Lamentations of the Flame Princess Presents
False Metal:
The Financial and Farcical Return of Heavy Metal
A pdf version of this article is available for download here.
Discuss False Metal on the LotFP message board!
Nobody will ever let you know,
When you ask the reasons why.
They just tell you that you're on your own,
Fill your head all full of lies.
You bastards!
Black Sabbath "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath"
In October 1999, as the wrangling for votes that would induct honorees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was beginning, Ozzy Osbourne denounced the Hall and its gatekeepers:
Just take our name off the list. Save the ink. Forget about us. The nomination is meaningless, because it's not voted on by the fans. It's voted on by the "supposed" elite of the industry and the media, who've never bought an album or concert ticket in their lives, so their vote is totally irrelevant to me. Let's face it, Black Sabbath have never been media darlings. We're a people's band and that suits us just fine.
Black Sabbath, the creators of the sound known as heavy metal, had been passed over by the Hall's foundation three times, and Osbourne took it upon himself to speak out against the institution which continued to ignore his band's place in history. The press release from the Osbourne camp was met with mocking disbelief from music journalists who regarded the attack on the "elite of the industry and the media" as nothing more than empty posturing designed to attract the attention of voters. Joal Ryan of E! online equated the use of the term "elite" with conspiracy theory by sardonically claiming the Hall was "acting on orders from the Trilateral Commission" and presented the tirade as a tired tactic musicians used to comfort themselves when dismissed by the critics:
Osbourne argues that he and his "War Pigs" comrades deserve recognition by virtue of being one of the top-selling acts of the hard-rock genre. And when all else fails, the rocker is comfortable selling the ol' well-our-fans-still-love-us line.
Other writers also thought Osbourne was protesting the snubbing of Black Sabbath because induction into the Hall was too significant of an honor to be ignored, but were offended that anyone would dare attack the "elite" of the music industry.
Glen Gamboa of the Akron Beacon Journal was convinced Osbourne's statement was a "joke" and responded to the sentiments of Sabbath's frontman with a backhanded blend of seriousness and sarcasm. Osbourne could not have been sincere, Gamboa maintained, because waiting four years to withdraw his band's name from consideration in such an adversarial manner would be the "petty" and "whiny" behavior of a "doddering, clueless has-been lashing out like a pre-schooler denied his dessert." And although this could not have possibly been the singer's "intent," making the tantrum a high-profile prank on everyone, Gamboa made sure to let him know that reviling the members of the press as "irrelevant" was utterly ridiculous due to the fact that "the great Ozzy Osbourne" always made it a point to "court them when you release new albums or roll through their town on tours with Black Sabbath or Ozzfest."
Despite his snide tone and self-important crowing, Gamboa was on solid ground when he pointed out that Osbourne's effort to distance himself from the music industry was a bit disingenuous. Ozzfest in 1999 was not a "heavy metal summer camp" but a carnival of corporate consumerism sponsored by companies such as Best Buy, promoted by Clear Channel Communications, and broken down into audience demographics by VPs of marketing. In fact, the ties between the elite and the Osbournes grew stronger in the years after Ozzy took them to task when the family became the subject of a reality show which spawned a whole line of merchandise (action figures, lunch boxes, clothes and many other items) and generated cross-marketing opportunities in Pepsi Twist commercials. All of these activities rooted in the corporate culture of the modern music industry not only vindicated Gamboa to a certain degree, but also led insiders to deem Osbourne a "brand" cleverly manipulated by his wife Sharon, who was celebrated as a "master marketing mogul" for her skillful financial maneuvers. Of course, the music journalists who questioned the reasoning behind Osbourne's comments in 1999 had the last laugh when Black Sabbath was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2006, prompting Ozzy to admit "what [he] did was wrong" and tell reporters he was "honored to be in."
The insiders tapped by Billboard for comments and the music critics appalled at Osbourne's outburst, however, made no attempt to understand why he would issue such a broadside against the elites within the industry or if Black Sabbath had always been just another brand name to tack onto a festival bill. This tunnel vision is endemic in modern music journalism, where the next top hit, next big thing and next hot trend consumes all the energy and efforts of individuals who aspire to be tastemakers instead of reporters. To the present-minded press, the past is a dead and static country to visit on occasion in order to bring back souvenirs for easy consumption without messy issues of change or continuity hindering the process of appropriation. In this cultural milieu, Osbourne's denigration of the Hall is merely a curious episode that cannot contain any deeper meaning or significance, because any mode of analysis requiring serious contemplation of the relation of the past to the present is a waste of precious time which could be devoted to the latest product line being unveiled by the industry.
But if we take the time to stop and listen to the voices of a young Black Sabbath during a moment when the band was only on the verge of becoming jaded beyond their years, Gamboa's characterization of Ozzy as a senile "pre-schooler" is proved to be a smug and superficial ironic portrait that does not take into account anything beyond the narcissistic needs of the writer. There was once an Osbourne worried about losing his identity in the funhouse-mirror world of the high-stakes music industry who declared: "I don't wanta be OZZY OSBOURNE, I just wanta be me, like you are you, and live an ordinary life." And this long-buried contrarian impulse in a world of "stars" and "spectacles" was what caused Osbourne to attack the Hall and the industry machine grinding behind its walls with the strong resolve of an old warrior whose dim and almost forgotten fighting spirit is rekindled for a brief moment on a crisp and clear autumn day.
When Black Sabbath exploded on American shores in the early 1970s, the music industry did not embrace or champion the band and thought the lads from Birmingham were an inexplicable pathological phenomenon that needed to be tolerated due to the money rolling in from albums and concerts. Warner Brothers executives thought the loud music was "painful," fleeing concert halls when the band played, while reporters from Rolling Stone portrayed the crowds at shows as morbid mobs desensitized to what was going around them as the "inescapable racket" created a hellish inferno that resembled a "concentration camp" or a "scene from a nightmare." The metaphors and literary flights of fancy may have differed depending on the bent of a particular observer, but the success and sound of the band made everyone "uncomfortable" because of their outsider status. Black Sabbath was not willing to engage in the standard industry hype, and when Warner Brothers attempted to bill them as being "LOUDER THAN LED ZEPPELIN" to inflate the band's stature, Osbourne and his mates put a stop to the promotional shenanigans: "They had to drop that fairly soon, because we told them not to fuck around."
In fact, fucking around was one of the farthest things from Osbourne's mind, and crafting vapid hits for an industry that wanted to put a thoughtless smile on the faces of listeners was not an option:
The day of writing bullshit songs is over, as far as I am concerned. Why breed people to believe, like fight because America loves you or England loves you, that's all bullshit propaganda. The last guy who was a heavy dude with that was Hitler, and look what he did for the world. Why not just give people truth for a change, instead of just hyping 'em to believe what you want 'em to believe.
Geezer Butler was also in no mood to espouse fluffy sentiments in a "satanic world" where "the higher you climb, the more people you have to cut down" and wanted to touch the soul of individuals with his lyrics:
People don't live a spiritual life, they only live for the now, the devil rules them. That's what my poems are about, things that are happening now. War and paranoia, death and hate. It gets people to thinking about what's going on.
These were not anthems for "loose and easy-going" days, and Thomas Popson, a Chicago Tribune critic, spoke for many when he claimed Sabbath songs sounded "grating and unpleasant and seem to hold out little more than the prospect of a nasty headache" when you were in a good mood.
Black Sabbath could not have cared less, since the nascent cult of the rock superstar that became a religion during the mid-1970s was something the band was not interested in during this period. For example, Osbourne viewed the success of the band as a process of exploitation that sapped some of the spontaneity out of life by turning it into a cash concern instead of a commercial triumph:
It used to be anything goes and we'd have fun. But now it's more of a business….We'd finish playing-we did five sets a night then-and we'd go out on the town and tear the place apart. We could have parties then, but we can't do that anymore. We have to get up early and fly somewhere to do a concert the next day. It's more a money thing now. I'm going to make as much money as I can then shoot myself.
The threat to commit suicide made by Osbourne could be framed as the petulant and self-centered declaration of a star under stress, but the flippant act of self-negation was actually an indication of how deep the disgust for the industry ran as Black Sabbath was becoming slowly ensnared in its bland and base world of commerce at any cost. For, at this point, the future was not written yet, and Osbourne could still envision a simple existence free from the hustle and bustle of fame and riches: "Now I'm a bit financially secure, I've bought my own house, I've got my own wife and two kids and that's all I want. I mean, I'm just an ordinary guy making music."
And it was this authentic and true identity expressed through rambling interviews in which they denounced bullshit and called for the truth, as well as songs highlighting the hypocrisy of the authorities, that endeared Black Sabbath to their listeners, making Osbourne's claim of being a "people's band" an accurate assessment. Modern day writers and critics, however, are so far removed from the mass of listeners by being immersed so deeply in the innards of the industry that the tribute to Sabbath's supporters was not worthy of comment. There is plenty of evidence a detractor could trot out to prove that the crowds attending Ozzfest are considered consumers first and foremost by the organizers, bands and sponsors, but, as was the case with the accusation of elitism, Osbourne was drawing on an ideal that had once been a reality. Lester Bangs, the only American journalist to fully embrace the band, recognized that the profound reactions Black Sabbath stirred in its fans were possible because of their ability to honestly reflect life "on terms meaningful to vast portions of the audience." Robin Green of Rolling Stone, on the other hand, strolled through a Sabbath crowd, interviewed a cross-section of subjects and recorded impressions that resemble an early-70s print version of Heavy Metal Parking Lot. Most concertgoers, Green insisted, "were unable to explain why they liked Black Sabbath" and could only come up with feverish one-word responses such as "creepy," "eerie," "strange," "freaky," or outlandish reasons like the one offered by a giddy young girl: "I'm scared of them. I like to be scared. I hope they sacrifice something tonight. A human sacrifice would be good."
Despite Green concluding that not one member of the audience could communicate to someone why they were at Rhode Island Arena, one girl provided an answer that spoke volumes Green was unable to hear: "Nobody built them up. We heard their music before we heard about them. It's like we discovered them ourselves." How could this be? Albums were flying off store shelves at a rapid clip, large venues were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people and Black Sabbath was a name with a great deal of credibility on numerous streets, drawing in young Italian Americans who thought the band was "different" and black teenagers who had heard they were "bad" from friends. Warner Brothers executives were clueless as to what was transpiring and could shed no light on the subject. One label insider had the demographics handy, but could not understand the success: "They play to a young crowd, say 14-17 years old, but who knows how they hear about them? The word just gets around that this is a group to go see." Another was able to see the money falling into Warner's coffers, yet could not account for the band's appeal: "It's really incredible. They're not like our other performers, and we don't understand their popularity, no one can figure it out. They haven't had that much publicity, but their concerts sell out and their albums sell millions." The answer was simple, but beyond the ken of the elites whose vision was narrowed by industry projections. Black Sabbath was a word-of-mouth, underground phenomenon whose honesty and integrity was well-known among the youths cranking Paranoid on stereos and witnessing "War Pigs" live. Saddled with the derogatory term "downer rock," denied column inches of effusive praise in the press and demonized by authorities worried about the abrasiveness of "heavy metal," Black Sabbath was something that existed outside of the normal promotional channels packaging sterile products for consumption, and the youths of the early '70s being slowly hemmed in by an vapid culture championed the band as their own because the lack of "bullshit" surrounding Sabbath was a radiant beacon in a soulless landscape.
The countercultural, subversive and radical impulses of the 1960s were withering away in 1971, and a tour of Long Island by a reporter from The New York Times uncovered an army of bored youths gasping for air in stagnant and sterile suburbs. Public transportation was not available, so teens could not range too far away from home; movie theaters were enforcing the recently enacted ratings system, so sappy, safe films was the only entertainment available; and politicians were not forthcoming with funds to establish recreation centers, so there was no space where young people could blow off some steam. These were problems bureaucrats were not concerned about remedying, because of the potential consequences of the young assembling, and fears of what could happen moved one youth agency official to ask cautionary questions:
Is it a good idea to let the kids get together, to rap, possibly to discuss ways of overthrowing the established system? Or by bringing them together, are you guilty of kicking off something?
Intentionally kept apart by the powers-that-be and inhabiting a wasteland of multi-lane highways, gas stations and monolithic brick buildings, the "kids" hung out in parking lots talking about how miserable they were, shuffled through malls like zombies as metabolism manipulating Muzak filled the air, or gathered in gangs to slash at one another with switchblades in a futile attempt to beat back the monotony.
Black Sabbath not only blasted away the boredom with their instruments but also mounted a visible assault on the forces conspiring to keep teenagers in their place. Everywhere young people gathered, they did so under the watchful eye of the police who poked and prodded them to move along at any sign of life-and a concert was no exception to the rule. When Black Sabbath rolled into Rhode Island, 72 cops were there to make sure that the audience did not become disorderly. However, as the primeval heavy metal began to flow out in molten waves from the stage, the "pigs," as some of the "kids" called the officers of the law, were herded into the back of the arena where they sought shelter from the sound. Green calmly captured the moment in prose, but the sight must have filled the heart of every person in the audience ever harassed by the police with joy:
They winced at the loudness of the music and looked mystified. One cop shook his head sadly, another held his ears. One laughed and held his nose. Between songs one cop said, "They're the worst one yet. Too loud. No class."
This was no normal band, and the reaction it produced in the people who took the time to stop and really listen was not normal either. When their sound pierced the soul-sapping rhythms of suburban life, Black Sabbath was a revelation, and the truth-telling power of their music had a profound effect on the young and thwarted the attempts of the authorities to make them conform. This was more than apparent back on Long Island at the Rock Pile, where a solitary teen had managed to escape the clutches of the law and boredom by forging an identification card to see what the Times reporter mistakenly called "The Black Sabbath." The plucky young man also had an answer ready when the journalist asked the law-breaker why he was there: "Everywhere else there's plastic people. You know what I mean? You say something and they'll just bend." In this straightforward comment, an anonymous teen lost forever to history summed up the magic behind the ability of Sabbath to become a wildly popular band without benefiting from the promotional merry-go-round. Black Sabbath was something true and honest in a land of lies and half-truths, and once someone heard an album or song-the word was spread with an evangelical fervor to everyone within shouting distance.
Truth and authenticity were foundational components of heavy metal, but it would take nearly a decade for the genre to become a unique form of expression within the musical world. Although the mainstream industry treated Black Sabbath as a leper it had to welcome into its yard every now and again, heavy metal was a term journalists and executives were more than willing to apply to anything and everything. The Velvet Underground, the New York Dolls and Boston all became heavy metal bands, and some writers could even go so far as to expect Joe Walsh to bring a "dash of heavy metal to the Eagles" as the phrase became a gimmick devoid of any meaning beyond selling the sound at hand. Yet the original taint attached to the genre Sabbath founded remained, and musicians went out of their way to distance themselves from the words:
I feel weird because a lot of people conceive of me as a typical heavy metal rocker. But I'm not. Yes, I can hard rock with the best of them, but I like to do other things too.
Ronnie Montrose's effort to prove that he was not "a typical heavy metal rocker" also speaks to the fact that there was no difference between hard rock and heavy metal in many minds during the 1970s. In a meticulous 1976 assessment of the variety, vitality and venerability of rock 'n' roll in the Chicago Tribune, for example, Lynn Van Matre characterized rock as another term for pop that encompassed "soul rock, folk rock, Latin rock and heavy metal rock" among others. Hard rock or heavy metal rock, it made little or no difference, and bands with tenuous connections to the thunderous and adventurous approach of Sabbath were deemed to be heavy metal, creating a catchall category that was as flexible as it was flaccid.