Luckily for Universal and the Osbourne Corporation, there’s enough coherence and comic sense left in Ozzy to stop this from being the DVD equivalent of an advert you have to pay a lot of money to watch. The juddery Ozzfather, now indistinguishable from the John Culshaw version, talks about fitness (“When I get off the exercise machine, I am Iron Man. I can hardly fucking move”) and his wife (“It should be called Sharonfest, she does all the fucking work”). But that’s the problem: Sharon Osbourne.
Ozzy may well be a pantomime prince of darkness but his wife is the real deal; a materialistic Mephistopheles. Like father like daughter. All the sequences featuring La Oz (and young Jack) are akin to a commercial presentation filmed by a large company for their shareholders. She certainly doesn’t see the irony in saying that the days of the 60s when the bands could just have fun are completely over. To be fair, we get full songs and great live turns from the likes of Rob Zombie, Soilwork and Anthrax, but the rest is just tedious. Nail this DVD to a brick and throw it in the canal. It’s the most rock’n’roll thing you could do with it.
