Music After

Andrew R. Duckworth

Regardless of the reverence I have for the visual arts and the written word (which figures in greatly to the next form), I will always maintain that music is the greatest of all art forms. It is capable of conveying a full narrative with sound, it is capable of conveying some of the most painful experiences in the most pleasant ways imaginable, and the range of genres and sound is so broad its difficult to comprehend. Defining it is also a bit of a puzzle. Nature produces it, people produce it, etc.

Yesterday, July 22, 2025, a great musician passed on. As he was for many, Ozzy Osbourne’s and Black Sabbath’s music was, for me, a loud and joyful escape. If I was having an off day, I could count on some metal to bring me back. And then the rough, but somewhat expected news: Ozzy Osbourne passed away at the age of 76 after a struggle with Parkinson’s disease.

I was lucky enough to attend one of his concerts in Memphis, TN in the early 2000s. It was an experience I will hold onto for as long as memory permits. When you’re young, you expect these larger than life figures to keep going, to never die. Reality hits hard later.

What I’ve often found amazing about music is how it suddenly changes when the artist passes away, at least from my experience. It never has the same effect if an artist passes long before hearing their music. But something changes when you’ve heard their music and the artist passes. The music becomes haunting, a recorded voice from beyond. In some ways, it makes me wonder if it is something that I shouldn’t be listening to, as if I’m somehow cheating something beyond myself by hearing a voice I no longer should. Of course, this is never the case with artists that died previous to me listening to their music. I never had this experience with John Denver, The Big Bopper, Frank Sinatra (who I had listened to plenty before his passing, but, sadly, thought he had passed long before I ever heard them), Sammy Davis Jr., Freddie Mercury, etc.

The first time this feeling swept over me was with Michael Jackson. It was as if there was suddenly something sacred about the music I had been listening to, and to listen to it would somehow be some form of sacrilege by keeping a voice bound to this Earth. And then again with George Michael. And with Tony Bennett. The feeling simply doesn’t make much sense. After all, if I just read the words on paper, I doubt the feeling would sweep me as it does. But to hear the voice—there is the difference. Perhaps subconsciously it makes me somehow somewhat more aware of my own mortality. Musicians aren’t the only ones who pass on. We will all make that journey at some point.

Regardless of this feeling, I have watched Ozzy’s final performance of “Mama, I’m Coming Home” several times now. I’ve seen the weeping faces in the crowd. I’ve seen the tears welling up in Ozzy’s eyes. It is one of the saddest, yet most moving performances I’ve ever seen, something that shows what dedication the man had (for reference, the final performance occurred just a little over two weeks before his passing. I’ve heard that in order to ensure the best vocal performance he stopped taking his medication). In short, he put his fans before himself.

After news of his passing spread, tributes came pouring in from practically the entire music world. They were stories of inspiration, stories of memories, stories that change what you know or think you know about an individual. Plenty of stories mentioned Ozzy giving a chance to other up and coming artists who might have been lost to obscurity otherwise. Some credited him as the reason they kept going when they faced their own moments of darkness. Some told sweet stories elevating the man’s character. One thing was for sure: Ozzy Osbourne had a much bigger impact than I had ever given him credit for, even after being a fan for decades.