Live review: Back To The Beginning, Villa Park

“Nobody plays it like the four of us!”

At the final lunge of a 10-hour day of music, in which a decade’s worth of Download headliners have appeared for minutes at a time, Ozzy makes a statement so fundamentally true that in any other circumstance it would seem too obvious to say. Here, though, at Aston Villa’s ground, less than a 20-minute walk from where he, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward grew up, at the end of a day where generation after generation of bands who wouldn’t be here without Black Sabbath have all done fine service in hailing their name, it becomes something more important.

With Ozzy singing from a massive throne, and with Bill back behind the kit – where he should be – for the first time in 20 years to put a proper, correct full-stop at the end of the story of the greatest band to ever walk the Earth (and you only need to look at who’s here to have this statement shoved in your face), this really is something special. Truly, nobody does it like Black Sabbath. And, even with music’s biggest and best here, nobody does it better.

Today is The End. Properly. For good. Not only does such a thing deserve such a weighty send of such as this – Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Tool, Slayer etc – it also ensures that there’s no welching on it. This is a one-off for the ages, something impossible to repeat even if you wanted to, in a football ground woefully ill-prepared for the thirsts and hungers of 45,000 music fans (a big jump when being able to drink in sight of the pitch during a game is against the law), but the perfect part of the Sabbath story. It was there at the start in the late ‘60s, it’s only fitting that it hosts this glorious finish.

The stacked bill works like this: Live Aid style, a rotating stage, short sets with about five minutes between them. Some are full bands, some are supergroups of legends. Everyone does a Sabbath or Ozzy cover. Hunky Hollywood beefcake and metal maniac Jason Momoa acts as compere for most of it, interspersed with funny Ozzy clips and messages from absent mates like Judas Priest, Korn, Def Leppard and ELTON FUCKING JOHN, as well as a truly emotional, brilliant message from Kathy Rhoads, sister of late, legendary Ozzy axeman Randy. Between that, Slipknot's Sid Wilson spins the tunes, dressed in a Villa shirt.

It all happens so fast and relentlessly that, even with no-shows from Jonathan Davis, Freddy D annd Wolfgang Van Halen, there’s no time for food, drink, a piss, anything other than watching the greatest show on Earth rushing at you at lightspeed.

At just gone 1pm, the day’s first heroes appear. After tearing through Black Tongue and Blood And Thunder – cursed by a mess of sound coming through the PA – Mastodon’s Brann Dailor takes on the job of not just drumming the expert-level jazzy rhythms of Sabbath’s Supernaut, but singing it as well. The Atlanta heavies, decked out in Sabbath shirts, were always going to be a sure thing today – but on form like this, they set the bar impossibly high at the first throw.

Rival Sons follow, with singer Jay Buchanan looking like end-of-days Jim Morrison, but delivering a near-perfect version of Electric Funeral. Ten minutes later, Anthrax – clad in Sabbath Bloody Anthrax shirts – to rip through Indians, and a note-perfect version of Into The Void. Then Halestorm appear, looking like The Midlands’ most excited people, with Lzzy Hale in tasseled jacket and sporting no end of crucifixes, to do Ozzy banger Perry Mason. After that, Lamb Of God arrive, do an incredible version of Redneck, put their own spin of Children Of The Grave, and Randy Blythe, inan odd fit of joy, chucks his smeggy trainers into the crowd.

This all happens with change to spare from an hour. It’s that fast. Then it’s time for the first of the day’s much talked-about supergroups curated by Tom Morello. Lzzy Hale joins Faith No More/Ozzy drummer Mike Bordin, Extreme/Rihanna guitar whiz Nuno Bettencourt, ex-Megadeth bassist Davis Ellefson, keyboardist Adam Wakemen and one-time Ozzy axeman Jake E Lee for The Ultimate Sin, before Disturbed’s David Draiman (who arrives to chorus of boos) takes on Sweet Leaf and Shot In The Dark. He is the day’s only weak link, unconvincing in his delivery. Much better is Ugly Kid Joe’s Whitfield Crane, backed by Sleep Token drummer II. Weirdly, though, it’s YUNGBLUD who steals the segment, with a genuinely touching rendition of weepy Vol. 4 ballad Changes, preceded by a dedication to late Liverpool football hero Diogo Jota from Nuno, in Portuguese. Surprised as some may be at YUNGBLUD turnung up, he is fucking brilliant, understanding both the assignment, and how to get a stadium full of people on your side.

The star power continues, as Alice In Chains deliver a crushing, perfect version of Fairies Wear Boots alongside Would? and a super-squelchy Man In The Box, and Gojira pull out the doomy Under The Sun, showing far more elasticity than you might be used to from the French metal fancies. But it’s with the second supergroups at teatime that the gravity of just who’s here hits you.

First, there’s a drum-off between Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Chad Smith, blink-182’s Travis Barker and Tool’s Danny Carey over Symptom Of The Universe (we’re calling it for Barker). Then it gets silly. Billy Corgan leads Tom Morello, local boy KK Downing from Judas Priest, Nuno and Ozzy bassist Rudy Sarzo through Priest’s Breaking The Law and a monstrous Snowblind, even smiling as he does so. Then Sammy Hagar from Van Halen and Montrose (looking like a jolly, teddy bear Richard Dreyfuss) and Vernon Reid from Living Colour join the party to do Flying High Again and Rock Candy. This is outshone by Ghost’s Tobias Forge arriving in a silver jacket, looking like he’s ready to go into the oven, for a superb Bark At The Moon.

How to top this? Fucking Ronnie Wood from The Rolling Stones, Andrew Watt and, getting his own separate introduction from Jason Momoa, Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler. He busts through Walk This Way with rizz to spare. The only person so far, in fact, to show more showbiz razzle dazzle than YUNGBLUD.

Shortly after, Jason Momoa begs the crowd to “make some room for me in the pit, I’m coming in” by way of introduction to Pantera. He does, as well. That the Texas legends are on fire at an event such as this is no surprise, nor is their blissful cover of Planet Caravan. But an airing of Electric Funeral? Goddamned hell yeah.

It’s been noted over the years how mercurial Tool’s Sabbath-like rhythm tendencies are, to a point of wasting them not spending more time covering them. It comes as no surprise, then, that their version of Hand Of Doom – bookended by Forty Six & 2 and a furious Aenima – is near-perfect. It’s unclear whether Maynard James Keenan’s NOT LOCAL shirt is a League Of Gentlemen nod (if it is, brilliant), but what’s unambiguous is how faithfully a band so often mentioned as unfeeling curmudgeons show their love an appreciation for the men of the hour.

Even more surprising is how Slayer show theirs. After opening with Disciple and its pithily appropriate ‘God hates us all’ refrain, and an equally this-is-the-world-now-innit War Ensemble, they somehow merge a cover of Wicked World into South Of Heaven. “I wanna thank Black fucking Sabbath,” says Tom Araya with that curiously sweet between-song smile. “That’s why we’re here.” Aww. Anyway, here’s Angel Of Death. Those who naysay their re-emergence are silenced by just how feral they are today. Indeed, they’re also the band here today with the least amount of fucks to give. Even when they’re being nice, everything feels like a middle finger. Just as it should.

Of all the incredible guitarists today, only Slash comes close to being any kind of actual contemporary to Tony Iommi. He’s just got that loose, can't-be-taught character in his fingers whether he likes it or not. So it is during a very, very surprising cover of Never Say Die!. Sadly, grand as this is, preceded by piano-led opening cover of Technical Ecstasy deep cut It’s Alright, Axl's voice is struggling, and he appears to be in a timeline 10 seconds ahead of his bandmates at times. A rip through of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath is killer, though, and it’s quite the thing seeing the singer show deference to someone other than he. Vibe-wise, he’s great. You just wish he was at the same bit of the song as the others.

Metallica, though, are absolutely incredible today. Maybe it’s the short set. Perhaps it’s the vibe-change of not headlining. Quite possibly, it’s going on before the CEOS, Ozzy and Sabbath – surely the only men on Earth to whom the Four Horsemen need wind in their necks. Whatever it is, their version of Hole In The Sky is all nice and big, but it’s Battery, For Whom The Bell Tolls, Creeping Death, and a plugged-in-at-the-mains Master Of Puppets that steal their half-hour onstage. “Look at all this love!” gushes James Hetfield. “Without Black Sabbath there would be no Metallica. Thank you boys for giving us our purpose in life.” Compressed into this slot, you get a glimpse of them back in ’86 opening for Ozzy.

When the big man emerges, out of the stage, on a massive leather throne, it’s almost too much, both for us and him. You can see every bit of energy and spirit he has being put into the rollocking I Don’t Know and brilliantly spooky Mr Crowley. Boring, joyless dicks have tried to hot-take that Ozzy isn’t match fit. To them: fuck off. Here’s Ozzy, having fought his balls off to get here and be good, performing his heart out like it might stop if he lets the revs go down, looking absolutely elated. That’s real rock'n'roll. That’s grit and courage and middle fingers and having to go through pain and struggle to get there. That’s being alive.

That’s emotional as well. Suicide Solution sees him welling up, as does a poignant Mama I’m Coming Home, and it’s touching to see Zakk Wylde coming over to check on his mate throughout. It’s quite sweet. But also, the man of the hour also looks absolutely fucking delighted that this is happening, and that, one last time, he’s getting to be Ozzy in his natural environment. As he tells us to “Go fucking crazy!” for Crazy Train, throne or not, he is back to himself, and it’s absolutely heart-bursting.

And then, it’s time. Loud enough to be heard in the streets where they first jammed 57 years ago, Black Sabbath – the proper Black Sabbath, with Bill Ward on drums – emerge for one last waltz. In such a short time, it’s hard to understand the feelings you catch as it all happens, only to know that this is a truly special moment. It’s sad that War Pigs’ message – as noted by Randy Blythe introducing Children Of The Grave earlier – could have been written this morning, but it’s also a mark of how timeless Sabbath are. NIB, with Geezer’s wah-bass intro, is enormous, while Tony’s stomping, lumbering riffs on Iron Man sound even heavier than usual. As Ozzy yells the iconic ‘I am iron man’ bit, it, too, is startlingly relevant in the here and now. But hearing the shirtless Bill absolutely smash this all out, weaving together with Geezer to once again be the greatest and most swinging rhythm section in the universe, it makes the outside world disappear for 20 minutes. It's wonderful.

It ends with, what else, Paranoid. That’s four songs, at the end of 10 hours of music that’s barely stopped. But you cannot feel done by the brevity. Not least because it’s visible how hard Ozzy’s had to battle to do this, and it’s almost overwhelming to see. But also, what you get is that good. Just to feel it again, all you need is a moment to be filled with that special magic only Sabbath give. You are reminded, one final time, that there is nobody, not Metallica, not Pantera, not Mastodon, Halestorm, Guns, Tool, Slayer, or any combination of killer, legendary musicians, who can do this like they do. As Ozzy says.

Seventy-some years ago, four men were born in this neighbourhood. As thousands make their way through its streets to go home, the impact of what they did together for a decade that ended 45 years ago is writ large. None of this, what we love, the music that followed, everyone here today, would be the same without them. For that, they deserve thanks. Even the enormity of what happened here today in giving them such a grand send-off doesn’t feel quite enough.

It can never be enough, though. Thank you, Sabbath. We love you. And, truly, nobody played it like the four of you.

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