A Devil’s Dozen – The Original Black Sabbath

For as long as I’ve been a fan of this wild, wonderful world of heavy metal, I can remember two discussions (that inevitably become two arguments), ones that never seem to get resolved. The first is “where does heavy metal begin?” There’s always some bloviating music critic (who? me?) with opinions about this, and they’ll chuck out everything from Dave Davies’ distorted guitar tone to Blue Cheer’s even more distorted guitar tone to the fact that Steppenwolf used the words in a song about motorcycles, or Hendrix or Cream or Coven or Arthur Brown, or whatever else, as if there isn’t one clear answer.

And the second discussion is “what’s the heaviest riff of all time?” and everyone will dance around that one, too, with a half-dozen almost correct answers and never agree.

While I find all of those opinions to be valid (I don’t) and all of those arguments to be interesting (again, I don’t), the answers to both are incredibly simple, and part of that is because it’s not even answerS, in plural – it’s just one singular answer. And the answer is “the song ‘Black Sabbath’ by the band Black Sabbath on the album Black Sabbath.” Survey says “We have a winner.” Collect your prize and let’s go to the bar.

Heavy metal begins right there, in the rain and the tolling bells and the heaviest damn riff ever written, even to this day. The Kinks were not ever a metal band, no matter how ratty the guitar sounded; Blue Cheer wasn’t a metal band, no matter how loud they played; Hendrix, Humble Pie, even goddamned Led Zeppelin weren’t metal bands – they had the volume, sometimes the tone, the skills… but they didn’t have the vibe. Sabbath didn’t want to be a metal band, really – back then – at least according to Geezer, Ozzy chose to describe them merely as “hard rock” – but they invented the genre in those first three notes, and solidified it across the run time of that track, and then proceeded to further develop it into an art form across the run times of everything they did afterwards.

Literal tomes have been written about Sabbath’s importance – there’s nothing I’m going to say here that can add much to that, except stop arguing about the two points above because we know the answer, no matter how obscure you want to go. And as for what’s below, well, we also have a dozen more contenders for the titles of, if not the absolute best or first or heaviest metal song ever written, then at the very least, one (or twelve) of those in the form of absolutely unimpeachable classics from the founding fathers of heavy metal. [ANDREW EDMUNDS]

WAR PIGS

[Paranoid, 1970]

Proposed as the title track for black Sabbath’s second album but losing out to “Paranoid” at the last minute, “War Pigs” nonetheless serves as the album’s opening statement, and it’s a hell of a statement, at that. A sonorous power chord tolls like a funeral bell, and nearly eight minutes of masterful metal ensues.

Despite having an odd structure and entirely lacking a chorus, “War Pigs” is riddled with iconic passages: The dirge-like feel of the intro induces instant dread; Iommi’s two-chord verse riff plus Bill Ward’s high hat ticking like a bomb in the near-silence between creates almost unbearable anticipation; and Ozzy intones the first and third verses with such gravitas “War Pigs” takes on the feel of a metallic hymn. If that wasn’t enough, there are Ward’s manic fills in the bridge, not one, but two epic solos from Tony, and of course, Ozzy’s “Oh Lord yeah!” It’s practically absurd how good Sabbath is at its craft only two albums into its career.

You’ll notice I’ve scarcely mentioned Geezer Butler’s contributions, but old Geezer is getting his own paragraph. First his playing: rock-solid in the verses, but more adventurous in the instrumental sections, particularly during the intro and solos, where he grooves hard, but quite melodically. As to Geezer’s lyrics… well, they are almost always poetic, insightful and thought provoking, and “War Pigs” is no exception. Although Geezer was born five years after the conclusion of World War II, Birmingham was hit hard by the blitz and the effects from it likely colored nearly every aspect of his early life, to say nothing of the ensuing Cold War. Though his experience with war was not first-hand, Geezer was smart enough to see war for what it has essentially always been: the rich and powerful sending the poor to die for dubious ends. Although Black Sabbath was never counted as a protest band, releasing a song that brutally and incisively depicts the horrors of war and the callous cruelty and of its architects during the height of the Vietnam conflict couldn’t have been more timely.

Sadly, the theme of “War Pigs” is timeless, but fortunately, the music is, as well. We’ll lose all the remaining members of Black Sabbath eventually — later rather than sooner, I hope — but I have to imagine their music will live far, far beyond them. [JEREMY MORSE]

SWEET LEAF

[Master of Reality, 1971]

It’s with a bit of hesitation that I inform you that your favorite band, Black Sabbath, was on the pot when they recorded the track known as “Sweet Leaf.” While that may not seem out of bounds by 2025 standards, back in 1971 that was extreme badassery. At this point in Black Sabbath’s career they had moved beyond the early riffage and entered the more psychedelic sounds and subjects of similar, but less badass, British heavy rock bands.

“Sweet Leaf” was the only logical choice to open Sabbath’s third record adorned with trippy letters spelling the ironic album title, Master of Reality. And naturally, the only way to open a track paying homage to the dankest of herbs was with Tony Iommi coughing his lungs out because Ozzy handed him a joint so big it made him puke. And by puke we really mean cough on microphone and have it legendarily altered and looped.

Like much of Sabbath’s songs at this time, the sound of “Sweet Leaf” is a fuzzed out repetition of thick guitar riffs interspersed with R&B-style bass proficiency over hazy, ‘60s-inspired drum rhythms. Ozzy haunts the vocal track with proclamations of love for this new drug he would soon supplement with much, much more intense proclivities.

But like so many before him, and so many after, his proclamations of love for marijuana arose thrill and excitement in the listener and horror among the parents. As the listener it felt like you and Ozzy had formed a bond over a secret—only the two of you knew about the powers of this strange plant, and the only way to understand what it could truly be like was to smoke more and more of it.

It’s almost comical how much “Sweet Leaf” fits the profile that many square politicians wanted to fuel the flames of Satanic Panic with. It encourages the listener to go ahead and try this illegal drug that the young would certainly put themselves in danger to obtain and ultimately destroy their life over. For once they tasted the earthy scent of the sweet leaf their parents would lose all control over these youngsters as they took to a life of crime to pay for the new freedom handed them by Ozzy and the other posterchildren of drugs.

It was likely equally exciting for Ozzy, a showman to the very core, to have his voice enshrined in near ecstatic prayer over something that is now commonly readily available as well as legal. And do we have him to thank? In a way we very much have him to thank, along with a few others that rose to his importance. Figures such as Ozzy gave people freedom, inspired them, to grow up, take control and make changes.

And despite the frantic bridge in this song, which is a good example of how being high usually starts for me, it’s great to lay back and listen to Black Sabbath with Ozzy as their frontman and pretend, even if only for a few minutes, that Ozzy is still here with us wandering around and muttering humorous phrases to all he greets. It lets us believe that we will once again get to see him perform, his voice thrilling and titillating until the end. For the use of substances, as supported by most religions on the planet, are, much like music, a way to connect with not only the higher powers but with those beyond. So go to your home on this Friday evening and light up an overstuffed dolma and think of Ozzy – I’m sure he’s thinking of you. [LIN MANUEL DE GUERRA]

SYMPTOM OF THE UNIVERSE

[Sabotage, 1975]

If this were a just world, you and I could meet each other for the first time and by way of greeting, one of us would say, “‘Symptom of the Universe’?” and the other of us would nod knowingly and then we would both walk away in heroic slow motion. What else is there to say, really?

If we’re getting into it, though, let’s acknowledge the iron-clad truth that most of Black Sabbath’s absurd wealth of bulletproof classics are built from Hall of Fame-level Tony Iommi riffs. “Symptom,” though? Not really, right? Don’t get me wrong, it’s a powerful, memorable main riff, but it’s notable mostly for how it animates the song with its primal, forward-tumbling momentum rather than for some ineffably brilliant melody. I’m saying: it’s simple. But oh my sisters, oh my brothers, oh my siblings, “Symptom of the Universe” is signed, sealed, and delivered by one of the most unearthly performances ever put to tape by our dear departed John Michael Osbourne.

Yes, it’s reasonable to surmise that Ozzy’s performance here might have been, shall we say, chemically enhanced, but if you fed me a wheelbarrow’s worth of cocaine and put me in a recording booth, I’m sure I wouldn’t know my ass from an aux cable. These seething, howling, spitting, bleeding-edge verses from Ozzy are, like Iommi’s lead riff, SO simple! Ozzy’s entire melody for the first three verses is basically just three, maybe four notes, but he sells these (admittedly ridiculous AND awesome) lyrics with a messianic conviction. Running close behind Oz in the song’s MVP race, however, is Bill Ward, whose flailing hammer-hand fills give an even more unpredictable energy to the main riff tumbling into that suspended chorus. And, friend, this doesn’t even get us into the matter of how beautifully the song is crafted in thirds, with a nicely snaky thirds-jumping lick from Iommi popping in at exactly 2 minutes, and then with the wickedly intense guitar solo burning out into the glorious acoustic coda with about 2 minutes left in the runtime. Perfect playing, perfect singing, perfect song, perfect album.

“Symptom of the Universe”? [arms fold, heads nod, feet walk; exeunt all] [DAN OBSTKRIEG]

THE WIZARD

[Black Sabbath, 1970]

Following the title track, “The Wizard” is Black Sabbath’s second official missive. The band’s second opportunity to knock you onto your knees and assault your eardums. And when I first heard it, I think that was my thought—like, wow, this early and we’re already clicking into high gear. There’s a very bluesy confidence.

It’s important that it follows “Black Sabbath” on the tracklist. Or at least its placement there is relevant to the discussion of its impact because “Black Sabbath” is an inarguably slow build. Almost theatrical. It’s a statement. And so is “The Wizard,” but largely due to its symbiotic relationship with “Black Sabbath.” It capitalizes on that slow build with something equally playful but also more immediate.

When I think of Sabbath, I often hear “Black Sabbath” and “The Wizard”—not because they are the two best Sabbath songs but because, together, they are how I recognize Black Sabbath in my mind. The unique alchemy of bluesy playfulness and heavy undertones. Immediacy and delayed gratification. Fantasy based lyrics sung by a very working class and untrained vocalist. All of this, and more, produced that special brand of Black Sabbath magic.

There hasn’t been a band since—nor will there be a band, ever—that sounds this self-assured and commanding on a debut, while playing music this unique and inspiring. Music “journalism” begets a ton of unchecked hyperbole. But there’s no checking here. I love this band. I especially love this album. And “The Wizard” is at least one of my two favorite songs on this album. [CHRIS C]

HOLE IN THE SKY

[Sabotage, 1975]

As for best opening song of a Black Sabbath album, you can make a strong case for each of the first six. “Hole In The Sky” makes its own case by punching the listener in the face straight out of the gate with a riff so packed with sativa-high energy that it continues to ripple through time and the cosmos in waves of subsequent stoner rock iterations. And it’s a great song; way more than just a nifty riff.

Like so many Black Sabbath songs, it’s hard to imagine it holding its greatness without Ozzy. Pantera’s cover is pretty cool and they own it but, come on, Phil ain’t Ozzy. And Metallica’s recent tribute was nice, but… Indeed, Ozzy imbues the “Hole” with a manic energy that maybe nobody else ever could, landing convincingly between crazy-guy-on-the-corner and the-one-guy-in-the-horror-movie-who-actually-knows-the-truth-but-nobody-will-listen-to-him.

Iommi’s second major riff, separating verses from each other, careens and spirals downward, suggesting something calamitous or at least foreboding. His third riff, though, comes with the chorus and opens it all up, brighter and more diffuse, perhaps signalling something glorious, consistent with Ozzy’s observation of a gateway to heaven. A little closer listen to Ozzy’s chorus-closing intonation, though, as he cries, through it I flyyyyyyy, suggests again that this is a bad trip after all.

There’s a lot of theories about the lyrics but the one that makes most sense is that the titular hole is in the ozone, just one more example of people, and Westerners in particular, fucking up our own lives, helpless to do anything but watch our own slow suicide. And, actually, it’s a hypothesis supported not only by Geezer, but by the future itself, just… look around you.

“Hole In The Sky” is a kick ass heavy metal song, the apparent simplicity of which belies it’s underlying depth, just like the iconic band that created it. [LONE WATIE]

SUPERNAUT

[Vol. 4, 1972]

“Supernaut” is in the running alongside “Sabbra Cadabra” as the most forcibly and ferociously happy Black Sabbath song ever, the principal difference being the latter feels a bit more… impish, whereas the former opts to underscore a magnificent and wholly indestructible STRUT. Seriously, no matter how loud the outside clatter happens to be at any given moment on Earth’s increasingly troubled timeline—wars, threats of war, any and all political friction, depression, loneliness, fear of disease and demise, etc. ad infinitum—“Supernaut” delivers a 4.5 minute stretch that’s forever prepped to stand in as an incredibly loud and shatterproof personal defense system.

The song is perfectly straightforward in design, launching playfully with a light cymbal lead-in from Ward that’s quickly lifted by an impossibly infectious and valiant Iommi riff that mutates into an even grimier and thicker walloper a mere five seconds later. “Supernaut” then opts to CHAARRRRRRGE mostly uninterrupted like a buffalo with a swingin’, iron-plated pipe the size of a ’72 Lincoln Continental for the remainder of its run, punctuated briefly by a wonderfully feral and groovy drum breakout (often stretched from the stage) that only serves to amplify the song’s cheerful rush. Sure-as-shitzky, Iommi’s presence here is herculean to the point of excess (Frank Zappa’s favorite Sabbath riff!), but the true hero of “Supernaut” is absolutely Ward, who levels the countryside with the strength of ten John Bonhams as he rumbles and annihilates his way to the slowly fading finish line. Honestly, I’m surprised ol’ Bill didn’t get slapped with assault charges after laying down this absolute drubbing.

Is “Supernaut” the best close to a side A from the original Black Sabbath lineup? That could be up for a very “fun” debate. One thing for sure, though: It’s a song that never fails to launch you into good spirits. Timely, that.

“Don’t try to reach me, ‘cause I’d tear up your mind
I’ve seen the future and I’ve left it behind!”

[CAPTAIN]

INTO THE VOID

[Master of Reality, 1971]

In my humble opinion, the greatest guitar riff ever written belongs to Tony Iommi and Black Sabbath’s beloved classic “Into the Void.” An epic conclusion to their 1971 masterpiece Master of Reality, the song is quintessential Iommi. Often imitated but never replicated, “Into the Void” is the epitome of metal — heavy, catchy, and downright creepy.

Much of the song’s tone derives from not just the fuzz from Tony’s Laney/SG combo (and missing fingertip), it was one of the few Sabbath songs — “Sweet Leaf,” too — at the time tuned down to C#. In hindsight, perhaps it was a sample of what we’d get from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. That, paired with Ozzy’s best vocal performance on the record, sparked magic.

While the aura, without a doubt, screams the 70s, it’s timeless. From Tony’s signature godly guitar tone to Bill’s work behind the kit, and from Geezer’s grooving bass lines to Ozzy’s hypnotic vocal melodies, there’s no room for criticism. It’s perfect. And as we look back on that era, the lyrics are a time capsule of a world at odds with the idea of war in Vietnam, and the urge to give the good in humanity a chance to start anew on some distant plant spinning somewhere out there in the cosmos. Again, while relevant to that decade, sadly, those words remain relevant to the present.

Freedom fighters sent out to the sun
Escape from brainwashed minds and pollution
Leave the Earth to war and sin and hate
Find another world where freedom waits, yeah

Earlier, I said “Into the Void” bestows metal’s greatest riff. I’ll take it a step further: it might just be one of the top five greatest metal songs ever written. This one will stand the test of time — after forever, if you will. [BLIZZARD OF JOZZSH]

FAIRIES WEAR BOOTS

[Paranoid, 1970]

Allegedly inspired by a rumble between the band and some skinhead types, known for their preference for Doc Martens footwear, “Fairies Wear Boots” is a fantastically fantastic piece of heavy psychedelia, and the perfect closer for one of the undisputed giant albums of early metal. Opening with delayed, palm-muted arpeggios, “Fairies” slides into a classic Iommi riff and lead, buoyed by the irrepressible Butler / Ward rhythm section, before shifting to a completely different feel about a minute in. (For contractual reasons, the intro was tagged as a separate song, “Jack The Stripper,” on American pressings, but that’s just semantics.)

Once that main riff hits, the song becomes completely irresistible, that minor-key chunky chordal thing sitting perfectly beneath Ozzy’s plaintive wailing tale of booted fairies and dancing dwarfs (and later, his admission that “drinking and tripping is all [he does],” delivered in third-person as advice from his doctor, who, it would appear, did not believe him about fairies wearing boots, despite his insistent pleas that “you gotta”).

The lyrics are fairly simple, straightforward, almost minimal, and the melody is immediate, but also primarily based on the repeated hook of “Fairies wear boots, you gotta believe me…” So the ultimate power of the song lies not in those, but in the interplay between the band itself, as Ward proves (yet again) that he was one of those rare heavy rock drummers who could actually incorporate a sense of swing, while Butler wanders around beneath Iommi’s multiple lead breaks, holding down both the low end and the middle in the absence of a rhythm guitar. And of course, what would Sabbath (and metal… and life…) be without those Iommi guitars? The main riff swaggers; the intro and secondary riff swaggers even harder; the leads aren’t flashy, but they’re heartfelt, harking back directly to the blues roots of the band even as they moved farther away from that into a new territory they were carving out for all of us. An often overlooked gem from their most heralded album, “Fairies” may not be as heavy as “Iron Man” or “Electric Funeral,” or as bleak as “War Pigs” or “Hand Of Doom,” or as trippy as “Planet Caravan,” but somewhere in between them all, lies the middle ground that it covers perfectly. [ANDREW EDMUNDS]

SNOWBLIND

[Vol. 4, 1972]

As the 70s went on, Black Sabbath’s drug use became much more apparent in their music, to the point that they sounded positively zonked on certain songs (and we wouldn’t have “Hole in the Sky” any other way). But the song most directly about cocaine, “Snowblind,” comes across as rather restrained compared to some of these other tunes, to the point that it communicates both a celebration of the drug and a lamentation of what it has done to them, using the metaphor of a brutal winter in place of drug addiction.

It starts with a perfect “we’re back!”-kinda riff, ideal for kicking off the b-side of Vol. 4, before settling into a laid back verse drive that is just playful enough in the hook department. Ozzy is absolutely in the zone here, able to communicate the dual meaning of the song through his voice while maintaining just the tiniest hint that he’s trying to push the powder on the listener. I’m not sure you can hear a twinkle in someone’s eye, but Ozzy is definitely grinning while delivering lines like “Makes me happy, makes me glow,” or even more directly and obviously, “cocaaaaaiiiiiiine…”

Of course, the chorus takes on an incredibly somber, sadder tone, both in the music and the vocal. “The sun no longer sets me free / I feel the snowflakes freezing me,” sings Ozzy, before Iommi’s solo maintains the mournful tone. By this point, the fatalism seems locked in, so that even when the song picks up energy and Ozzy screams out “You’re the one who’s really a loser,” it comes across more as a user in denial than someone that’s really having fun.

As the song returns to the verse once more – this time aided by a string section – the true meaning of the lyrics become plain as day: “Lying snowblind in the sun / Will my ice age ever come?” The narrator desperately wants freedom from the chains of addiction, even if it means death. “Snowblind” is a brilliant depiction of both the exhilaration and misery of drug use, communicated by a band at the height of their musical powers and chemical indulgence. [ZACH DUVALL]

N.I.B.

[Black Sabbath, 1970]

Upfront, I’ll say that “N.I.B” is one of my all-time favorite songs. Not simply my favorite Black Sabbath song, but a top-tier must listen across genres and decades.

The funky bass intro, which rumbles in for about 40 seconds before fading out, only to triumphantly return and unleash the primary riff of the song, had me hooked immediately. That first “oh yeah” punches through the song like the precursor to Tom G. Warrior’s “OUGH”s that it is. Ozzy’s singing during the early stretch feels bouncy and playful at first, matching the loving lyrics, but pivots to a pleading call as it hits the more musically toned-down chorus, hinting at drama to come. You absolutely do feel it in your bones when he holds the “I’m going to feeeeeellllll” on the repeat of the closing line.

What comes next, however, is one of the elements of “N.I.B” that really gives it an extra edge within the Black Sabbath discography – the narrative twist. Sure, if you’re really paying attention, a line like “The sun, the moon, the stars, all bear my seal” should probably be a dead giveaway. But love songs in the ’70s were often weird. It wouldn’t be that surprising for this dude to simply be overdramatic as he pleads for a life-long connection. Instead, halfway through the song, as our narrator is crooning about this powerful love growing, the other shoe drops, and we get “Look into my eyes, you’ll see who I am. My name is Lucifer, please take my hand.” And then, bam, Tony Iommi jamming guitar time to further explode your brain. From there, our song essentially repeats itself before letting the closing minute be more excellent jamming and an outro tailor-made for closing a set. “N.I.B” is a masterclass in building toward a climax, balancing heft with joy, keeping the listener on their toes, and knowing exactly when to create a hook or unleash chaos.

I can’t imagine Black Sabbath thought the song they named after Bill Ward’s beard would end up becoming an undeniable classic, but hey, I guess Lucifer really did give them those things they thought unreal. [SPENCER HOTZ]

SABBATH BLOODY SABBATH

[Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, 1973]

Hey, Stevie Wonder, thanks for doing your part to ensure Sabbath Bloody Sabbath (and therefore “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath”) would find its way into our infernal lives. That’s it. That’s the tweet. Or the… X… Or the final words chiseled onto my incredibly impressive gravestone.

By 1973, Black Sabbath was fully tapped: Ripping coke hangovers, bone-bending exhaustion from full-scale touring, and just impressively sick-to-death of each other’s ever-present faces. They were California boys at the time, and no one, especially Tony Iommi, had a bloody clue where to place the next step forward. The final straw? Or what I generally prefer to believe was the final straw? Their cozy room at Record Plant Recording Studios in LA was now used to store a massive T.O.N.T.O. synthesizer that Stevie Wonder used for Talking Book and Innervisions.

“THAT’S IT, WE’RE HEADED HOME TO RECORD IN A HAUNTED CASTLE,”  said all four members at the exact same time as they aggressively piled into The Mystery Machine to head to the airport.

Hey, haunted castles, thanks for doing your part to resuscitate the dark energy of heavy metal, even when the four souls involved are at the very brink of withdrawing in favor of… hippier pastures?

The plan worked like a odious charm, as a craggy monkey’s paw fell from webbed rafters to paranormally strum the opening riff to “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” on Iommi’s fatigued SG. Not really, but Tony did come up with it in a literal dungeon after apparently seeing a ghost in the halls with Ozzy. And verily, the whole of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath has that distinct haunted castle vibe bedeviling its corners, but it’s also “the most Scooby Doo release” in the band’s extremely impressive catalog, thanks to the hippie undercurrents that still manage to sneak into the eeriness.

“Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” is a perfect example. Following an opening foray of doomed brilliance built on the back of that mighty monkey-pawed riff, the song suddenly flashes a bit of beatnik before even crossing the one-minute mark. Hey, a flower in your hair is a lot easier to swaller when it’s properly offset by fat, black-widowed doom riffs and Ozzy’s siren wail. Also, can anything on God’s Green Earf ever be as H-E-A-V-Y as that stretch from 3:15 to 4:40? It’s so looming, large and dark that Ozzy’s voice literally sounds like a severe weather warning (“aaaAAAWHERRRRE CAN YOU RUN TO”), and even something as friendly as a tambourine rattle sounds more like a western diamondback’s caution when nailed to this sort of dismal weight.

Sure, Ozzy eventually let it be known that Sabbath Bloody Sabbath signaled the initial death knell for the band’s original lineup—something that perhaps seemed even more feasible when fans first caught sight of the cover for Sabotage—but holy hell did a change in venue and a little spooky Scooby magick find a most impressive way to rescue the four Brummies from California Coke Craze hell. [CAPTAIN]

CHILDREN OF THE GRAVE

[Master of Reality, 1971]

It’s high school, junior year, and yours truly thinks he’s Mr. Maximum Metal. How metal? The task was thus – create a video collage representing an era of American history and set it as elegantly and appropriately as you can to a song of your choice. Wouldn’t you know it? Isaac had just the song, and not another soul in class would DARE question his heavy cred once the music crashed down into their gaping maws.

(“Valley Forge” by Iced Earth, a mid-paced snoozer from the recently released The Glorious Burden, played over static images of ahem, Valley Forge)

Got ’em. Got ’em good. Until… another group of boys go up to the front. Their era was ALSO the American Revolution. Their video began, that iconic riff sauntered from the speakers, and all of the blood ran out of my face and into my shoes. That was the first time I heard “Children of the Grave”, and boy, was I put in my silly little place.

So… would I look upon me now in anger and disgust? Yes, yes, absolutely. 37-year old me, freshly (though unsurprisingly) embarrassed by the antics of Jon Schaffer, can’t help but wonder how 21 years ago I had only JUST heard one of the greatest songs in heavy metal history, the warhorse-heavy gallop that launched 1000 bong metal bands. No matter, that’s not the story. “Children of the Grave” and Black Sabbath are the fucking story. There could not have possibly been a more thunderous track in 1971. Sure, “Stairway to Heaven” was a big deal, but its frillly opulence stood in stark contrast to the Black Sabbath’s oil-black, compact burliness. “Aqualung” could hit hard, yeah, but Bill Ward launched dynamite at his toms. These four Birmingham boys had birthed something greater than the sum of its parts, a massive, anthemic beast of a tyoon. And underneath it all? “Children of the Grave” was a song of peace, a paean to the triumph of love. Ozzy was no stranger to that trick, folding his positive messages into origami leviathans, but we’ve been through that, haven’t we?

Can you fathom a world without Tony Iommi’s riffs from this song? How could there be? He tapped into the very essence of what makes “heavy” heavy and blew the resulting crude into the ether like the Exxon Valdez of “Sick Riffs, Please!” And we haven’t even gotten to Butler, Geez?!

“Children of the Grave” forever and always. [ISAAC HAMS]

BLACK SABBATH

[Black Sabbath, 1970]

G power chord. Octave on the D string. Trill on the fourth and fifth frets of the A string. Slide. It’s the Big Bang, lightning striking the primordial ocean, the first breaths of God. It’s the tritone, or diabolus in musica, or whatever technical term you want to use to try to corral it. It’s the riff that would beget a million riffs, start a million bands, and influence the lives of millions of fans. It’s “Black Sabbath” from the album Black Sabbath by the band Black Sabbath, and it is heavy metal.

Appropriately, “Black Sabbath”‘s origins have an almost biblical air, a print-the-legend confluence of serendipities. During a rehearsal for the then-named Earth, bassist Geezer Butler messes around with the militaristic opening of the Mars movement of Gustav Holst’s The Planets, and guitarist Tony Iommi returns the following day with The Riff. When the band starts jamming out its second original song in a speedy session where everyone’s minds are melded, Ozzy Osbourne spontaneously sings the lyrics, basing them on Butler’s retelling of a night terror featuring a figure in black standing before his bed in his occulted-out apartment, a presence perhaps summoned by a Satan-laden book Osbourne previously gifted him that mysteriously vanished as soon as the apparition did. Hell of a yarn, even if it’s not hard to see the seams where the myths were stitched together.

That said, even “Black Sabbath”‘s more verifiable details seem to be as impossibly fortuitous as those written-for-the-screen scenes, making one’s head spin when thinking about how different history could’ve been if a butterfly flapped its wings. Without any appropriate title surfacing in the song itself, Butler nicks the name from the Mario Bava anthology flick, which later becomes the quartet’s handle when it decides to leave the confines of Earth behind. Later, a brief 12-hour recording session for its debut album forces the newly christened Black Sabbath to bring its live energy, its terrifying grit and frightening rawness, into the studio with minimal overdubs. However, one of the few overdubs that producer Rodger Bain and engineer Tom Allom made time for is the most famous intro in heavy metal. “We rented a set of tubular bells, and we just clanged one of them,” Allom told Kory Grow in a 2020 Rolling Stone feature. “I sort of made it fade in and out with reverb here and there, like when you’re standing in a field and a village church bell rings, as it comes and goes in the wind. It is iconic, isn’t it?” It was a total audible. Black Sabbath’s band members didn’t know that a peal of a bell cutting through a rain shower kicked off its famously eponymous album until they dropped the needle on it for the first time. Now, imagine you’re listening to a substantially drier and overproduced “Figure in Black” by the band Paper Sun, where the bell does not toll for thee: Are we even here right now?

But this is all bar trivia. The reason “Black Sabbath” endures is not the story; it’s the song’s power. Iommi, Osbourne, Butler, and drummer Bill Ward could feel that power from the jump, especially when the reaction to that power was being reflected back at them. “The audience was small, and nobody really knew quite how to react to it,” Ward said to Rolling Stone about the first time playing “Black Sabbath” live. “But we put so much into the song onstage that everybody just started to nod to it, especially towards the endings and the very loud parts. People were just like, ‘Wow, holy cow.’ I think we were blowing them away very quietly.” In Osbourne’s autobiography, I Am Ozzy, the singer remembered a different response. “All the girls ran out of the venue screaming. ‘Isn’t the whole point of being in a band to get a shag, not make the chicks run away?’ I complained to the others afterwards.”

Thankfully, those complaints were not heeded. Nevertheless, the girls were right: Over half a century later, there is something still authentically unnerving about “Black Sabbath,” a harrowingly horrific sensation that heavy metal has been chasing ever since. Maybe it’s the relative simplicity of Iommi’s playing, a byproduct of getting the tips of two fingers snipped at a sheet metal factory. It’s gutsy in the gutbucket sense, unadorned and austere, the lack of unnecessary frills elevating the evilness of the impact, while imparting the same earthiness and red-hot power as a fountain of lava. Then there’s the way that Butler and Ward seem to slink around in the shadows during the quieter verses, these bumps in the night that reunify into an imposing giant when it comes time to turn the dials of The Riff to as bowel-shakingly loud as possible. And, of course, there’s Osbourne as both the narrator and audience surrogate, his stentorian voice becoming more tremulous with the mounting realization of what he’s witnessing until, overcome by terror, he finally cracks. “Oh, no, no, please, God, help me!”

Black Sabbath could’ve settled on the dread teased out by the tension of those loud/quiet sections and called it a day. But the genius of “Black Sabbath” is its third act, a sped-up trip into the unknown, like how a Lovecraft story eventually descends into unhinged mania. That gives the song dimension, the kind of aural storytelling at which better metal excels. Once it closes with those staccato punches, a very Romantic era denouement, you feel like you’ve been through something. “Black Sabbath” is less a song; it’s more an experience. It’s a journey.

For these reasons, “Black Sabbath” not only endures, but still sounds remarkably untouched, immune to the ravages of time, downright vampiric in its agelessness. It’s a hyperbole-rebuffing wonder, the rare historical document that remains just as vital as when it was first recorded, able to balance the usually opposed poles of nostalgia and novelty. To that end, think of how many times you’ve heard it, how many events it has soundtracked. It’s there during languorous, love-struck summers and desolate, lovelorn winters. It’s there during your graduation and your children’s graduations. For those on the younger side, it was there for your births, and it’ll be there during your deaths. It’s eternal. It’s just there. And it never gets old. G power chord. Octave on the D string. Trill on the fourth and fifth frets of the A string. Slide. For some of us, that’s life itself. [SETH BUTTNAM]