I like most kinds of music, but heavy metal is another story. So, I took no note of Ozzy Osbourne’s “Diary of a Madman” tour, which began in Germany in November 1981, moved on to the U.K., and arrived in the United States at the beginning of 1982.
By that time, Osbourne was a superstar, known to everyone except me. I hadn’t even heard of Black Sabbath, of which he had been the frontman until they parted ways in 1979.
On Wednesday, March 31, 1982, I got a call from Harley Lewin, who identified himself as a New York lawyer. “I hear you’re the best lawyer in Boston,” he told me. I didn’t ask for his source, better to leave well enough alone I thought.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m in Pennsylvania with Ozzy Osbourne and the band,” Mr. Lewin said. “We need some help up in Boston.” Lewin explained that the Licensing Board had cancelled Ozzy’s permit to perform Friday night at the Boston Garden. “I’d like you to take care of it.”
What I learned years later from a New Yorker profile was that Lewin had spent the 1970s on tour with rock bands “putting out fires and breaking up fights” and that, at the time of the phone call, he was “in charge of running interference for the Ozzy Osbourne tour the year after Osbourne bit the head off a live bat onstage.” Larissa MaFarquhar, “Bag Man,” The New Yorker, March 12, 2007.
The first thing I did was read up on press reports about Ozzy. The problem with the licensing board wasn’t the first threat to the April 2 concert. Two weeks earlier, lead guitarist Randy Rhoads had died in a plane crash in Florida, and Ozzy wanted to cancel the rest of the tour. His manager, Sharon Arden (three months short of becoming Sharon Osbourne), convinced him to go on, with Bernie Tormé replacing Rhoads.
A Newton high school teacher heard from students that Ozzy killed animals onstage, bit the head off a bat, and committed other distasteful acts as part of his show. The result was a complaint to the Boston Licensing Board and revocation of the band’s right to perform at the Boston Garden. I somehow managed to get an “emergency” hearing before the board, and I remember looking up at its chair, Andrea Wasserman, and making a pitch to undo the cancellation. I proposed that Ozzy and his band would comply with whatever conditions the board might impose.
That did it. Here are the conditions that I can recall:
“No profanity.”
“No obscenity.”
“No pyrotechnics.”
“No violence.”
“No feigned violence.”
I rushed back to the office, flush with rescuing the concert, and caught up with Harley Lewin in Bethlehem, PA, where the band was performing that evening. I laid it all out for him and asked him to explain the conditions to the client.
The next morning, I reached Harley again, just to be sure he had relayed the information to Ozzy and the band members. “The conditions were my idea,” I told him. “You worry too much,” he replied. Harley told me that Ozzy would be at the Hotel Meridien and suggested that I go over with my bill.
That afternoon, I called the hotel and asked to speak with Ozzy Osbourne. The front desk told me that no one under that name was registered. I let Lewin know.
Then I called Boston Garden and asked for them to call backstage. The phone rang at least 20 times before someone answered. “I’m calling to speak with Ozzy Osbourne,” I told him. “They’ve gone out to dinner,” he replied. I left my number and asked him to have Ozzy call me back.
Later that afternoon the phone rang. “Hello, my name is Sharon. I’m Ozzy Osbourne’s manager, returning your call.”
I started to explain who I was. She interrupted, “I know who you are. Why don’t you come over to the Garden, and you can attend the concert.” She gave me instructions on how to find my way backstage.
I don’t remember whether I was carrying my briefcase, or maybe the New York Times, but I know for certain that I was wearing a suit and tie. Not exactly rock concert apparel, but that is how lawyers dressed in 1982. As I entered the Garden, a fan with a ticket spotted me heading in the same direction. He looked at me and said “Asshole.”
The next thing I remember is being backstage. A woman came over and said, “I’m Sharon. Thanks for coming. We really appreciate your help. Would you like to meet Ozzy?”
We walked over to where the Prince of Darkness was applying his makeup, one color on one side of his face, a different color on the other side. Sharon introduced me, he shook my hand, thanked me, and asked if I would like to know the true story. Then I got it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.
During a performance several months before (it was Des Moines, Iowa, on January 20, 1982), someone in the audience threw something on the stage that Ozzy thought was a rubber toy animal. He picked it up and bit it, only to realize that it was a dead bat. “I know better than to bite a live animal,” Ozzy told me. “When I was a teenager in Birmingham, I worked in a slaughterhouse. I know about animals. I had to go to the hospital for rabies shots, and they’re no fun.”
That is what I remember from my conversation with Ozzy Osbourne. But it’s not the end of the story. Sharon took me over to where several musicians were gathered, and I introduced myself.
“I’m your lawyer,” I told them.
“Oh, yeah,” said a guitarist, maybe it was Bernie Tormé, “We heard there was some sort of problem.”
“Did Harley Lewin tell you about the conditions?” I asked. That drew a blank look, and the guitarist said they knew nothing about any conditions.
“No profanity,” I began. “No problem,” the guitarist answered.
“No obscenity.” Same answer.
“No pyrotechnics.” Same answer.
“No violence.” Same answer.
“No feigned violence.” No answer.
I repeated myself. “No feigned violence.”
This time I got an answer. “Oh, shit, now we can’t hang the midget.”
A small person looked up and said, “That’s ok, you can hang me twice in New Haven.”
Yes, the show included “feigned violence” in the form of “hanging” a person with dwarfism whose name, I later learned, was John Edward Allen, whom Ozzy nicknamed “Ronnie.” He was part of the “Diary of a Madman” tour.
Ozzy Osbourne died on Tuesday, July 22, 2025. The next day’s New York Times featured a front page obituary headlined “Wild Man of Rock and Mild Man of Reality TV.” To me he was neither. He was my client.
Trial lawyer Joseph D. Steinfield was a partner at Hill & Barlow from 1971 to 2002 and is now affiliated with the Boston firm Prince Lobel Tye. He lives in Keene, NH, and can be reached at joe@joesteinfield.com.