I Am Ozzy

  ‘Very funny, Geezer,’ I said, waving an eggy fork at him. ‘I mean the name for our band.’

  The snickering died down.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Tony.

  ‘Well, I was on the shitter last night, and…’

  ‘That’s your special place?’ spluttered Bill, blobs of mushed-up egg and HP sauce flying out of his mouth.

  ‘Where the fuck did you think it was, Bill?’ I said. ‘The hanging gardens of fucking Babylon? So, I’m on the shitter, and I’ve got this right old cliffhanger of a Richard the Third coming down the pipe—’

  Geezer groaned.

  ‘—and I’m looking straight ahead at this shelf in front of me. My mum’s put a tin of talcum powder on there, right? She loves that stuff. When you go to the bog after she’s taken a bath it looks like Santa’s fucking grotto in there. Anyway, it’s that cheap brand of talc, the one with the black and white polka dots on the side…’

  ‘Polka Tulk,’ said Tony.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Polka Tulk!’ I looked around the table, grinning. ‘Fucking brilliant, eh?’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Bill, his mouth still full. ‘What’s your mum’s smelly old armpits got to do with our band?’

  ‘The Polka Tulk Blues Band,’ I said. ‘That’s our name!’

  The table went so quiet you could almost hear the steam rising from the four mugs of tea in front of us.

  ‘Anyone got a better idea?’ said Tony.

  Silence.

  ‘It’s settled then,’ he said. ‘We’re the Polka Tulk Blues Band – in honour of Ozzy’s mum’s smelly old armpits.’

  ‘Oi!’ I said. ‘Enough of that! I won’t have a fucking word said against my mum’s smelly old armpits.’

  Bill roared with laughter, and more blobs of egg and sauce flew out of his mouth.

  ‘You two are just animals,’ said Geezer.

  The name wasn’t the only decision we had to make. Also put to the vote was whether we needed more band members. In the end we agreed that the kind of songs we’d be playing – dirty, heavy, Deep South blues – tended to work better with a lot of instruments, so ideally we could use a saxophonist and a bottleneck guitarist to give us a fuller sound. Tony knew a sax player called Alan Clark, and a mate of mine from school, Jimmy Phillips, could play bottleneck.

  To be honest with you, we also wanted to copy the line-up of Fleetwood Mac, whose second album – Mr Wonderful – had just come out and blown us all away. Tony was especially taken with Fleetwood Mac’s guitarist, Peter Green. Like Clapton before him, Green had played for a while with John Mayall & the Bluesbreakers, but he was now a fully qualified rock god in his own right. That seemed to be how guitarists made the big time: they joined an established act, then they left to front their own projects. Fortunately for us, Tony had been taken off the market by his injury just when he was about to be snapped up by a big-name act.

  Their loss was our gain.

  That weekend, we met up for our first rehearsal at a community centre in Six Ways, one of the older and shittier parts of Ashton. There was only one problem: we could barely hear the PA above the noise of the A34 underpass outside. Making the din even worse were the cars and trucks circling the massive concrete roundabout they’d just built on top of the fucking thing. They were pouring so much concrete in Aston in those days that we might as well have bought some fur hats and started calling each other comrade. I mean, for fuck’s sake, the place was grey enough as it was without adding more fucking grey everywhere.

  To cheer things up a bit, I went out one night with an aerosol can – I’d had a few beers – and did some ‘decorating’. One of the things I graffitied on a wall by the roundabout was ‘Iron Void’. Fuck knows what was going on in my head.

  The rehearsals went all right, considering I’d never sung with a proper band before. Basically, the lads would just jam, and then Tony would give me a nod when he thought I should sing. For lyrics, I just came out with whatever bollocks was in my head at the time.

  It wasn’t easy for Geezer, either. He didn’t have enough dough at the time to buy a bass, so he did the best he could with his Telecaster – you can’t put bass strings on a normal guitar, ’cos it would snap the neck. I think Tony was worried about Geezer at first, but it turned out that he was a fucking awesome bass player – a total natural. And he looked more like a rock star than anyone else in the band.

  Our first gig was up in Carlisle, thanks to Tony’s old Mythology contacts. That meant driving two hundred miles up the M6 in Tony’s rusty old shitbox of a van, with the motorway stopping and starting all the time, ’cos they hadn’t finished tar-macking it. The van’s suspension had died along with the dinosaurs, so whenever we went round a corner everyone had to lean in the opposite direction to stop the wheel arch from scraping on the tire. We soon learned that it’s almost impossible to lean in the opposite direction of a turn, so this horrible smell of burning rubber kept wafting into the cabin, sparks were flying all over the place, and you could hear this violent grinding noise as the wheel gradually etched a big fucking hole in the bodywork. ‘It’s a good job you know how to use a welder,’ I said to Tony. Another problem was the windscreen wipers: they didn’t work. Well, they did for a bit, but it was raining so hard that by the time we’d reached Stafford the motor had conked out. So Tony had to pull over to the hard shoulder in the pissing rain while me and Bill fed a piece of string out of the window, tied it to the wiper, then strung it back through the other window. That way we could wipe the windscreen manually, with me tugging on one end of the string, then Bill tugging on the other. All the way to fucking Carlisle.

  But the eight-hour drive was worth it.

  When we finally arrived in Carlisle, I just couldn’t stop staring at the flyer for our first official gig. It said:

  C.E.S. PROMOTIONS Proudly Present…

  ’68 Dancing for Teens and Twenties

  County Hall Ballroom, Carlisle

  Saturday August 24th, 7.30 p.m. to 11.30 p.m. –

  The New, Exciting Group from Birmingham, POLKA

  TULK BLUES BAND (With ex-member of

  MYTHOLOGY)

  plus

  CREEQUE

  Non-stop dancing (Admission 5/-)

  This is it, I said to myself.

  It’s finally happening.

  The gig itself was amazing, apart from almost crapping my pants with stage fright. It was afterwards that the trouble started. We were packing up our stuff – roadies were a luxury we couldn’t afford – and this giant of a bloke with bright red hair and some kind of pus-filled rash on his face came up to me. He was holding a pint glass and his troll of a chick was standing next to him. ‘Oi, you,’ he went. ‘D’you like my girlfriend?’

  ‘Say again?’ I said.

  ‘You ’eard me. D’you like my girlfriend? You were looking at her. Fancy giving her one, do you?’

  ‘You must have got me mixed up with someone else,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t looking at anything.’

  ‘You were looking at her. I saw ya. With my own two fucking eyes. Fancy having a go, do you?’

  By now, the bloke was so close to me that I could smell the sweat on his T-shirt. He was enormous, and he had a head on him like a fucking anvil. He was even bigger than my old mate, the bully-basher from Birchfield Road. There was no way out. I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I’d either say, ‘No, honestly mate, I don’t like your girlfriend,’ and he’d reply, ‘You calling her ugly, are you, you Brummie cunt?’ then rip my head off. Or I’d go, ‘Funny you should say that, ’cos I was just thinking how much I’d love to give your girlfriend a good old seeing to,’ and he’d reply, ‘Yeah, I thought so, you Brummie cunt,’ then rip my head off.

  I was fucked, either way.

  Then I had an idea: maybe if I got someone else involved, it would take the pressure off.

  ‘Hey, Bill,’ I shouted over to the other side of stage. ‘Come over here a second, will yer?’

  Bill strolled over,
hands in pockets, whistling. ‘What’s up, Ozzy?’

  ‘D’you want to shag his girlfriend?’ I said, pointing at the troll in question.

  ‘What?’

  ‘His bird. D’you think she’s a bit of a slag, or would you give it a go?’

  ‘Ozzy, are you fucking insa—’

  That was when the bloke went fucking stage-five apeshit. He roared, threw down his pint – beer and shards of glass went everywhere – then he lunged towards me, but I ducked out of the way. Uh-oh, I thought. This could get nasty. Then he tried to take a swing at Bill, who had a look on his face like he was tied to a railway track and the Flying Scotsman was coming down the line. At this point I was sure that one or both of us would be spending the next month in hospital, but I hadn’t counted on what Tony would do next. He saw what was going on, ran over to the giant redhead, gave him a shove, and told him to fuck off out of it. Now Tony was smaller than the red-head, a lot smaller, but he was an incredible fighter. The redhead didn’t know that, of course, so he went for Tony’s throat. They wrestled for a bit, the redhead got some jabs in, but then Tony just cracked him full-on in the face and kept pounding away – bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam! – until the bloke went down like the Titanic.

  Crraaaassssshhhh!

  I watched, mouth wide open, as Tony shook the pain out of his fist, wiped the blood off his face, then calmly carried on packing up his equipment. No one said a word.

  Later, when we were in the van on the way to our next gig down the road in Workington, I thanked him for saving our arses. He just waved me away, told me not to mention it again.

  Bill, on the other hand, didn’t speak to me for a week.

  Can’t say I blame him.

  *

  When we got back to Aston, Tony said he wasn’t happy with Alan and Jimmy. Jimmy fucked around too much in rehearsals, he said, and there wasn’t any point in having a saxophone player if we didn’t have a full brass section. And no one wanted a full brass section – we’d need a double-decker tour bus, for starters, and we’d never make any dough after splitting the takings on the door with half a dozen trombonists and trumpeters.

  So that was it: Alan and Jimmy were out, and the Polka Tulk Blues Band became a fourpiece. But Tony still wasn’t happy. ‘It’s the name,’ he said, during a rehearsal break. ‘It’s crap.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ I protested.

  ‘Every time I hear it, all I can picture is you, with your trousers round your ankles, taking a fucking dump.’

  ‘Well, you lot think of something then,’ I huffed.

  ‘Actually,’ announced Bill, ‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking about this and I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Tony.

  ‘You’ve got to imagine it written on a big poster. Like a bill-board or something.’

  ‘I’m imagining it,’ said Tony.

  Bill took a deep breath. Then he said, ‘Earth.’

  Tony and Geezer looked at each other and shrugged. I ignored them and pretended to look worried.

  ‘Are you OK, Bill?’ I said, narrowing my eyes.

  ‘I’m fine. What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking sure.’

  ‘It’s just… I thought I heard you throw up just then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘UUUUUURRRRRRRRFFFFFF!’

  ‘Fuck you, Ozzy.’

  ‘UUUUUURRRRRRRRFFFFFF!’

  ‘Just give it some fucking thought, will you? It’s simple, powerful, no bullshit, just five letters – E-A-R-T-H.’

  ‘Bill, honestly mate, I think you should go and see a doctor. I think you just threw up again. UUUURRRRR—’

  ‘Ozzy, cut it out,’ snapped Tony. ‘It’s better than Polka fucking Tulk.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Geezer.

  That was that.

  Officially, we didn’t have a band leader. Unofficially, we all knew it was Tony. He was the oldest, the tallest, the best fighter, the best-looking, the most experienced, and the most obviously talented. He’d really started to look the part, too. He’d gone out and bought this black suede cowboy jacket with tassels on the arms, which the chicks loved. We all knew that Tony belonged right up there with the likes of Clapton and Hendrix. Pound for pound, he could match any of them. He was our ticket to the big time.

  Maybe that’s why I felt so intimidated by him, even after we became friends. Or maybe it was just because he’s such a private and reserved person. You never really know what’s going on inside Tony Iommi’s head. He’s the total opposite of me, in other words: no one’s ever in any doubt about what’s going on in the pile of old jelly inside my thick skull.

  I didn’t feel intimidated by Geezer, even though he’d been to a proper school and actually knew stuff. As for Bill, he was the fall-guy. We’d always be playing pranks on him. He’d get drunk and pass out and we’d leave him on a park bench somewhere with a newspaper over him, and we’d think it was the funniest thing that had ever happened in the world. He was such a nice guy, he just seemed to be asking for it.

  Me? I was still the clown. The madman. The loudmouth who’d do anything for a dare. The others would always get me to do the stuff they didn’t want to do – like asking for directions when we were on the road and trying to find the way to some new venue. One time we were in Bournemouth and there was a guy walking across the road with a roll of carpet under his arm. They’re all shouting, ‘Go on, Ozzy, ask ’im, ask ’im.’ So I wind down the window of the van and go, ‘Oi! Mister! Can you tell us the way to the M1?’ He turns around and says, ‘No. Fuck off, cunt.’ Another time we’re in London, and I shout out to this bloke, ‘Excuse me, chief, but d’you know the way to the Marquee?’ He says, ‘Chief? Chief? Do I look like a fucking Indian?’

  Fucking priceless, man. We had such a laugh. And that was the thing with us: we always had a sense of humour. It’s what made us work together so well – at first, anyway. If you don’t have a sense of humour when you’re in a band, you end up like fucking Emerson, Lake and Palmer, making eight-disc LPs so you can all have your own three-hour fucking solos.

  And who wants to listen to that bollocks?

  If it hadn’t been for Tony’s parents, I’m not sure we’d have made it through the rest of 1968 without starving to death. We were so broke, we’d steal raw vegetables from allotment gardens in the middle of the night, just for something to eat. One time, me and Bill found ten pence, and it was like we’d won the fucking lottery. We couldn’t decide what to buy with it: four bags of chips, or ten fags and a box of matches.

  We went for the fags in the end.

  Tony’s mum and dad were our only safety net. They’d give us sandwiches from the shop, tins of beans, the odd pack of Player’s No. 6, even petrol money from the till. And it’s not like they were rich: they owned a corner shop in Aston, not Harrods of Knightsbridge. I loved Tony’s mum, Sylvie – she was a lovely lady. Tony’s old man was great, too. He was one of those guys who would buy old cars and do them up. That’s why we always had a van to get around in.

  And we needed one, because we never turned down gigs – ever – not even when the pay was only a few quid for a two-hour set, split four ways, before costs. We needed everything we could get. Even Geezer had given up his day job by then, and Earth was the one shot we had at making sure we never had to go back to the factories. We had to make it work – there was no choice.

  We were incredibly single-minded. The craziest thing we did – and this was Tony’s idea, I think – was to find out whenever a big-name band was coming into town, load up the van with all our stuff, and then just wait outside the venue on the off-chance they might not show up. The odds weren’t worth thinking about, but if it ever happened, we reckoned we’d get a chance to show off in front of a few thousand punters… even if they were pissed off and throwing bottles because we weren’t the band they’d blown a couple of days’ wages to see.

  And y’know what? It worked.

  Once
.

  The big-name band was Jethro Tull. I can’t remember where they were supposed to be playing – it might have been in Birmingham, or somewhere like Stafford – but they didn’t show up. And there we were, outside in the blue Commer van, ready to spring into action.

  Tony went in to see the venue manager.

  ‘Has the band not showed up yet?’ he asked, ten minutes after they were supposed to go on.

  ‘Don’t fucking start, sunshine,’ came the pissed-off reply. Obviously the manager was having a bad night. ‘They’re not here, I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but they’re not here, and, yes, we’ve called their hotel. Five times. Come back tomorrow and we’ll give you a refund.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a refund,’ said Tony. ‘I just wanted to let you know that me and my band were driving by the venue – by chance, y’know? – and, well, if your main act hasn’t shown up, we can fill in.’

  ‘Fill in?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘For Jethro Tull?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s the name of your band, son?’

  ‘Earth.’

  ‘Urf?’

  ‘Earth.’

  ‘Urph?’

  ‘As in the planet.’

  ‘Oh, right. Hmm. I think I might have actually heard of you lot. Crazy singer. Blues covers. Right?’

  ‘Yeah. And a few originals.’

  ‘Where’s your equipment?’

  ‘In the van. Outside.’

  ‘Are you a Boy Scout or something?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You seem very well prepared.’

  ‘Oh, er… yeah.’

  ‘Well, you’re on in fifteen minutes. I’ll pay you ten quid. And watch out for those bottles, the mob’s upset.’

  Once the deal was done, Tony ran out of the venue with this huge grin on his face, giving us the double thumbs up. ‘We’re on in fifteen minutes!’ he shouted. ‘Fifteen minutes!’

  The jolt of adrenaline was indescribable. It was so intense, I almost forgot about my stage fright. And the gig was a fucking triumph. The crowd grumbled for the first few minutes, and I had to dodge a couple of lobbed missiles, but we ended up blowing them away.