None More Black: Reassessing Black Sabbath’s First Three Albums (or, The Unholy Trinity)


In the classic movie Chinatown, the villainous Noah Cross offers a sardonic take on his longevity. “I’m old,” he laughs, adding the immortal line, “Politicians, ugly buildings and whores all get respectable if they last long enough.”

Black Sabbath is old.

Never Say Die! they said, so they didn’t.

Alive, still, touring, again, allegedly for the last time.

Ozzy Osbourne, rock music’s all time clown prince, has been shrewd to never take himself—or his fame—too seriously. Indeed, his self-deprecating tendencies appear equal parts perceptive and a preemptive strike against the scorn he’s habitually expected from others.

Except his band, Black Sabbath, is now respectable, and has been for some time. To be certain, the band was always serious. Dead serious, at least while Ozzy was still the front man. But the band was seldom taken seriously, at least by the same so-called Establishment that now venerates them as a matter of course.

Of course, as always, the people who knew, knew, but few of them wrote for Rolling Stone. It’s not that Black Sabbath was ever considered an outright joke, at least while Ozzy was still the front man, but some of us can certainly recall a time when they were alternately dismissed or lambasted as Satan worshippers and an unsavory influence for impressionable young minds.

Nevermind the fact that today it could be argued that they are even more influential than Led Zeppelin. To be fair, and accurate, Zeppelin, like the Beatles before them, simply weren’t human, so while many bands imitated them, no one could emulate them. Sabbath, on the other hand, were always undeniably human, particularly while Ozzy was still the front man.

It’s at once lazy and erroneous to suggest Led Zeppelin had anything to do with heavy metal; they certainly brought a bombast previously unimaginable—for better or worse—to the blues, and then sprinkled everything from folk to Tolkien to Elvis and Rockabilly into the mix, and while Jimmy Page became the ultimate golden god of the electric guitar, the best thing one should say about Zeppelin’s musical legacy is that they’re, in the final analysis, unclassifiable.

No such issues exist with Black Sabbath. Like Led Zeppelin, they took the blues as a foundational text, but even from the get-go, they were onto something deeper, darker and louder. The sound Sabbath cultivated remains, at once, neither derivative nor capable of duplication. That is one definition of genius. It’s not relevant or especially important whether or not Sabbath “invented” heavy metal; they did something even more momentous. Among their many attributes, Sabbath can be credited with engineering an elemental music that the various sub-metals of subsequent decades melted into.

If it’s incredible, looking back, to imagine how huge Black Sabbath would become, it’s easy to imagine how dumbfounded the band was by their success. The debut album, recorded pretty much live in the studio in a single setting, with no hit singles and the surreal image of a witch (a nod to their attempted single “Evil Woman” that went nowhere?) on what endures as one of the most stark and unsettling album covers of all time, did not portend big things. But the one thing the band had going for it, in spades, happens to be the most important thing in art: honesty.

It resonated, and the album (released on Friday the 13th, naturally, in February, 1970) broke into the Top 10 on the UK charts. Yes, Lucifer is name-checked, Iommi employs the infamous tritone (on the opening track, which could hardly be a less cohesive statement of purpose: “Black Sabbath”, by Black Sabbath, on the album Black Sabbath. Any questions?), and the mood generally matches the browns and grays from the cover. But each second of every song crackles with an earnest if not entirely innocent vibe, and the energy pulsates from the introductory thunder rumbles to the exclamation point of its concluding note.

The music certainly reflects the raw reality of its recording conditions, and like so many first albums, the band wants to cram every salvageable idea and worthwhile fragment into a whole that’s at once unified and wonderfully messy. Not yet the proto-metal that launched so many simulations, there is a discernibly British blues being used as a jumping off point: it’s definitely white, but it’s not the white boy blues that dominated the previous generation’s plundering. Consider the extended jamming on “Warning” or the mercurial tempo shifting on “Wicked World”: this is not appropriation (think British Invasion covers) so much as the development of a bruising, almost aggressive assault; a blackened, or black and blue blues.

As brilliant as the debut manages to be, the band went all-world on the follow-up, and Paranoid must be on the shortest of lists as most influential album of all time. It’s difficult to imagine anyone, from Kiss to Van Halen to Metallica and Guns N’ Roses, to Slayer and even Bad Brains—and about a billion lesser bands as well—without the outline provided, at once a short cut (for cheaters) and sacred text (for the wise to worship). How did it happen? It happened the same way the rare and inexplicable masterpieces in any genre happen: because it could; because it had to.

Two things, aside from its sheer listenability, are crucial to keep in mind when assessing Paranoid’s staying power. For one, the band is as resolute, musically, as they’d ever be: there is still a looseness and making-it-up-as-we-go quality (for instance, the title track, which became a breakthrough single, was written and recorded on the spot, allegedly from start to finish in less than an hour), but there’s a confidence and sense of direction that seems all but unimaginable with such a relatively inexperienced outfit. Secondly, there is a relevance to the lyrics that, while dated for all the good (and bad) reasons, is neither cynical nor opportunistic. Special props for “Fairies Wear Boots”, which is a droll dig at Doc Marten clad skinheads. If the gloom and despair are still palpable throughout, the environmental concerns delineated in “Electric Funeral” and anti-heroin messaging of “Hand of Doom” elevate the proceedings, avoid pretension, and keep things (very) real.

Special mention, of course, for the anthem initiating the proceedings, “War Pigs”. Inspired by the then all but obligatory disdain for events in Vietnam, Sabbath achieves the near impossible by attacking a topical (even clichéd) social issue but, as only blue collar lads from Birmingham could do with such conviction, create an abiding indictment of the powerful men who plan and prosper from ensuring “the war machine keeps turning.” It’s on this song that intent and execution are combined to perfection by the only band of its time that could channel such indignity and belligerence, while infusing it with defiance that never wallows in pity or nihilism.

Indeed, that’s probably the one thing people have seemingly never grasped when it comes to Black Sabbath and why they matter: the preponderance of their material dealt neither with heaven nor hell, but the here and now. The joys and sorrows of drug use, the ways the wealthiest players pull the proverbial strings, the alternating drudgery and tumult of daily existence, as well as the escape and solace offered by music itself. This band spoke plainly to misfits in part because they were outcasts themselves, and while Sabbath made no bones about how much life could suck sometimes, there is always a purposeful insolence informing their songs; their overarching message involves waking up, staying aware and kicking the wicked world in the ass as often as possible.

Of course, at the end of the day, the exquisitely black magic of Black Sabbath has everything to do with the riffs. With the possible exception of Jimmy Page, no electric guitar player in the history of rock and roll uncorked more memorable and indelible riffs than Tony Iommi. Seemingly each song on their first three albums is anchored by at least one addictive riff, and throughout the ‘70s, all of Iommi’s solos are disparate but instantly identifiable. The first album became a showcase for a shadowy new talent; the second a wrecking machine of riffs and the third, the innovation of a whole new sound.

Master of Reality, released less than a year after Paranoid, is certainly a continuation and development of familiar fixations (sex, drugs, rock and roll and…religion), but it’s, if possible, a (much) deeper and darker dive into the abyss. The legendary Lee “Scratch” Perry used to exhale ganja smoke on his tape reels during production, and it’s hard to fathom a case study of comparable dedication and obsession. And yet, on Master of Reality Black Sabbath somehow conjures up the smells and sights of a darkened room sticky with residue. It’s not that the album sounds like drugs so much as drugs informing music filtered through a prehistoric tar pit, then shot out of a cannon into the void.

Speaking of which, how do you remaster mud? Do we want, or need the typical post-production sheen applied to these eldritch discs? Yes, and it’s long overdue. Let’s face it, at least a portion of that murkiness (especially on Master of Reality) was due to hasty of half-assed assembly. A little of that still goes a long way, but with the fresh polish we’re still scraping the bottom of the ocean, yet allowed to further appreciate how this beautiful muck got made. The welcome clarity on a familiar favorite like “Children of the Grave” showcases the million-per-minute whacks of Bill Ward and that cavernous bottom, built bass line by bass line, courtesy of the unflagging Geezer Butler.

The real draw here, and something that might appeal equally to loyalists and newcomers, is the inclusion of outtakes and instrumental tracks. As is typically the case with reissues like this, most of the alternate versions are not fully formed or quite there yet although, considering the studio time involved hours instead of days, further underscores how locked in the lads were. Some of the earlier versions of works-in-progress with different (and inferior) lyrics are interesting as curiosities, and other versions offer fresh insights. One example, the early take of “Planet Caravan” features an extended outro wherein Iommi’s jazzy licks illustrate how dexterous and multi-faceted he was, even in the earliest days. Another, “Lord of This World” may actually be a technically or at least aesthetically superior track, employing very judicious use of piano and slide guitar not present on the final take; these embellishments provide coloration and smooth out the edges, giving the song room to breathe, even expand. Of course, the band needed to strip away these touches, however effective, because Master of Reality is not about expansion or color; it’s about being immersed into a deep, distant darkness that is somehow at once suffocating and liberating.

The all-instrumental versions should be a revelation for folks who’ve heard the hits, but never experienced the pleasures of Sabbath’s sheer musicianship. For fans who have savored the original classics all this time, these trio-only versions might be revelatory, and a whole new way to understand and appreciate the riches. As preposterous as it is to imagine any of these tunes without Ozzy, there’s something special about “Hand of Doom” and “Fairies Wear Boots” sans vocals; the extra space will only augment our awe of Iommi’s bottomless pit of riffs, and certainly makes a case that Butler and Ward remain the most underrated rhythm section in rock. Make no mistake, on these three albums—and the remainder of the decade—these supernauts were as tight as a screwed-down coffin.

What else? Oh, the band had few problems translating their albums in a live setting. The big-time bonus of this package is the expanded Past Lives, which gets the sonic upgrade/beefed-up liner notes treatment. Some of their earliest live footage is included, and other versions of songs from the early ‘70s. Nothing could possibly replace being there, but these remastered tracks do for the ears what the various YouTube clips do for the eyes. It’s all very necessary stuff.

The only remaining question is whether this “final” tour signifies the final end of Black Sabbath. And the answer, obviously, is that it doesn’t matter. Sabbath, as much as any band, can never be referred to in the past tense: the music they made is ineradicable, the musicians they continue to inform and influence are inestimable. Now, they are a brand as much as a band, and that’s okay; they’ve earned that adulation the good old fashioned way: by putting in the time, and surviving. Their legacy is making a body of work that, once the shallow and silly reactions ceased to resonate, remains seductive and irresistible, and very much alive.

 Originally published on 3/11/16 at PopMatters.

Black Magic: 15 Essential Black Sabbath Songs

Yes, they created the template for heavy metal and thrash, but even now it’s instructive to acknowledge just how unique Black Sabbath was; how different from anything else anyone was doing. It’s not just that Sabbath created and defined a whole new type of sound (which in turn splintered off into several sub-genres), it’s that they still make most of what came later so soulless and half-assed by comparison. This is not said to diminish the imitators; it’s meant to emphasize how unbelievably excellent and fresh their work still sounds today. Their first eight albums are not an embarrassment of riches; they are a debacle of riches, a travesty of riches.

And yet—and this is the larger and often overlooked point—the music this band made was, for the most part, dead serious: from the live-in-the-studio cauldron of blackened blues debut album, to the riff-heard-round-the-world title track from their follow-up Paranoid, this was an act with a considerable chip on its shoulder, and few punches were pulled until Ozzy, muddled and miserable, was asked to leave in ’79. From their eagerness to take on tough-talking politicians who can never quite find the courage to fight in the wars they start (“War Pigs”), to the dangers of hard drugs (“Hand of Doom”), to the pleasures of soft drugs (“Sweet Leaf”), to the ambivalence of drug-induced oblivion (“Snowblind”) to proto-thrash metal (“Hole in the Sky”) to all-encompassing attacks on the system (“Over to You”), it is ignorant, even a bit hysterical, to dismiss this group as a simplistic one-trick pony.

You’ve heard “Iron Man” and you’ve heard “Paranoid”, of course. Understanding those are the two most popular, possibly the most important (if not best) songs, what does the newcomer need to know? What should those familiar with the catalog remember to rejoice? From 1970 through 1978 there was little fat and less filler on those eight albums, and it’s difficult to determine the truly representative (much less “the best”) tracks. Yet, as we witness the previously inconceivable and watch the original four members getting together after more than three decades for a reunion, it seems like as good a time as any to dive into the vault and celebrate some essential Black Sabbath.

15. “Wicked World”

Their first album, a live-in-the-studio affair, back when this notion was not throwback so much as necessity, bristles with their blues roots. But in between the soon-to-be-trademark sledgehammer riffs and pitch-black rhythmic foundations (courtesy of the ever-underrated bassist Geezer Butler), Tony Iommi was already steering the ship into deeper, indefinable waters. On a first album full of guitar virtuosity (on the band’s first three efforts it is still arresting to listen and hear history being made; at the time they were simply creating the future of a whole genre of music that the most ambitious musicians are attempting, without success, to tap into four decades later), Iommi gives a short but indelible clinic of dynamics and pace on “Wicked World”. First, the man who could make a five piece drum kit sound like an orchestra, Bill Ward kicks off the proceedings with machine-gun fills while Butler ably keeps pace with his understated flair. Then Iommi introduces one of his immaculate riffs before shifting tempos, stopping on a dime and settling into the groove. Enter Ozzy, who at this point was less a singer than a street preacher, telling the hard truths in unadorned, acerbic accusations: “They can put a man on the moon quite easy/While people here on earth are dying of old diseases.” Then, for the bridge, Iommi descends into territory that could almost be described as jazz-like. The other instruments fade out and it’s only Iommi: a solo that packs a lot of anger, truth and eloquence into a matter of seconds. Then the band comes back in and delivers an outro that is as much commentary as it is a reprise of the intro: the more things change the more they stay the same.

14. “It’s Alright”

Fact: Bill Ward is the great unappreciated drummer of the ‘70s. On every Sabbath session he is nothing less than professional and it’s difficult to imagine how different (and not for the better) any of the songs would sound with a different guy behind the skins. But…as a singer? I may be the only person on the planet who feels it would have been a ballsy and possibly brilliant gambit for Sabbath to continue as a trio—after Ozzy left/got the boot—and have Ward sing instead of recruiting outside services. Evidence? His robust and winning vocals on the last song on Sabbath’s last (Ozzy) album, “Swinging The Chain” is compelling, but his brilliant performance on “It’s Alright” (from Technical Ecstasy) manages the near-impossible: a genuine ballad that rocks and further embarrasses the already lame “Changes” (from Vol. 4) which proved Ozzy could not do ballads, at least in the good old days. This song is necessary, if for no other reason, as Exhibit A for any bozo who insists Black Sabbath was a one-trick pony that was not capable of variety and understatement.

13.” Children of the Grave”

From Master of Reality, which doubled down on the sludge and slowed down the sledgehammer riffs like a dinosaur sinking in a tar pit. For the origins of “doom metal” look no further; this album is the aesthetic equivalent of Nigel Tufnel’s earnest appraisal of Spinal Tap’s Smell the Glove: none more black. The effect of this one is intentionally disjointing: it’s heavy and cumbersome, but it also churns along, thanks to Geezer and Ward stoking the fire in the furnace. Lyrically, the song picks up where the better songs on Paranoid left off, with warnings about the inevitability of endless conflict and possible extinction at the hands of the “war pigs”. But instead of wallowing in Orwellian territory, the youth are encouraged to seize control of their own destiny and rebel against a dystopian future that is not necessarily written in stone. The reverb-heavy ending and whispered chant “Children of the Grave” may or may not have been appropriated a decade later as Jason’s signature theme in the Friday the 13th franchise, proving that Sabbath’s influence extended beyond even music.

12. “Cornucopia”

From Vol. 4: it only takes the band four minutes to distill the entire message that much heralded fin de siècle flick The Matrix tried to impart. Bonus, it’s actually enjoyable, and it does not feature Keanu Reeves. But seriously, check out those 20 seconds that begin at the 1:44 mark: the sludgy static of guitars, bass, cymbals and gong smashes simulate the surreal and unsettling frenzy of postmodern life as well as any movie or book; indeed this song anticipates the information overload chaos connecting computers and our minds by about three decades.

11. “A Hard Road”

From the criminally overlooked swan song (with Ozzy as vocalist) Never Say Die!, this is one of several numbers that illustrates the ways the band was branching out and incorporating new sounds and styles. It is still difficult to understand how anyone can be unmoved by this crowded pub sing-along, which showcases every member of the band lending their voice. It is a declaration of optimism and the tough-love Sabbath doled out more convincingly than anyone of this era. It also features an Iommi solo (2:50-3:25) that could possibly save your life, if you let it. Listen to the chorus and crack the code of Sabbath’s last, great gasp: “Forget all your sorrow, don’t live in the past/And look to the future, ‘cause life goes too fast—you know.”

10. “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath”

The title track from the band’s fifth album does not sound like too much of a departure, at first: the muddy riffing and martial beat…same—and great—as it ever was. And then the chorus hits: a sprinkle of acoustic guitars and multi-tracked electric punctuations. Sabbath had already shown they were masters of tempo shifting and inimitable segues, but this is an obvious and arresting step in the band’s ongoing evolution. Although he had already established himself as the preeminent metal singer (and/or screamer), the dramatic clarity and nuance (yes, nuance!) of Ozzy’s vocals signified another weapon in the band’s arsenal. This is the ideal opening statement for an album that found the band incorporating synthesizers (Rick Wakeman from Yes), strings (!) and a generally more ambitious compositional approach that never crosses over into pretension.

9. “Hole in the Sky”

It was on Sabotage that Tony Iommi looked backward and (once again) invented the future. After the successful experimentations of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath it was obvious that the band was ready to once again turn things up to eleven. It would seem improbable for Iommi—or anyone—to expand or improve upon the once-in-a-career sonic assault of Vol. 4 but Sabotage features some of the cleanest, hugest, most immortal riffs in Iommi’s unparalleled repertoire. Take “Hole in the Sky”; now this is how you begin an album! Ward and Butler are in typically fine form, while Ozzy’s vocal range continues to mature: his words are easy to understand—and a joy to listen to. But this is Iommi’s show and he is less interested than ever in taking prisoners. While his obvious perfectionist streak (the one that would eventually drive Ozzy to distraction, facilitating his ouster from the band) is intensifying—much to our delight—above and behind the wall of sonic embellishments is the central guitar track: it cuts through the song like a dark laser, sparks and notes falling like stars crashing into the sea.

8. “Supernaut”

Fueled by booze and Bolivian marching powder (not for nothing was the album almost called “Snowblind” after the track of the same name), there is an aggressively defiant air that permeates every second of Vol. 4. On an album chock-full of indelible riffs, “Supernaut” warrants special mention. Not one to hand out praise lightly, Frank Zappa himself allegedly declared this one of his favorite songs, and it remains one of the ultimate adrenaline rushes in rock. The entire band is locked and loaded, Ward and Butler playing as though the world might end any moment (and who knows, it may have seemed that way in the studio), Ozzy turning in one of his most ferocious vocal turns (the near-mocking boasts he spits out might make this the first, or at least whitest, gangster rap song of all time) and Iommi’s solo is the soundtrack for the coolest action movie never made. It ends with one of the most delicious verses of the decade, a middle finger to fashion and conformity:

Got no religion, don’t need no friends,
Got all I want and I don’t need to pretend.
Don’t try to reach me, ‘cause I’d tear up your mind,
I’ve seen the future and I’ve left it behind…

7. “Spiral Architect”

To be certain, Sabbath is never going to be for everyone. Still, there are certain tracks, like the already-discussed “It’s Alright”, as well as “Planet Caravan”, “Orchid”, “Embryo”, “Laguna Sunrise” and “Air Dance” to put on for the uninitiated listener and give them five guesses to name that band. “Spiral Architect”, the pinnacle—and finale—of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath showcases multi-tracked vocals from Ozzy, acoustic guitars galore and…strings? Simply put, as brilliant (and in some ways innovative) as Sabbath’s blues-drenched debut was, the growth and expansion demonstrated between 1970 and 1978 is as impressive and ambitious as that of just about any other band. “Spiral Architect” is a high water mark at a crucial juncture of Sabbath’s evolution: after they pulled this off, they could—and did—begin to further experiment in the studio (resulting in longer, more complex compositions like “Megalomania” and “The Writ”), and as they incorporated strings and brass into the mix, they eventually made work that even die-hard fans have a hard time getting their heads around (see: Never Say Die!).

6. “Black Sabbath”

This is it: the song that launched the debut, and a billion puny imitators, clinging like insects to the monolith they could never become. It’s hard to argue with the uncomplicated symmetry of this opening statement. Band: Black Sabbath. Album: Black Sabbath. Song: Black Sabbath. And yet…the all-too-easily disparaged (and, for the easily offended, objectionable) appellation Black Sabbath ensures that the band could never really be taken all that seriously. Not only is this a damn shame, it is enough to make one wish they had simply stuck with their original name. Earth, as the band was initially known in industrial Birmingham, England, is, incidentally, a much more appropriate word to associate with this very blue-collar and bruising band. Earth is the opposite or air, the ground is not ethereal, and water turns it to mud; if ever a band basked proudly and beautifully (and always unabashedly) in the mud, it is Sabbath.

Certainly wizards, warnings and wickedness abound on their debut, but it sounds today exactly like what was recorded: a ferocious and opportunistic young band putting everything on the table, fully aware they might never get a second shot. And despite all the silly mythmaking, the only thing demonic about this band was its proclivity for employing the musical tritone (also known as the Devil’s Interval) in its music. Blah blah blah; the less said trying to explain, or even consecrate this song—and the band that made it—the better: it speaks for itself loudly and proudly. More than four decades has done nothing to diminish the devastating impact of that final solo, a speed drill aimed directly at your brain; if you survive the experience nothing is ever the same.

5. “Fairies Wear Boots”

In addition to “merely” defining (and/or refining if you really want to argue that certain bands who played hard and heavy got there first) metal, Sabbath’s second album Paranoid is an inextricable part of rock history: the DNA of this music pulls the best of what came before and pumps life into so much that came after. While it is impossible, if entertaining, to try and pick the ultimate Iommi riff (or even the ten best…) there are a handful of tracks that are so unadulterated they resist explanation. As much a celebration as a song, “Fairies Wear Boots” seldom stays in the same place for too long, dodging and weaving into a weird and wonderful web of its own making. Where some tracks from the first album and (arguably) throughout the band’s career might be a tad too harsh or abrasive for certain ears, it is difficult to imagine any half open-minded listener not getting swept up in the exhilaration of this tour de force.

We have all the crucial elements of a classic track: a young band, hungry and confident, yet still unsure of its future and swinging for the fences. It’s a rock and roll home run in all regards: Bill Ward’s dexterous drumming and Butler’s ever-supple bass stylings, all in blistering pursuit of Iommi’s ubiquitous lead runs. Add to this the Butler’s assertion that the lyrics are allegedly taking the piss out of skinheads (bringing the boot-wearing bullies down a notch or three by calling them “fairies”). The last song on their second and most revered album: this is the moment there was still a tiny air of innocence and adventure. After this the band had little choice but to take on—and conquer—the world; there was nothing left to do.

4. “Symptom of the Universe”

Give this one a whirl and see if it doesn’t make almost everything you hear today and a great deal of the good stuff from back in the day, sound safe, generic and half-ass: behold, the birth of thrash metal. The band would make still make unbelievable music after Sabotage (including, of course the album that supposedly sucks but most definitely does not:, but they never sounded quite this deliberate or undaunted again. Any long-haired singer or guitarist from the ‘80s who claims they were not influenced by this song is in denial; anyone today who would like to think they are not walking in its shadow simply don’t realize the bands they do worship have already tried to appropriate this unsurpassable exaltation. Bonus: one of Ozzy’s all-time great vocal performances.

3. “Into The Void”

The Alpha and Omega of the metal riff. Buzz Osborne of The Melvins has made a career out of this sound, proving that you can still find inspiration in a black hole. It never got darker, or bleaker than “Into the Void”, and yet it somehow still gets the blood pumping. It is the beginning of so-called Doom Metal, but there is nothing terribly gloomy or negative about this song. In fact, like much of Sabbath’s material, it’s neither resigned nor nihilistic—despite what the uninformed haters might claim—but instead is a no bullshit call to arms. In an era (then, now) of plugging in and dropping out, Sabbath’s message is like a blast of fresh air, albeit from a smoky furnace, reminding anyone still listening to take whatever control they can and make a better future than the one society already has written. Meanings and messages aside, the riffs throughout this song are so sick, so scintillating, so redemptory that any young person’s musical experience is lacking without them. Older and wiser, the ones who figured it out early return to it often so they might remember what it’s like to be innocent, unsatisfied and yearning for a different reality to master.

2. “War Pigs”

What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding? Nothing. Listen: the lyrics may be somewhat unsophisticated, but then again we don’t need flowery language or overly refined sentiment to discuss young soldiers being sent to die in pointless wars. Take Dylan’s “Masters of War” (from 1963)? Okay, fine; how about War Pigs? Any questions about where we stand here, circa 1970? In the fields the bodies burning/As the war machine keeps turning. Forty years and more than a few quagmires later, this is still arguably the most prescient and devastatingly succinct lyrical couplet in rock. And the forceful words are matched by the fury of the music: from the air-raid siren to Ozzy’s unrivaled snarl to the rat-a-tat fills from Bill Ward, approximating the figurative cannon fodder of soldiers from so many wars, this is angry music, but there is a method to this madness. Idiots hear the word “Satan” and stupidly associate this song with the facile depiction of this band as devil worshippers. Of course, as the song concludes we get the image of the war pigs, on their knees as Satan licks his chops to welcome them to a world they no longer control. From Ozzy’s lips to God’s ears. Above all other concerns, this is a song that refuses to age softly or lose its edge: it is yet another historic occasion where we are treated to Tony Iommi inventing heavy metal in real time.

1. “Wheels of Confusion”

Not one of Sabbath’s most cherished songs (though it should be); not from their most beloved album (though it could be), why would “Wheels of Confusion” top any list of all-time Sabbath tracks? Simply put, this is an electric guitar symphony in less than eight minutes. This is the wall of sound (or, for hardcore Sabbath fans, the wall of sleep of sound), plugged in and performed by one man: Tony Iommi. It got different (for them, for us) but it never got any better than this. “Wheels of Confusion” is at once totally of the earth; the sparks flying from the gray factories in Birmingham, and otherworldly; a comet stalking the darkest part of the sky. Every member contributes their finest work, from Ward’s frenetic but totally in control drumming, to Butler’s vertiginous bass assault, to Ozzy’s most assured and top-of-the-mountain hollering. But once again, as always, Iommi is propelling this track into another dimension. Can you even keep count of how many guitars are multi-tracked? Who cares? Literally from the opening second to the slowly-retreating fade-out, Iommi owns: his playing has seldom—if ever—sounded this accomplished, and committed.

The song flies through the first four minutes and change, taking stock of our existence with Ozzy’s wizened, clear-eyed assessment:

So I found that life is just a game
But you know there’s never been a winner;
Try your hardest you’ll still be a loser
The world will still be turning when you’ve gone…

It doesn’t rhyme and it doesn’t need to. In fact, it probably looks unimpressive on paper, and that’s okay. Hearing Ozzy bellow this somber statement of purpose, followed by his reiteration of the last lines “Yeah when you’ve gone!” it becomes clear this is not a capitulation to life’s cruel fate; it’s a battle cry from the trenches. Leave the conformity and quiet desperation to the clock-punchers and sell-outs; get in the game and do something (anything) before it’s too late. And if this warning is falling on deaf ears, condolences: it’s already too late. The song concludes with three minutes of shredding (“The Straightener”) that outdoes anything Iommi had done or would do, and it’s one to savor for the ages: he states a theme (5:34), repeats it (5:48), doubles down (6:00), triples down (6:14), layering in a flurry of licks and riffs interlocking until they finally break free and blast into infinity. This is Sabbath’s ultimate dose of Black Magic.