I wore a school uniform through eighth grade and remember how bold I felt wearing a “Diary of a Madman” t-shirt to public school in junior high. The front of the shirt was the album cover, which I was okay with, but the back featured a closeup of Ozzy baring vampire teeth and wearing a cape—a silly picture, I knew, and I worried the other kids wouldn’t appreciate the spirit of 1982 Ozzy.

I also hung an Ozzy poster in my bedroom—Ozzy in a tough-guy pose, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder. I didn’t like the poster, but it was the only one at the store. Ozzy was not a tough guy, and being tough wasn’t part of his music, his message, or him.

His wife and manager Sharon, who really is tough, astutely marketed him as the Prince of Darkness, capitalizing on the Sabbath fame. But when I think of Ozzy, I think of a guy who was resilient and wild and free. He loved performing live. He seemed so happy on stage. That was real joy. Fans could see that was what he wanted to do.

Life offstage must have been a bore, and drugs and alcohol helped him cope while feeding whatever predispositional craving lurking within.

His confidence grew during those Sabbath years, and he brought loads of enthusiasm and appreciation to his solo career. Watch him live, clapping, cheering on the band, the music, and the crowd, throwing the fans all the love he had in him.

Ozzy was real. He voice was true, his delivery, true—a crazy train, a silly guy who went on stage and sang. The guy on stage in Paris, 1970, was the guy on stage in the 80s and 90s and on until the end—which came last Tuesday, July 22. He was the Prince of Darkness, but the world is darker without him.