“We were saying goodbye—and I think deep down, we all knew it.”
In a deeply personal piece for The Sunday Times, Black Sabbath bassist Geezer Butler opened up about a moment many fans witnessed, but only a few truly understood: the final reunion of the original Black Sabbath members on July 5th in Birmingham. What was billed as a legendary homecoming for the gods of heavy metal turned out to be a quiet, painful farewell—especially for Ozzy Osbourne.
Just two weeks after that thunderous concert at Villa Park, Ozzy passed away at the age of 76. And while the world mourned the loss of a larger-than-life rock icon, Butler gave us a glimpse of the man behind the legend—a man who, in his final public moments, showed courage through weakness, and dignity in silence.
A Return That Felt Like a Goodbye
“We’d joked for years about one last show,” Butler wrote. “But when we stepped into that rehearsal space, I could feel something was different. We weren’t just going back to the beginning. We were facing the end.”
Ozzy was helped into the room—not by roadies or managers, but by two personal aides and a nurse. He leaned on a cane, of course—black, glinting with gold and gemstones, pure Ozzy. But behind the rock ‘n’ roll swagger was something much harder to witness: frailty. Fatigue. A silence that screamed louder than any Marshall amp.
“He didn’t say much,” Geezer continued. “Just the usual hellos. He smiled. But even that looked like it took effort.”
And yet, when it came time to sing, Ozzy still tried.
He sat in a chair—no wild gestures, no stage struts—and gave what strength he had to the music. After six or seven songs, it was clear the effort was draining him. But still, he sang. Because he had to. Not for the crowd. Not even for the band. For the music.
One Last Roar in the Hometown That Made Them
On stage that night, July 5th, over 40,000 fans stood in reverence as Sabbath ripped through four songs with their original lineup: Ozzy, Butler, and drummer Bill Ward. Another 5.8 million watched online. Ozzy, seated on a custom throne adorned with bats, delivered a five-song solo set after that—his final performance ever.
What the cameras didn’t capture, however, was the unspoken heartbreak between friends who had known each other longer than some fans had been alive.
“We were watching our brother say goodbye,” Butler wrote. “Not in words, but in how he held himself. The pauses. The stillness.”
For all the years of wild headlines, outrageous stunts, and infamous battles with addiction, it wasn’t those memories that haunted Butler in the days after Ozzy’s death. It was the quiet ones. The quiet Ozzy. The one who once held the band together with his sheer magnetism. The one who now needed to be held up, quite literally, just to be there.
Behind the Madness, a Man Who Gave Everything
Fans know the stories—the bat, the dove, the MTV show, the battles with Sharon, the public relapses, the miraculous comebacks. But as Geezer’s words reveal, Ozzy Osbourne was also just a man who loved his friends, loved his music, and loved his fans with a depth that went far beyond persona.
“He was exhausted, but he still wanted to sing,” Geezer wrote. “That’s Ozzy. He gave the last of his voice, his strength, to music. And to us.”
In the chaos of rock and roll history, few moments stand out for their stillness. This was one.
More Than a Farewell — A Testament
Geezer’s reflections are not just a tribute. They’re a reminder: greatness isn’t just measured in platinum records or wild stories. Sometimes, it’s found in the willingness to show up when your body is failing, to smile when every step hurts, and to sing even when it takes everything out of you.
“It broke my heart to see him like that,” Butler confessed. “But it also made me love him more.”
Because even in pain, Ozzy was present. He didn’t fake energy. He didn’t pretend to be the man he was in 1970. He just showed up as himself—older, weaker, quieter. But still Ozzy.
And maybe that’s the truest performance he ever gave.
Final Notes
Black Sabbath’s music shook the world. But in the end, it’s moments like these that echo even louder: a man nearing the end of his life, gathering what strength he had left to stand beside the people who helped him build a legacy—and to say goodbye in the only way he knew how.
Through the music.
Through the silence between the notes.
And through a heart that never stopped giving.
“He needed help,” Butler wrote.
