43. Black Sabbath

The O2 Arena

10 December 2013

Let’s get one thing straight this wasn’t just a gig. This was a pilgrimage. Sabbath, the elder gods of metal, were back on the road flogging their new slab of heavy despair, 13. And as if that wasn’t enough, the evening kicked off with the gloriously grim Uncle Acid and The Deadbeats, a name so good it makes you want to grow a moustache and move into a haunted van.

Uncle Acid was so committed to the vintage doom aesthetic it’s a miracle they didn’t arrive on a pentagram-sprayed Vauxhall Viva. Their riffs were so thick and grimy you’d need a power washer to clear them off your soul. Imagine a sun-drenched, acid-laced nightmare that felt less like a warm-up act and more like the soundtrack to a terrifying summer, when Son of Sam lurked in the long shadows of the setting Californian sun. It was glorious, unearthly, and weirdly uplifting, the perfect warm-up for a night of Satanic thunder.

Now, here’s the thing: we’d been comped a box at the O2. By whom? I cannot recall, that is lost to history, but it was a group outing, with my mate and a couple of next-door neighbours in tow. By the time the lights dimmed, and “War Pigs” opened proceedings with its apocalyptic canon-blast riff, we were out of our seats and headbanging like it was the end of days.

Then I clocked him. In the box next door, air-guitaring like a man possessed, was none other than Bill Bailey. Yes, that Bill Bailey, the patron saint of whimsical riffs and surreal comedy. We exchanged the international nod of “Yes, this is happening,” and got back to worshipping at the altar of Iommi.

Ozzy shuffled onto the stage looking like someone’s slightly confused grandad who’d wandered out of the home for a pint of milk and accidentally found himself fronting a metal band. It is a miracle this man is still standing. Whatever deal he and Keith Richards struck with the devil, it’s working. At 66, Ozzy swayed at the mic like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was present or on another astral plane, but when that voice kicked in, the years melted away.

The noise was unholy. Just three instruments and one heavily pickled frontman, but it sounded like an entire army of demons had taken up residence in the PA system. The riff from “Into the Void” alone could’ve levelled Croydon. It wasn’t just loud, it was biblical. You didn’t hear it so much as survive it.

Brad Wilk, borrowed from Rage Against the Machine, was behind the kit, playing with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Shirtless, hair everywhere, he thrashed with such apocalyptic fervour he made Animal from The Muppets look like a session drummer for Coldplay. It was less drumming and more spiritual warfare; you could almost hear Odin himself giving a slow clap and pointing the way to Valhalla.

By the encore, we were wrecked. Emotionally, physically, aurally obliterated. It wasn’t a gig. It was a cleansing. A glorious, ear-splitting, bass-drenched cleansing. Sabbath had roared their final benediction, Uncle Acid had summoned the spirits, and Wilk had summoned at least one Norse god. If Beelzebub himself had wandered in and asked us to tone it down, we’d have poured him a pint and invited him to bang his horns on the barrier.

Black Sabbath didn’t just play loud. They played eternal. Long may they reign, in the heavens, in hell, and in the tinnitus-ravaged memory of every fan who got to witness them summon the end times one last time.