Live at the First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre, Tinley Park, IL
August 16, 2013
It’s fitting that the images chosen for Black Sabbath’s 2013
reunion tour are the same ones used for the band’s last studio album with Ozzy
Osbourne as the iconic frontman. The album was the disastrous Never Say Die!, and the musical content
of that mistake from ’78 is wisely absent from the set list the band is working
from now. (edited to reflect that I just re-listened to Never Say Die! and....kind of like it :)
The cover art is from the minds at the legendary art design
group, Hipgnosis, and the title, of course, continues to apply to these elderly
Englishmen, one of whom is conspicuously absent from the proceedings.
More on that later, but if the core creative trio from this
Birmingham quartet are in place, then you have a reunion tour that doesn’t
necessarily need to have an asterisk by the logo, particularly when it already
has a © by it already, thanks to Ozzy’s wife.
If Sharon Osbourne’s tactics at presenting drummer Bill Ward
with an offer that the 65 year-old percussionist could not live with are an
indication of her strong negotiating skills, then consider who she has given
the illustrious opening slot for this potentially final tour of these metal
titans:
Andrew WK.
He doesn’t perform. He plays metal songs. Presumably from a
turntable and providing no real historical relevance to the event or any remixes for the
audience that had gathered. He does not he display any actual talents as a DJ. He
just stands there, plays a song, and says “Get ready for the greatest heavy
metal band in history” when his set time has expired.
Then, they remove his dj pedestal and play music for another
15 minutes until Sabbath finally comes on stage.
What. Is. The. Point.
The point is, Sharon Osbourne doesn’t have the passion of
music inside of her, so she cannot squeeze the pocketbook open a little bit
more to allow Bill Ward a spot behind the drum throne or to splurge for a
legitimate opening band, preferably one with obvious ties to Sabbath’s
influence.
I happen to think Soundgarden would be ideal for this gig.
Instead, she taps Andrew WK to go out, play a few records-like
we wouldn’t have been doing already in the parking lot, if it weren’t for First
Midwest Bank Amphitheatre’s security staff, who spend every moment before
showtime herding up the stragglers trying to cop a buzz before getting reamed
for $12 beers inside the venue.
If you’re keeping track, that price is up $3 from last
summer.
This isn’t all about revenue. This is the potential to
deliver to the most loyal fans in music a show that would resonate for
generations. Instead, we get a fellow fan-essentially a lucky bastard with a
fleeting recording career-with the enviable gig of getting to on stage and play
records before a Black Sabbath show. There is no interaction between Andrew WK and
the crowd. There is only music leading up to more pre-recorded music and a huge
taste of disappointment to anyone who understands how epic this show could have
been.
Leave it to the three Black Sabbath members who were
present to try and valiantly destroy the
earthen mound off of First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre’s facilities. Perhaps the
band wanted to give the large crowd a chance to remember nothing more than the
destructive sludge of Sabbath’s might, which would suggest that the evening’s
proceedings may have been the last opportunity Chicago would have to see this
closet-thing-to-the-original-line-up-as-you’re going to see.
Ozzy has hinted that he’d like to do it all over again, this
time with Bill coming, but that silly Prince of Darkness should know better
than to speak without Sharon’s approval.
“Hello?” asked a familiar voice from the behind speakers and
black curtain, hinting that the show was about to start. Ozzy blurted out a few
more “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” gags. Suddenly, red lights began flashing and air sirens
announced the arrival of “War Pigs,” as massive as any anti-war song Bob Dylan
penned, with half as many verses.
For the next two hours, Black Sabbath delivered a set that
was as heavy as anything walking the planet at the moment, and as uplifting as
any arena show should be. The band pulled three tracks from their latest 13, which is down from the 4 songs they
began the tour with and still probably 1 song too many. If it were me, I would
leave the opener “End Of The Beginning” on the merits of its title and subject
matter, and “God Is Dead” since it seemed to keep the fan’s interest.
You always begin to consider what songs they would have left
on the list if it wasn’t taken up by a new track, and I don’t quite understand
why “Sweet Leaf” was excluded, particularly since the band included a “Sweet
Leaf” t-shirt at the merch table ($45).
It’s obvious that Ozzy no longer has the ability to hit the
notes necessary to make tracks like “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” a contender for
consideration, but what they did include was an impressive mixture of deep
album tracks for fans (“Into The Void,” “Under The Sun/Everything Comes And
Goes,” “Behind The Wall Of Sleep”) and selections that confirm the band’s
undeniable catalog of Metal 101 (“Black Sabbath,” “Iron Man,” “Fairies Wear
Boots”).
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| It says, "Repeat chorus two times." |
It’s also obvious that Ozzy has been reduced to a caricature
of his former self, mindlessly yelling things like “Make some fucking noise,
you fuckers!” and “I can’t fucking hear you!” over and over, at least with
twice the frequency that he’s done in year’s past.
He also continues to do battle with his monitors, occasionally
giving stern looks off stage when trouble arises while seeming to be oblivious
to his own issues of being able to hit the correct notes during “Dirty Women.”
Never mind the fact that he also requires the use of a teleprompter to recall
the same lyrics he’s been singing for four decades now.
Touring drummer Tommy Clufetos is no Bill Ward, but then
again, I’m confident that Ward could not match the power of Clufetos’
performance on Friday night. This isn’t to suggest that Clufetos is a better
drummer than Ward (especially when Bill was in his prime), but he is definitely
a drummer who recognizes that he only needs to give Iommi exclamation points
and not layer his fills over an already perfect riff.
I did not see the band this man hit his kit with anything less than a
shoulder-high down stroke for the entire set. With every crack of his drums he
played like he was personally nailing shut Bill Ward’s doors and windows so he
wouldn’t be able to come back to the band, even he wanted to. His solo stuck out like an
obvious relief moment for the rest of the band, as they quickly exited the
stage after a quick “Rat Salad” to freshen up, hydrate, and probably in the
case of Osbourne, receive oxygen.
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| Raise your fist and yell!...Oops, wrong tour. |
It was an impressive solo, if not about 8 minutes too long.
The band may have needed that extra few minutes, but the drum solo rule of “No
more than 10 minutes in length if you’re not named Neil Peart or performing for
a drum clinic” needed to be followed, even if Clufetos performed at a level
higher than most rock drummers could achieve.
Leave it to bassist Geezer Butler and the Grandfather of all
metal riffs, Tony Iommi, to deliver enough girth to the proceedings to qualify
the tour as a must-see event. Iommi
looks great, and more importantly, played with impeccable precision. Smiles
came often from his side of the stage, and the band has clearly given him free
reign to embellish on his solos, pushing the length of each song to an average
of six or seven minutes in length. There are no complaints about this either as
nearly everyone in attendance found themselves nodding their heads in unison
with Iommi’s massive rhythms.
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| Smile! We've gone 36 months without suing each other! |
Butler, the man responsible for much of the words scrolling
across Osbourne’s monitors, also contributed to an endless array of
finger-plucking that safely secured the band’s low end. Geezer has all but
admitted that the real “geezer” is the fact that he may not be able to play
like this for much longer, while his work on Friday evening suggests that he
continues to deliver a relentless growl. He is an underappreciated bassist that
only seems to be recognized as an other-worldly player because of his encroaching
age. The reality is that Geezer has been a master for quite some time now, it’s
just taken a few decades for that fact to sink in among the uninitiated.
With everything that could go with this tour and for as much
unnecessary drama the backstory provides, Black Sabbath appears to be providing
a legitimate glimpse into why this band is so vital to our musical landscape.
Except for the temp-status skinsman Clufetos (kudos to him for attempting to
channel the “caveman” era Bill Ward look), the median age for these veterans is
sixty-five fucking years old. There is no way a band that old can still
sound this heavy.
They were so good that Ozzy could have come out on stage and
nodded off to a Xanax and Merlo-induced coma and this still would have been a
wonder of awesomeness.
The fact that Ozzy delivered a show with merely a modicum of
professionalism means that Black Sabbath’s performance at the F.D.I.C. insured
venue on Friday night was a required rite-of-passage for anyone claiming
loyalty to rock and roll music.
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