Went to Birmingham today (again) … re watched my vids from Back to the beginning … maybe cried a little had a pint for Ozzy… at the The Brasshouse on Broad St. Birmingham (awesome pub) great music.. who would of thought a pub in Birmingham playing good music eh!!!!
[ Even tho im.sure he’d call what I was drinking p*ss water cider ]
Lovely day!!!!!
Back to the Beginning: A Pint for Ozzy in Birmingham
I went to Birmingham today. Again. Something about that city keeps pulling me back. Maybe it’s the grit. Maybe it’s the ghosts of heavy metal echoing through its alleys. Or maybe, if I’m honest, it’s just Ozzy. That voice, that chaos, that raw soul that helped shape the soundtrack of my life.
This time, I didn’t go for any special event or festival. No grand pilgrimage. Just me, the city, some memories, and eventually, a pint at The Brasshouse on Broad Street. But somehow, it became more than just another visit.
Before I even stepped off the train, I already felt that familiar tug. Birmingham has changed a lot over the years—more polished now, a bit sleeker around the edges—but it still holds its industrial heart tightly. The streets still echo with stories, especially for someone like me who came of age headbanging to Sabbath and spinning records until the grooves wore thin.
I spent the morning revisiting old spots, camera in hand, re-watching videos I’d taken on previous trips. From the grey skyline to the hidden murals, everything seemed to whisper reminders of how it all began—not just for Ozzy and Sabbath, but for me too. The first time I heard Paranoid, the first riff of Iron Man, that unmistakable howl from War Pigs. These weren’t just songs; they were emotional detonators, and I was back at ground zero.
I ducked into a quiet corner near where the old Aston area once pulsed with factory life, headphones in, and let the music play. Maybe I cried a little. Maybe more than a little. There’s something deeply emotional about standing where legends once walked, where working-class roots birthed one of the most revolutionary sounds in music history. Ozzy wasn’t just a frontman—he was every misfit’s prophet, a shambolic saint of defiance, pain, and weirdness.
By the afternoon, I needed something to bring me back down to Earth. And that’s when I found myself at The Brasshouse on Broad Street. Now let me tell you, I didn’t expect much. Just needed a pint and a pause. But that place? What a surprise.
Tucked between the buzz of Broad Street’s nightlife and the history-laced canal district, The Brasshouse is one of those pubs that manages to blend character with comfort. And more importantly—for this weary Sabbath fan—it had damn good music.
Who would’ve thought, right? A pub in the heart of Birmingham playing actual good music. No overproduced pop, no mindless club beats—just proper rock, soul, and the kind of tracks that make you nod in appreciation before the chorus even hits. I swear, five minutes in and I was already tapping my glass in rhythm, halfway through a pint, feeling a little less heavy-hearted.
The crowd was a mix—locals, students, a few older rockers like myself. No one bothered anyone. People just existed in the music, which is all I really wanted. The staff were friendly, laid-back, and didn’t blink twice when I raised my glass and quietly said, “To Ozzy.”
Maybe it’s cheesy. Maybe a little mad. But there’s something deeply moving about lifting a pint to a man who helped carry you through the worst of it. Through heartbreaks, job losses, mental spirals—Ozzy’s voice was always there, reminding us that the world was dark, yes, but that screaming into the void was a kind of therapy. One we were all invited to.
And in that pub, in the middle of Birmingham, the birthplace of metal, surrounded by the muffled hum of conversation and clinking glasses, I felt oddly at peace. Not just because of the music or the memory, but because I was there—still alive, still listening, still remembering.
It’s easy to romanticize places tied to music legends. But Birmingham feels different. It’s not just about what happened here; it’s about what survived. The city didn’t hide from its past—it wears it. From the Tony Iommi handrail sculpture to the growing recognition of the city’s musical heritage, you can feel that the spirit of Sabbath lives on, not as museum pieces, but as cultural DNA.
Leaving The Brasshouse, I took one last slow walk past the canals, letting the golden glow of the late afternoon soak into everything. I thought of the younger me—wild hair, cassette tapes, a secondhand Walkman—and how proud he’d be that I never stopped returning to the music that raised me. And more than that, that I returned to where it all started.
Birmingham isn’t glossy. It doesn’t try to be. But if you’re looking for soul, history, and a reminder of what real music means—this city has it all.
And if you ever find yourself needing a quiet toast to a living legend, head to Broad Street. Order a pint. Find a corner in The Brasshouse. Let the music carry you. Raise your glass.
To Ozzy.
Let me know if you’d like a version tailored more as a blog post, personal essay, or music magazine feature—I can adapt the tone or structure easily.
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