We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll: My First Time Hearing Black Sabbath

By SoDak

My neighbor Tim was five years older than me. He was wild, always in trouble with his parents, teachers, and the law. He had a paper route, affording him the ability to buy some records. The others he acquired through other means. He introduced me to AC/DC and Ted Nugent. The way Tim sang along to “Cat Scratch Fever,” “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang,” and “Big Balls” was very creepy and seemed dangerous. Nevertheless, I loved flipping through his records, as we listened to various gems. One day, in 1979, when I was seven, I saw We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll in his collection. Tim readily shared his records, so he told me to take it home to give it a listen. 

It was October, starting to cool off, in South Dakota. I was eager to spin the record on the cheap rummage sale stereo on top of the dresser. I set the needle on side A, curious when I heard the thunderstorm and bell. Then there was the guitar. What the fuck? I stopped the record, not sure how I was going to approach listening to this record and what to make of the few notes that I heard. I opened the windows to feel the cool breeze from outside. I repositioned the speakers, so they were facing each other. I turned off the lights, turned the volume up, restarted the record, and laid on the ground so my head was between the speakers. The world of music, as I knew it, changed. As I listened to “Black Sabbath,” I internalized what I was hearing, including the “figure in black which points at me.” It was chilling, but necessary to experience. I flipped the record over to be mesmerized by the antiwar song “War Pigs.” All these songs were heavy, with plenty of psychedelic and jazzy aspects thrown into the mix. I listened to sides A and B a couple more times, before moving onto sides C and D. I was struck by the variety of songs, from “Tomorrow’s Dream” to “Changes” to “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” to “Laguna Sunrise.” I lost my shit listening to “Children of the Grave”—the riff, the fucking drums, and vocals. It was perfection, as another antiwar, revolutionary song. My mother opened the door; I was crying due to being emotionally overwhelmed. She saw that I was joyful, so she quickly left the room. “N.I.B.” just made me want to hear everything again. I was headbanging before I ever heard of the term. It was natural.

The collection We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll was released in 1976. Most of the songs were from the first four records, with one track from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and one from Sabotage. I reluctantly gave the record back to my neighbor Tim. As soon as I saved enough money, I bought Master of Reality, because of the song “Children of the Grave.” I fell in love with “After Forver,” “Into the Void,” and “Solitude.” I really appreciated the inclusion of the instrumental song “Orchid.” My Black Sabbath collection continued to grow—vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. Every time I saw a copy of We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll, I bought it, so I could give it a friend.

I saw Black Sabbath play three times. The first time, Sabbath opened with “War Pigs.” I instantly had goosebumps, welled up, and remembered the first time hearing Sabbath.   

Holy Fuckin’ Shit Local Teen Has Mind Blown

By Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B

In the days of before, that time in my life when I was sticking my toes in the waters of adulthood, when everything was a first, I heard Black Sabbath for the first time. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a friend’s El Camino in the middle of a pine forest, parked next to the creek where I spent a lot of time fishing and talking with my father as a lad. My friend and I were fairly new adherents to the thrash metal sound that had popped up a few years earlier. We were obsessed with Metallica, who had not yet turned to shit, Metal Church, Exciter, Anthrax, and Slayer. I lived in an area where access to heavy music was difficult. FM radio had only happened a few years before; cable television was not the norm, and, for kids like me, it wasn’t available since I lived outside of town in the mountains. The nearest record store was almost an hour away, which was an insurmountable distance due to not having a driver’s license and parents who didn’t understand my musical needs. It seems incredible that I had Exciter records a few years before I obtained my first Black Sabbath album. I assumed Sabbath had a dated sound that had nothing at all to do with the metal I was mail ordering through ads in magazines.

My friend, the El Camino commander, had a youngish father who was into Sabbath, so my friend decided to bring a cassette copy of Paranoid on one of our poorly planned camping trips. I may have been one or two beers into our music listening night when he put Paranoid into the cassette deck. In that moment, the walls I had constructed in my brain crumbled, and my musical journey took a giant leap forward. I couldn’t believe how fucking heavy it was, heavy and accessible. This was such a monumental moment for me that I can still remember almost everything that happened that night, and the excitement I felt when hearing “War Pigs” and “Fairies Wear Boots” for the first time, sometimes I still feel it.

I have a hard time naming favorite songs, albums, and bands, and, when I do, they never match reality. For example, I frequently name Iron Maiden as one of my top two favorite bands, but the reality is that I listen to The Fall, CAN, and New Model Army more than Maiden. Nostalgia is powerful, and for that reason Maiden will always be one of my favorites, but Black Sabbath will always be my favorite band, Paranoid my favorite record, and “Planet Caravan” and “War Pigs” in the upper echelon of my favorite songs.

As a side note, I am writing this after Ozzy’s death. Other than a handful of songs, I haven’t been a fan of Ozzy’s solo career. The duet he did with Lita Ford is among the worst songs of the 1980s. His concert series, Ozzfest, in my opinion, did a lot of damage to heavy music, by promoting shitty pseudo-metal bands. I have mixed feelings about Mr. Osbourne, but I cannot imagine “Planet Caravan” without his voice. For that, I will remember him fondly.

“What Is This That Stands Before Me?”

By Scott

It was the late 1990s. I was in 7th grade, spending a Saturday afternoon at a friend’s house, listening to—that’s right—Korn. I didn’t own a CD player, so my friend made me a tape. It was their self-titled, debut album. 

My dad picked me up, and I put on the Korn tape. We listened on the ride home. Neither one of us spoke. Then my dad said, “Have you ever heard Black Sabbath?” 

When we got home, he sat me down in the living room, dug around in a cabinet, and pulled out an LP. I watched as he walked over to the rarely used turntable. This felt significant: the last time he’d opened up the turntable was to play “Wipeout” when I’d started learning the drums. Now, he put on the Black Sabbath record, another self-titled, debut album, and handed me the sleeve. I stared into that scene for a while: the dark and dripping woods, the decaying building, the figure in black. 

Then, through his old stereo speakers: the scratch of the needle, rainfall, a church bell, thunder. A church bell? 

You know what it sounds like after that. Today, years later, I think of Louis Althusser’s remark about previously unknown continents of human thought: the Greeks discovering the continent of math; Galileo, of physics; Marx, of history; and possibly Freud, of the unconscious. Those first moments of music in the song “Black Sabbath” sure sound to me like the discovery of another new continent: the continent of heavy metal. 

I thought none of this at the time, of course. The song merely blew my fucking mind. 

“What is this?” My mom had been lurking around the house, listening. 

“Black Sabbath. Ozzy Osbourne’s band,” my dad said. She grimaced and walked away. I listened to the whole side, and then the other. Then another LP: Paranoid. That night, I taped them both, scurried off with my cassettes, and listened to virtually nothing else for six months.

I still have those tapes. They’ll go into my grave.

Almost thirty years have passed since that afternoon. The other day, I put on the live stream of Black Sabbath’s farewell concert from Birmingham. There were many bands performing that day who I’d first heard, and loved, after passing through the Sabbath gateway: denizens of the heavy metal continent. 

I have a three-year-old, and she watched some of the concert while it played throughout the day. I didn’t push it. But the next morning, I showed her the clips of Ozzy, taking the stage for his final show, and then the rest of Black Sabbath. She raised her little hand and formed the sign of the devil horns and said in her little voice, “We want Ozzy! We want Ozzy! We want Ozzy!” 

Yeah, she was coached. Fuck it. In this day and age, certain family values must be preserved.

Driving to Salt Lake City Soundtrack

By Jack Rafferty

Ever since we moved away, my partner and I have been traveling to Salt Lake City often to visit family and friends. It always takes a certain amount of strength on my end to brave the traffic of the city after getting so used to being in a rural area, but it is something I’m getting better with. We usually take turns on choosing music, but we mostly stuck to 1970s tunes this time around. 

Fleetwood Mac. 

I’ve been back on a Fleetwood kick lately. Fleetwood Mac has always been one of those groups where I have adored a handful of their songs, but then never gone much deeper into their discography beyond Rumours and their self-titled. I would like to give more of their music the time of day, but that will have to wait for another time. There is nothing like “Dreams” coming on at the right moment, with the right landscape passing you by.

Dire Straits. 

“Sultans of Swing” has always been a song that I enjoyed a lot. I hadn’t listened to much Dire Straits beyond that. So, it was nice to take the time during the drive to explore a couple of their albums. I listened to their self-titled and Communique. The melancholy, spacy sound of their bluesy rock was great to just lean back and drive to, without much thought other than the road. There were definitely tracks on both albums that didn’t grab me as much as I would have liked, but overall, I’m glad I gave them a listen, and am looking forward to listening to more of their work. 

Stealers Wheel, “Stuck in the Middle With You.”

I’ve been obsessed with this song ever since seeing Reservoir Dogs. I’m sure that is a common experience for folks around my age. This one is up there in terms of my favorite driving songs. I used to go off roading with friends up around Midway or out in the west desert, and this one was always so much fun to bounce down rocky roads at 2 AM. 

Jefferson Airplane.

There is a quote by Hunter S. Thompson, “on some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.” This always made me think specifically of the song “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane, which is fitting, as I know Thompson enjoyed this band. There are times when certain tracks from Surrealistic Pillow come on while driving, where I cannot help but press down harder on the gas, coasting toward some unknown abandon. 

The Velvet Underground.

I found out during the drive that my partner had never heard of The Velvet Underground, which astounded me, so we took some time and listened to some tracks from Loaded and their debut. I find it remarkable that I still have yet to listen to anything that sounds like Velvet Underground. I suppose it is a testament to their uncompromising avant garde sound and style, along with Lou’s poetic lyrics. 

Rory Gallagher.

I’ve admittedly listened to far too little of Rory Gallagher’s music, and I need to start changing that. We listened to a few of his songs on the way up to Salt Lake City, but it was during a point in the drive where the guitar passages just weren’t doing it for my partner, so we switched it up. I really loved listening to the song “I Fall Apart” while we did listen, though. I am looking forward to diving into his records with more of an attention span soon.  

Graveyard, Hisingen Blues (2011)

 

By Jack Rafferty

I do not like Greta Van Fleet. I must begin this review in this way because I need to make a distinguishing point. Greta approaches their throwback 1970s sound in a way that is cough heavily influenced by Led Zeppelin and Robert Plant’s vocals, to the point of being unforgivably derivative at times. Graveyard does the blissfully opposite. This album feels like a love letter to an era and collection of types of sound that revels in it, rather than cashes in on it. Perhaps I am being overly harsh to Greta in my admittedly flippant assessment of their approach, but I think it is appropriate in highlighting what Graveyard does so wonderfully right. It understands what to draw from, without simply becoming a chameleon, and by extension, a charlatan. 

With that out of the way, let us talk about how fucking fun Hisingen Blues is. Careening back and forth from blistering rock and roll jams to bluesy, moodier tracks that channel a bit of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Graveyard always feel completely at home in their sound, brimming with emotion and a love of what they are playing in every given moment. 

I think the most straightforward acclaim I can provide for this album is that I can’t count on my two hands for lack of fingers the amount of times I audibly exclaimed “fuck yes!” or got out of my chair to bob my head and sway my body in my own awkward fashion because the tunes just demanded it. This is the kind of music that makes you forget about the pile of thousands of types of bullshit worming around in your head for its whole runtime, and that’s reason enough to celebrate it. 

Another important note about what makes this album so great is the understanding they have as songwriters in the importance of pacing. Each track individually builds and crescendos or mellows at the most appropriate and satisfying moments, and the tracks in relation to one another also flow very well.

Listening to this album was my introduction to Graveyard, and so I am sure I am behind the curve when it comes to this group and the larger context/commentary surrounding them. That’s one of many wonderful things about music, however. I love the knowledge that, even if everyone stopped making music tomorrow, I’d still have these personally undiscovered treasure troves to seek out and bask in. Albums like Hisingen Blues remind me of that fact, and it slightly brightens my otherwise blackened disposition. 

Live Show Review: Sierra Ferrell

 

By Jack Rafferty

We finally got the chance to see Sierra Ferrell live with some friends of ours, and I’m so happy we did so, because it was even better than I thought it would be. The only issue we faced was in the venue. It was a Twilight Series concert in Salt Lake City, and, for some reason, the show was located in the middle of the street near Library Square, with barricades on each side of the road, which caused the many people in attendance to be crushed together in a very unpleasant way. To make matters worse, all the food trucks and beer lines ran parallel to the street, which caused the lines for each to intersect the crowd, and just made it generally a nightmare to navigate. This caused us to enjoy the openers (a local solo act who did a lot of Townes covers and Kaitlin Butts) far less than I think we would have otherwise. 

When it came time for Sierra to go on, we actually just left the main area that we paid for tickets to be in, and stood on the lawn next to the fence, which seems absurd, but it made the rest of the show so much better, and I’m relieved our friend had the idea to do so. Once Sierra and her band got on stage, all was well with the world. They started the set with one of my favorite songs from her new album, “I Could Drive You Crazy” and a good deal of the setlist consisted of a variety of songs that I love. I don’t think there was one that I wished had been performed but wasn’t. 

We were all captivated the entire time, with Sierra’s pristine voice soaring over our heads and the band playing immaculately. It all felt very rehearsed yet loose and easy. I honestly preferred these performances of the songs to their studio versions. The sun had also gone down behind the trees by this point, and there was a cool breeze blowing, which was a welcome reprieve from the summer heat we had been enduring among the crowd. 

They played their cover of John Anderson’s “Years” which had recently gained a lot of attention from another performance a couple of years ago. This cover really highlights Sierra’s range and her ability to belt out long, powerful notes. It was great to watch how much control she exerted over her voice, from the varied fluctuations in tone and volume as well. I really was not prepared for how impressed I would be watching her sing live. 

Post Malone joined her on stage for a couple songs as well, which drove the crowd wild. I’ve never been much of a fan of his music, but he seems to be a nice enough person from what I have heard. A lot of folks seem to run into him all over Salt Lake City. One of the songs he was present for was a duet with Sierra, and it actually sounded great. 

By the end, as darkness was finally settling into the valley, they closed out with an encore consisting of a more subdued version of “In Dreams,” a personal favorite of mine. Afterward, we walked a few miles in the cool night back to where our friends were staying, talking the whole way about how much we enjoyed the show. Despite the difficulties with the venue, this will be one to remember, for sure.