Clarabelle Talks Back: Ozzy Osbourne's No Bozo On This Bus
Toby Goldstein, Creem, April 1983
THEY WARN you about the madman. That he wraps himself in scales and chains, fangs and dripping saliva as he prowls arenas of the night. That his shrieks and curses are fearsome to hear, a peril to those who mistakenly perceive the outpourings as mere entertainment. That his acts are foul and loathsome, and his presence is vile. Biting and spitting. Pissing and swaggering. Reprehensible. Far from a productive way to spend a Saturday afternoon, I am direly warned. Consequently, Friday night's sleep is contorted with a succession of nightmares, and the morning dawn is laced with apprehension.
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