Like millions around the world, the news of Ozzy Osbourne’s death at the end of July hit me hard. I was sitting in a restaurant on Frith Street when my friend broke the news, and I lost my appetite.
As a gay boy born in 1989, I grew up on the edge of the music video era, part of the MTV generation, and the birth of reality TV. I’d always had a soft spot for alternative people, and Ozzy, through his chaos, charisma, and authenticity, was an icon to me. I avidly watched The Osbournes, absorbed all his historical lore, and idolised him for all the reasons many of the public had dismissed him.
While I grew up loving Madonna, Tina Turner, and Bowie, my older brother was into much heavier stuff. Metallica, TOOL, Meshuggah, Ozzy, Black Sabbath, to name a few. You could hear their music blasting from his room or hear him violently practising his drum kits to their haunting hits. Through him, I was introduced to metal — and Ozzy, especially.Then came The Osbournes TV Show. It was stratospheric. Ozzy wasn’t just a name on a CD anymore, or the man who bit the head off a bat — he was a pop culture icon and household name. Even the kids at school who’d never heard Black Sabbath were quoting him. But I felt like I’d known him first.
This surge in his visibility and the glamorised chaos of the alternative lifestyle hooked me. I didn’t want to, or have the musical talents to be a rock star, but I wanted a slice of that energy — to feel part of something bigger, weirder, louder. To be around alternative people. My brother’s trips to Soho to record and practice in studios seemed the perfect entry point.
So, in 2003, aged 12 or 13, I begged him to take me along to his band practice in Soho, to the notorious (and now demolished, fuck you Crossrail) Denmark Street, also known as Tin Pan Alley. Enterprise Studios was tucked away on an alleyway behind the now-gone 12 Bar. The moment I stepped inside, I was immediately intimidated and spellbound.
The studio reeked of history and ‘if these walls could talk’ vibes. Guitars on the walls. Flyers, gig posters, drumsticks, old rock magazines. Guys in bands hanging out, writing and editing lyrics, waiting for their turn. They had ripped biceps, tattoos, piercings, and the best haircuts I’d ever seen. As a little blonde Catholic schoolboy, I was overwhelmed, but also fascinated. To this day, I’ll say it: alternative men are the best dressed. Fight me. And they never quite know how beautiful they are.
The smell, the vibe, the muffled sound of basslines thundering out from soundproofed rooms made it a sensory and formative experience for me. But the biggest surprise? They were fucking nice to me. Teenage boys had never really been kind to me. I’d grown used to being ignored or mocked for being effeminate-looking. But here, I was welcomed, and while my brother practised, they let me flick through magazines and records. No side-eyes and no slurs.
That was the first moment I felt I might belong somewhere. The kindest, most accepting people I met weren’t the ones at Pride waving rainbow flags or the dancing guys in G-A-Y. They were the pierced, the tattooed, the eyeliner-smudged goths, punks, and metalheads in Cro Bar, the Intrepid Fox, the 12 Bar. The weirdos. Like me. Alternative people are often accepting because they (for the part) know what it’s like to be an outcast. Rock, metal, goth, punk — these are magnets for the lonely, the excluded, the kids who never fit in. That energy and life experience create stunning music, bold fashion, and (usually) a left-leaning worldview. I felt safe around it – and I still do. Cro Bar in Soho became my second home in my 20s and I’d end up there every night. It had that same magic I first felt in the studios. You could be anything there: a mess, poetic, ugly, sexy, strange. I’d always be making out with beautiful ‘straight’ men. Its atmosphere was special, and I still mourn its loss. The only queer venue in London that hosted this type of energy was The Black Cap in Camden, which is now also gone. Poor London.
When I started properly mixing with people, it wasn’t the queer scene that first embraced me. It was the alternative scene. The people who made space for me weren’t on Old Compton Street — they were headbanging to Slayer. And they changed everything. It sounds corny, but it’s true. So, when I heard about Ozzy’s death, it didn’t just feel like the loss of a heavy metal legend. It felt like a crack in my own origin story. Ozzy wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness to me; he was the very unlikely gatekeeper to a world where I was finally allowed to belong. Through my brother’s influence and Ozzy’s influence, I stepped into a subculture that showed me kindness and warmth before anyone else did.
I’m grateful to my brother for being brave enough to be alternative — and to Ozzy for, well, being Ozzy. Thank you for the chaos. Thank you for the kindness. You helped a little gay boy feel less alone in the world.
Long live the weirdos.
Give Topher a follow @tophertaylor
