FILM ME IN

Why the Prince of darkness could rule the big screen!

 

It bothers me that the legendary tales of excess and debauchery imparted upon us by those spandex clad, hair-spray savvy rock stars of the ‘80s aren’t getting their deserved recognition when it comes to the big screen, particularly when their hard-living counterparts of the previous decades seem to resurface all too often, particularly in the bio-pic format. As I’m sure any saucy-riff-driven-party-prone act that graced LA’s Sunset Strip in this period of mayhem and sleaze will no doubt inform you with utter conviction, its Hard Rock’s time to shine and shimmer once more and Hollywood has a duty to finally pay some fan service to one of their own.

 

This observation of the same old song over-saturating the market occurred to me about a year ago when I went to see yet another Jimi Hendrix bio-pic. Andre 3000 was perfectly adequate in the title role and although it maintained interest, this version of the late guitar wizard’s tale was proven to be completely fabricated by the still-living people it depicted. It was a slight case of dejavu for the same was said about Jim Morrisons love interests in Oliver Stone’s The Doors and so the question beckoned – what’s the point? I eagerly scanned this year’s film festival guide in my home town in hopes that for once the ghosts of rock n’ roll past would reappear in the form of ‘80s metal icons, the likes of characters with names such as Axl, Sabastian, Nikki or CC, the longhaired bad boys that dressed like girls and who graced every last inch of my bedroom wall from the age of nine. Of course the ’60s and ’70s prevailed once more in the form of Janis Joplin and it got me thinking how these same stories from the same era appear to be recycled to no end. In recent years The Doors were back with a documentary in case Val Kilmer’s’ portrayal wasn’t enough, Kristen Stewart attempted to glorify the dawn of the hippy era with On The Road, John Lennon’s New York years have been regurgitated to death (no pun intended) and The Runaways, for my money’s worth didn’t do justice for the undisputed queen of ‘80s metal Lita Ford.

 

To make matters worse the decade and the bands that I’ve secretly been vying for on the big screen are not just being overlooked but completely skipped as though the decade just vanished. Gus van Zant’s Last days and the recent Montage Of Heck, one of two recent documentaries remembering Kurt Cobain suggests a step ahead straight ahead to the ‘90s. If you exclude the film Control for its sheer lack of rock antics on behalf of the Joy Division front man, the only musical stars that have been recognised in recent years from the ‘80s were rap pioneers NWA and if that venture taught us anything, we want to hear more from the bad boys of the era. If memory serves, Rap and Metal were neck and neck for controversy, the lyrical threat of killing God or perhaps a member of the PMRC was on par with that of a corrupt cop or a rival gang member, so wouldn’t it make sense to strike while the iron’s hot and shift the camera to what was happening just down the road from Compton?

 

Sure critics viewed the era a blight on the history of music and there truly was a superfluous gold rush of bands all trying to out sleaze one another (as brilliantly documented in The Decline Of Civilization II: the Metal Years) and sure the rock n’ roll genesis didn’t belong to the ‘80s but the beast had surely been stirred, awakened and was hungry to feed on a diet of cocaine, hard liquor, fast cars and faster lovers all beneath the glittery veil of lipstick, teased hair, young reckless abandon and a mantra best described as ‘live-free-or-die’ which made these characters an absolutely joy to observe. The ringleaders of the ‘80s have surely paid for their sins since the well-read and anaemic Cobain-train miserably elbowed them off the tracks and it’s time the era was remembered… on film!

 

You didn’t have to visit the Sunset Strip in the ‘80s to realise that the Broadway production and accompanying film Rock Of Ages totally missed the mark in the most heinous way. The story may have mirrored the plight of star struck farm children heading west but as insinuated by the performances, High School Musical come American Idol this genre was not. The bands that were born out of this cesspool of decadence must have balked at the karaoke-esque, squeaky clean renditions of the same songs that absolutely screamed from our tape decks. It also failed in presenting the dangerous level of partying that would have given those beloved-free-spirited film subjects Hendrix, Morrison and Joplin a hefty run for their money.

 

Before I stamp my feet too hard I should point out that undisputed heavy weight champions of the Sunset Strip, Motley Crue have pledged that their autobiography The Dirt which has practically been in the pipeline since it was written, will see the light of day now that touring commitments have completed. The waiting time of this proposed production is about to rival Axl Roses’ Chinese Democracy but in their Motley-retirement I suspect The Dirt could actually be upon us. The book has become a sacred text, a no holds barred account of exactly how unruly a band could possibly behave, so much so that it’s easy to forget there was actual music being created amidst the madness. Ghost-written by a former a rock writer come professional pick-up artist, Neil Strauss, The Dirt details the most shameless display of excess since Caligula and in the decade when the Crue reigned supreme, the world was undoubtedly theirs to shit upon. I’d like to say it’s a wonder no one died, but their bass player Nikki Sixx did in fact overdose and was luckily revived but not before the tabloids were already claiming his demise as fact. If that’s not enough, singer Vince Neil was involved in a car crash killing Hanoi Rocks drummer Razzle Dingley on a quest to find more booze after a long night of partying and received a slap on the wrist for this fatal error. These guys had sex, drugs and rock n’ roll on a silver and powdery platter, they were as loud as drummer Tommy Lee’s reverberated snare drum and were practically teenagers when the party began. Thanks to the success of the book they managed to return to their haven of arenas, a feat helped only marginally by the music.

 

Jeff Tremaine has been slated to direct. No stranger to shenanigans, Tremaine has blessed us with cinematic masterpieces Jackass and other Jackass related films and as anyone familiar with Jackass knows these dudes love their metal. But just as Oliver Stone gave us a harrowing depiction of Morrison, what The Dirt really needs is a genius at the helm, someone who can elicit that self-destructive magic that say, Martin Scorsese brought to The Wolf Of Wall Street. Even in a suit, the Wolf came closest to visualising rock star testimonials than anything presented previously, and if The Dirt can dish it up rather than get smeared all over the Motley name then I’ll rest peacefully for the source is far too valuable to be mistreated!

 

The Dirt covers a lot of ground and it may be hard to condense. The book spans decades, and although the ‘80s era is worth the price of the ticket alone, if only to watch them drink, fight and fuck their way to glory, you need the ‘90s to show what goes up must come down and eventually back up again. There’s a poignant ending too where Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx randomly bump into each other at the first day of their son’s elementary school. They both peer through the window to see that it’s their children who are showing off, insinuating their legacy will continue, and despite reeking of bullshit it was a perfect way to end a film – take note Tremaine.

 

 

 

 

So if The Dirt stays underground (geddit?), sits on a shelf or is violated at the hand of a Jackass, then I have a back-up plan! There was only one man who was infinitely more psychotic than the Motley boys, a figure equal parts tragic clown, down to earth bloke at pub, schizophrenic madman, and rock n’ roll legend. Of course I’m referring to Ozzy Osbourne. To combat what I already know you’re thinking, yes Ozzy’s prime was technically in the 70s, the exact period I was just detesting and Ozzy wasn’t from LA he was born in an Birmingham, England, but hey this my movie fantasy and if Ozzy’s party was in the ‘70s then the ‘80s was a come-down disguised as a party and  period I find far more fascinating. Ozzy did go from the filthiest of rags to the filthiest of riches in fairly quick succession, so much so that his band thought there must have been another act named Black Sabbath when their debut album made the British charts. They escaped a life of hard labour at home by giving birth to heavy metal at the end of the ‘60s and with it came world-wide fame, eight classic albums, groupies, drug and drinking habits, recording studios in haunted castles, and sadly a financial fleecing by every sly suit from England to LA. One of which was the ruthless British band manager, agent and businessman Don Arden. Don’s daughter Sharon, now known to the world as Mrs. Osbourne, would later show up the old man by overseeing Ozzy’s renaissance.

 

Ozzy’s warpath has endured longer than the period covered in The Dirt and then some. Between Black Sabbath in the70s, Ozzy’s successful solo career in the ‘80s, the post-grunge survival in the form of an Ozzy lead travelling metal festival in the ‘90s dubbed OzzFest, becoming a household name and superstar with the original reality TV show in the 00’s The Osbourne’s, and finally being the catalyst for a revival of an all but diminished Black Sabbath in the ‘10s it’s far too much ground to cover. His most legendary stories, the ones he’s still constantly asked about and cringes over to this day all happened within a two year period at the start of the ‘80s. Not only was he prone to causing inebriated controversy where ever he went, Ozzy simultaneously pioneered a new sound that would feed the likes of LA’s Sunset Strip for the next ten years with help from one LA’s finest guitarists. You would think remaining relevant musically would be the primary objective, but the Ozzy package went further tapping into the zeitgeist of the time with the perception, that he was also the devil incarnate. This misleading notion wasn’t helped by his off stage mishaps, usually the result of an openly shy and insecure man trying to be accepted with the assistance of the bottle. Rather than plead innocence and ignorance for his behaviour, his tenacious wife realised that this perception of embodied evil lead to ticket sales and she managed to catapult a man who only just prior had an alcoholic death wish, back into the limelight securing him place on the throne as the ruler for a new decade of heavy metal and essentially guaranteeing him a life of stadium fare and endless respect from metal fans and bands alike.

 

Before Ozzy became the lovable larrikin we know today he was vilified, feared and detested by parents for infecting their children’s impressionable minds with such sinister filth, and as the keen listener it’s worth noting that Ozzy definitely had an eerily commanding quality to his singing voice. His stories however are now part of metal lore: Ozzy bit the head off a bat, Ozzy bit the head off a dove, Ozzy urinated on The Alamo. Tragically Ozzy’s rising star guitarist died in a plane crash shortly afterwards and the tumultuous chaos and drama all played out in short succession while promoting Ozzy’s first two albums to an American audience between 1981 and 1982. No doubt Ozzy remembers very little and is the first to admit his drunken Mr. Hyde was the controlling force but he fed off a persona that was specifically designed to shock, particularly if his first four album covers are anything to go by for Ozzy posed as Satanist, madman, werewolf and winged-dragon-fantasy-art-thingo, images that are today both iconic and synonymous for heavy metal in the ‘80s meant.

 

 

 

 

 

Outside of Ozzy’s excellent 1991 documentary Don’t Blame Me a vehicle for his then latest album No More Tears, Ozzy’s son Jack Osborne, made a faithful film about his father in God Bless Ozzy Osbourne, which certainly satisfied one appetite for this fans destruction. I can attest that the footage from the early ‘80s was by far the most intriguing for the crazy train was well and truly off the rails. The perplexed viewer bears witness to a man truly on the fringe of sanity, we also see firsthand the party taking its toll as he nods off drunk during interviews or is otherwise barely coherent. When you wonder how Ozzy ever survived, these were the days you’re suggesting he survived from. Thus, the obvious lack of footage in the pre-digital world screams ‘biopic’!

 

It pains me to distinctly remember a time somewhere amidst The Osbourne’s TV show phenomenon that an Ozzy movie was actually in the works. I was watching a late night talk show when the guest revealed his hopes that his audition for the role of the great and powerful Oz would be successful. The host then asked the actor to do his best Ozzy impersonation and it was unquestionably flawless. If people expected a drug addled stuttering and slurred rendition, they were to be mislead and were instead treated to a genuine delivery of Ozzy’s more astute speaking voice from his younger days. As I fan I was automatically convinced that such a film automatically had legs but what I don’t remember was who the actor was. I’ve narrowed it down to either Jamie Kennedy or Dax Sheppard. They kind-of appear alike don’t they? Kudos to whomever won me over that night but alas no film ever saw the light of day.

 

So in my hypothetical-Hollywood-dream-movie-world how would I approach filming this? It’s easy – the answers already been written in Rudy Sarzo’s memoir Off The Rails. When Ozzy needed a touring bassist it was a no-brainer for his young, hot LA guitarist Randy Rhoads. Rhoads would enlist the help of his former band mate from Sunset Strip stalwarts Quiet Riot. Sarzo kept a diary of this period and although the book is by no means perfect (he seems to remember conversations verbatim complete with inflections like where ‘dude’ was added) the tale echoes Almost Famous as the young unknown who goes from mum’s basement to sold out arenas virtually overnight, a sure-fire story-telling method of the outsider that gets a rare glimpse into the big league, and at the time it didn’t get much bigger than the prince of darkness himself.

 

Along the way Ozzy’s most legendary tales simply play out in sequence, grab the popcorn and enjoy the ride: Sharon had an important meeting with record execs in March 1981 and as a symbolic peace offering Ozzy was to make a grand entrance by releasing two doves into the board room. His nerves, the result of which lead him to drink before the meeting caused him to alter the plan. Although it’s unclear as to whether he thought the suits would find him funny or if he designed the move to illicit fear, Ozzy threw one dove in the air and decided to bite the head of another and plonk its bleeding carcass on the table. The suits were naturally aghast but word travelled fast making Ozzy the craziest rock n roll performer that walked the planet and this impulsive action became a beneficial career move that helped force a leap from theatres to arenas. The next major incident was in Jan 1982 when someone threw a bat on stage and Ozzy bit its head off too. The final nail in the coffin of controversy marking Ozzy as the godfather of mental instability (and rock) happened merely a month later. Ozzy was caught urinating on the American sacred site The Alamo.

 

Yet when you hear Ozzy tell these tales, you almost feel sorry for him as though his poor judgment was misread. Ozzy believed the dove prank would come off as funny, after all he once worked in a slaughterhouse, furthermore he also reacted to the news of returning to touring after being promised a break in Black Sabbath by shotgun blasting his chicken coup – so what was another dead bird? The bat he swore was a rubber Halloween toy someone had thrown on stage and as for the Alamo, well, he was drunk and busting to go, but try reiterating his innocence to conservative America!

 

The movie doesn’t end without a spellbinding climax either. A key ingredient to Ozzy’s success was his young virtuoso, guitarist extraordinaire Randy Rhoads. Randy was a Ying to Ozzy’s Yang – this thin tanned, privileged, classically trained musician was a stark contrast to the British, bloated, uneducated but determined singer and yet this pair of opposites found common ground in a shared will to rock. Each listened, shared ideas, and there was no dictatorship that Ozzy had put up with in Sabbath. Details are still vague, and it’s a Metal-MacGuffin in cinematic terms, but a shockingly unfortunate incident occurred whilst on tour. Their irresponsible bus driver had convinced Randy and the band’s touring seamstress to go for a joy ride in a small plane. The plane nosedived killing all three. Clipping the tour bus (where Ozzy was sleeping off a night on the drink) Ozzy swears that had he not been asleep he would have been first to get on the plane, and by all accounts Randy was no thrill-seeker therefore the question of how he was convinced by a notoriously unreliable bus driver (let alone a pilot) is still a mystery. Sarzo claims he saw the final moments standing outside the bus and can recall the panic stricken look on Randy’s face as he plunged to his death.

 

 

 

 

Things would never be the same again. Ozzy once again took this as a signal of the end and was hell-bent on further self-destruction. Despite his grief Sharon had Ozzy back on the road and performing in record time. Touring in the face of sorrow caused Ozzy to eventually disappear. He returned home, shaved his head and was found at his local pub in intoxicated hiding. Sharon had him wearing a wig and back out on the road once again, a theme that has plagued Ozzy ever since, as evident in The Osbournes TV series where we actually see that Sharon hides the touring schedule against his wishes. I can’t say I blame the guy, dealing with unexpected success, sudden devastation, and living with a constant hangover is enough to make you want to pack it all in for good. Ozzy at the time was no teen, in fact he was 34 and having been hung-over at 34 I can vouch that you want to be at home in bed, you don’t want to be reminded of the antics of the previous evening and you certainly don’t want to be thrust upon a stage in front of fifteen thousand people despite how glamorous it all sounds sober.

 

Of course the movie could sweetly be capped off with some interesting Ozzy facts. He went on to sell blah million records, became the face of a new decade in rock, survived the grunge movement, defied Lollapalooza’s elitist ’90s stance by starting his own highly successful metal festival, became a reality TV star, a global household name and reunited with Sabbath, this time on his on terms becoming one of the most bankable tours in recent history. But none of this would be possible without the music he created with Randy Rhoads that went on to define metal in the ‘80s, a template of classic sensibility mixed with memorable riffs and wild lyrical stories of excess, evil and good times. Even Ozzy’s support acts were as diverse as Motley Crue all the way to their nemesis Metallica lending an idea as to how respected and influential he really was. But Hollywood, please by all means, fund another project centring on how The Doors personified the cultural landscape or whatever… My only saving grace is that Sharon will lend some of that perseverance that kept Ozzy on top to tell the ultimate story of a time when Ozzy Osbourne became heir to the rock n’ roll throne of the ’80s.