The Ozzman Cometh and Goeth

November 15, 2007 at 1:44 pm (The Easy Chair)

“I can’t fucking hear you!”

Funny, Ozzy. I was thinking the same thing! I remember when my ears would ring after a concert.

As regular readers know, I went to the Ozzy Osbourne show last night. I want to rave wildly, but just can’t muster up the conviction. Out of five stars, I would give it three. Why?

First off, I started feeling ill a couple of hours before the show. Nothing serious, just nauseous. I’ve battled the urge to puke at shows before, but that was usually induced by ingesting copious amounts of alcohol. Since I’d consumed nary a drop, I couldn’t blame that. Must be the bug that everyone else in my house has been battling.

On the way to the show, I stopped off downtown. There were limos all over. I saw the tour bus leave for the venue. The Osbournes were staying at one of the dog-friendly hotels downtown, and bloggers reported seeing Sharon O. wandering Broadway. I saw Jack Osbourne the other night, or his doppelganger. I’m pretty sure it was him. That’s a mug you recognize!

I took a bus up the back way to the Rose Garden. Cops were busting dope-smokers and open-container types. KUFO had a massive presence near the door, but I didn’t recognize any of them. Security gave me a pretty good once-over, finding nothing that interested them. (Ahem!) I got to the turnstile, and was told to go to will call. My ticket had been upgraded!

WTF?

I wandered over to the ticket window, where a young lady met me with a smile. “We’ve closed the 300 level. You get to sit lower!” She handed me a ticket. Section 221.

I’ve sat in Section 221. Unacceptable!

“Miss,” I said, “These seats are clear across the arena, behind the sound board. I specifically bought tickets to the side of the stage, up close so I could have a view. Is this my only option? If so, I want a refund.”

She looked through the other stacks of tickets, all 221. “Just a moment.” She spoke to her supervisor, then moved me over to her. The supervisor pulled out a list, and asked me, “Is it just you?”

“Yes.” I no longer feel like a loser,  going solo to a big concert. At these ticket prices, I’m too cheap to need company.

“Here you go.” She placed a sticker over my ticket. Section 102. That should be an upgrade.

I killed time until the first opening band finished. Looked like a heavy-metal ballerina screaming. I may like them some day, but didn’t want to blow out my eardrums before Rob Zombie hit the stage. I sat in the corridor until intermission.

My seat was definitely an upgrade, for the most part. I was about half a block from the stage, up a little, right in front of a speaker stack. The only hair in the butter? I was on the end of the aisle, next to an usher that looked like a school playground teacher. She was very attentive. So much for bringing out my little green friend. (I managed, every time she had to go downstairs to tell some shirtless guy to stop blocking the aisle.) There was an open seat next to me, so I was comfortable. I didn’t even mind the Russian mafia standing in front of me for the entire show.

Zombie put on a good set, much like the previous tour I’d seen. The sound seemed a bit off. (Could the Salem Armory really be a superior music venue?) One bright spot- I got to see the Grindhouse trailer, Werewolf Women of the SS. Songs punctuated with flames, and ghoulish cartoons playing on the big screen behind. I enjoyed it.

Then it was Ozzy time. It had a been-there, done-that feel to it. He kept his shirt on, and instead of throwing water on the audience, he used a hose that sprayed fire retardant to snow-flock the area that would have been a mosh pit, had the audience not been in their fifties. I’d have been pissed!

The staging was cool, Ozzy sang better than he has in years. They didn’t play the song I came to hear, Fire in the Sky, which would have been fitting, considering all the flames used. (I hadn’t seen fire used in concert since the incident involvong Great White, America’s hottest band.) When Mama, I’m Coming Home started, I headed for the exit. I could beat the crowd, and I’ve heard Paranoid done in concert too many times to count. I’d rather have a seat on the bus going home.

And now,  it’s the next morning. I feel hung over, although it was no big party night. I have to feign energy through a work night. If I can make that, I’ll have three days to sleep it off.

Ozzy wasn’t the only old man in the house last night. I can’t help thinking both of us might have had a better time if we’d consumed, say, a fifth of bourbon? I’d have been more into the music. But then I’d have the fallout and consequences of boozing to deal with after.

I feel icky enough as it is. Here’s a black coffee eye-opener to you, OzzMan! Keep ’em coming!

The hits, that is.

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