbre and theatricality to make a song this funerary and frightening fun – that is, if you don’t mind music that sounds like a slow, inescapable descent into hell. Taking us from Satanic scene-setting (“What is this that stands before me/ Figure in black that points at me?”) to a ragged plea for his soul (“Oh please, God help me!”), Ozzy sounds like an ill-fated Edgar Allan Poe come to life – and then, just as quickly, snuffed out. — J. Lynch

A monolithic sci-fi tale of betrayal and revenge, “Iron Man” stands as one of Black Sabbath’s most enduring and influential creations, pairing dystopian storytelling with trademark sonic thunder. With its thunderous riff — one of the most iconic in rock history — the song builds a relentless march of crushing power and eerie tension. The rumbling bass and pounding drums amplify the track’s sense of unstoppable fury, while Ozzy Osbourne’s distorted vocals recount the story of a time-traveling figure turned vengeful destroyer: “Heavy boots of lead / Fills his victims full of dread.” As a crossover success, it peaked at No. 52 on the Hot 100 in 1972 — the band’s highest-charting single — and solidified its place not only as a genre-defining anthem but also as a cultural touchstone. Over five decades later, “Iron Man” remains a metal masterpiece, a relentless sonic march still capable of shaking the walls. — I.R.

“ALL ABOOOOOOOOARD!” roars Ozzy, cackling maniacally like a deranged conductor on a one-way train to hell, on his debut solo single from 1980. The beyond-iconic guitar riff grinds so hard you can see the sparks, and though Osbourne matches the energy, he restrains himself enough to let the lyrics about the insanity of the Cold War shine through. “Crazy, but that’s how it goes/ Millions of people living as foes,” he reflects. Though the song was intended to speak to that particular era, the sentiment remains timeless as the world continues to cycle through chaos. Yet in the midst of the mayhem, even Ozzy finds a moment to feel hopeful: “Maybe it’s not too late/ To learn how to love and forget how to hate.” — C.W.

If you can forgive rhyming “masses” with “masses,” “War Pigs” is possibly the greatest metal song of all time – and maybe the best anti-war tune of all time, too. Power, propaganda, politics, sorcery, religion, morality, murder – the first song on Black Sabbath’s magnum opus, Paranoid, covers a lot of ground, and without short-selling the tight drumming of Bill Ward, the razor-sharp guitar work of Tony Iommi and the foundational bass of Geezer Butler, Ozzy Osbourne is the haunted, beating heart of “War Pigs.”

For a song that’s been covered as many times as this one — no easy assignment to begin with, given the instrumental intricacy of its eight-minute runtime — it’s impossible to imagine any other vocalist conveying the anger, confusion and frustrating impotence felt by those who watch the churning of the war machine from afar with no way to stop it. For a not insignificant number of people who dealt death before, during and after Sabbath released this song in early 1970, the final verse ought to remain as chilling as it is relevant: “Day of Judgment, God is calling / On their knees, the war pigs crawling / Begging mercies for their sins / Satan, laughing, spreads his wings.” — J. Lynch