OZZ Feast
“Who’s up next?” yelled a balding man, his amiable grin causing his sun-scalded skin to crack. He rubbed grubby hands against his American flag T-shirt, leaving traces of concession-stand ketchup and second-hand dust from distant mosh action. Standing alone in his row, he addressed no one in particular. The only people within earshot were much younger metal fans.
“System, man,” responded a bored teen as he watched P.O.D.‘s road crew disassemble a majestic, dreadlocked stone lion that looked like a Rastafied version of Narnia’s Aslan. The lion’s red eyes had pulsed erratically during the group’s set, and smoke trickled from his mouth instead of billowing forth impressively, but there’s a price to pay when bands obtain stage props at Spencer’s Gifts. The teen had probably gotten his T-shirt there, too; it bore a misanthropic message (“I already hate you”) that belied his helpful nature.
But his answer did nothing for the lobster-faced man, who had made the trek to Verizon Amphitheater for only one reason. “All I know is Ozzy,” he admitted jovially.
Many old-school rockers, whose headbanging no longer sets hair in motion, attended Ozzfest on August 20 to see an icon from their own age group entertain three generations. A few teen-age mommies and daddies were chaperoned by their parents, and several of the toddlers had obtained tattoos, despite the legal handicap of being five years old or younger. One, swathed in a Jagermeister scarf, sat on his pimply faced father’s mullet-cushioned shoulders and flashed the two-fingered metal salute. A natural.
Except for the very young and the nouveau-metal old (concert virgins who had never heard of Black Sabbath until watching The Osbournes), every paying customer boasted a rich history of rock-show attendance, all of it documented by a dazzling array of wearable souvenirs. There were a decade’s worth of “last-chance” buys from Ozzy’s “final” shows, a Pantera shirt that listed a tour stop in “Little Rock, AK,” and a couple of Drowning Pool shirts, though not nearly as many as might have been expected given that the scheduled main-stage attraction’s singer, Dave Williams, had died just a week earlier. A few musicians mentioned Williams’ demise onstage, but none called for a moment of silence, displayed any visible emotion or played a tribute tune. Then again, after hearing Neurotica‘s butchering of “I Am the Walrus,” Williams might have issued a restraining order from beyond the grave, preventing Ozzfest acts from covering his songs.
Anyone checking out the metal madness for the first time could be excused for never wanting to attend a similar event. For one thing, Ozzfest started at 9:15 a.m., with nine to fifteen also being the range of fans in attendance when Apex Theory filled this unenviable slot. Metal in the morning is like steak and cake for breakfast: too heavy, too early. The only thing that kept this calorie-heavy brunch buffet from becoming completely vomit-inducing was the presence of some actual high-quality bands among the early birds. Lost Prophets produced the day’s only dance beats; Otep offered the only onstage female presence; Glassjaw presented an oasis of tuneful vocals before a barren patch of glass-gargling screamers. And Switched and Used, both of which have apparently been roaming the Bonner Springs forests since the rest of Warped Tour’s groups left town, triumphantly returned to the parking lot pseudostages.
Mushroomhead made a bid for more prominent placement, wearing masks, making a scene and producing some surprising melodies. Unfortunately, it was 1 p.m., and though a few fans were warmed up (actually, these kids were well-done, though their blood-red skin suggested rawness), many were still sitting on the scorching hoods of cars with “Ozzynme” or “Bustnut” license plates and trying to find an appropriate orifice for joint stashing. As Mushroomhead’s keyboard hooks wafted into the parking lot, security guards yanked some suspicious cigarettes from one would-be concertgoer’s pockets, made him stomp the seeds to smithereens, then forced him to leave without seeing a single performance. I start to regret what I’ve done, Mushroomhead sang, playing Greek chorus to this forlorn, foolish soul. (Midway through Down‘s set, it became apparent that many, many puffers had found some way to smuggle successfully.)
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But this joker toker was lucky. True, he couldn’t see Swedish juggernaut Meshuggah twist metal into a precise, piercing scalpel. But at least he missed the “titty committee” unveiled by Adema‘s twerpy frontman Marky Chavez. “They come out two at a time,” he said sleazily, and two topless dancers emerged. Before one song was over, they had scampered off stage, covering themselves. Perhaps they were overtaken by emotion rather than modesty at baring their breasts in front of thousands or shame at doing so for the benefit of a horrible band’s bottom-of-the-bag unpopped Korn kernels.
“I’ve got the best job in the world,” Chavez announced toward the merciful end of Adema’s set. “I get paid to drink and fuck.” Hey, Marky, you’re fired. Severance? Sure, anything to get you to quit making those geeky gestures.
Several frontmen made similarly idiotic assertions, though they at least refrained from pairing them with atrocious songs. Imperial wizard Phil Anselmo (usually of Pantera but today donning Down’s white hood) did more of his usual Confederate-flag-waving, adding some baffling audience abuse to the mix. After stopping a tune and chiding the crowd for not being loud enough (hip-hop shtick — amusing given that Anselmo says “I hate rap music” with little if any prompting), Down picked back up with its drug-addled Southern-fried groove. But Anselmo was still pissed, declaring in a series of rambling diatribes that the crowd needed to “rise to the fucking occasion” and “get ready for fucking war.” As he left the stage, he asked his oblivious fans whether he wanted to be remembered as “sucking or kicking ass.”
“Kicking ass,” shouted the majority. “I’ll try my damndest,” he muttered unconvincingly before dropping his microphone and stomping away. Don’t worry, Down fans, Anselmo won’t remember your disappointing performance. The guy can’t even remember who won the Civil War. Plus, he’d be heartened if he heard the Down-shirt-wearing fan who remarked, as he waited contemptuously for a $6 beer, “This would go a lot faster if it weren’t all blacks working back there.”
Also whistling Dixie were Ozzy’s guitarist Zakk Wylde and one of Rob Zombie‘s guitarists, each of whom played axes emblazoned with Old Glory. Zombie’s henchman switched his out for a hollow instrument filled with stage blood, which he gulped between riffs. Wylde also wanted blood, but he looked elsewhere to quench his thirst. “Bomb the fuck out of Iraq for what they did to our towers,” he opined to a smattering of applause. “Pray for war!” Actually, Wylde might be a useful pawn in the search for a nonviolent solution — simply drop him off in Bagdhad to perform one of his excruciatingly shrill eighteen-minute behind-the-back, with-the-teeth guitar solos, and Saddam Hussein will be screaming, “Surrender!” quicker than a Cheap Trick fan during an encore.
Wylde, a font of wisdom trapped in a caveman’s frame, also asserted that “this ain’t no faggot Backstreet Boys show,” and he was right — that group’s fans are a lot louder. “Limp Bizkit sucks a fat cock,” he bellowed between songs, apropos of nothing, and he was correct again, though his following, most of whom wore shirts that pledged allegiance to some nü-metal act, didn’t all agree. Like Ted Nugent, another guitarist who combines brain-dead and shred, Wylde would be well-advised to shut up and rock.
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System of a Down did so, which might have been its best trait, even better than its range (more than three guitar strings), its stimulating videos and its catalog of innovative songs. A silent post on the big screen ended the band’s set with its best advice: “Think More.” P.O.D. talked a bit, saying a genuine “thank you” after every song, but its stage banter was good-natured and positive, blowing its otherwise unremarkable rap/metal through a fresh-air filter that made it undeniably appealing.
Ozzy chatted, but as usual, no one could understand him. However, he did make an enormous statement, proving himself much more tolerant than his troglodyte guitarist by engaging in an interracial smooch, dressing in drag and demonstrating fellatio on a banana. True, he did all these acts through the wonders of computer graphics that pasted Ozzy’s head onto the body of Jennifer Lopez‘s cheating lover, under Christina Aguilera‘s Moulin Rouge fright wig and into a Sex and the City conversation about oral sex. But the fact that he’s secure enough to allow his likeness to appear in such situations differentiated the old master from his prickly peers. Ozzy’s voice lacked life and his bucket tosses bordered on the profanely pathetic, and he jumped as if he were playing leapfrog with an invisible ant. Still, he had the best material to work with. And even with Wylde adding unnecessary notes and his own vocal range painfully thin after several years of hunger strike, “War Pigs” and “Crazy Train” outclassed nearly everything that preceded them.
Those who came for Ozzy alone likely went home pleased; those who came for any other reason were likely disappointed, and those who came to take the genre’s pulse probably came to the conclusion that, though metal might not be dead, it certainly sucks now. Ozzfest should invite old soldiers such as Iron Maiden and Dio to reintroduce spectacle and virtuosity; broaden its range to include both more black metal and more black (read African-American) metal to counteract the dirty-South contingent; and include some regional acts at each stop. (The only area presence at Verizon was a banner that read “$3 off Thrust CDs at 7th Heaven with ticket.” The gambit worked well, reports the group’s singer, Mike Jones.) Otherwise, when The Osbournes‘ appeal fades and nü-metal crashes, this festival could suffer the sort of indignant end Slayer addresses so eloquently. Next year, Ozzfest will either reign in blood or die by the sword.
