Black Sabbath – The Ballet: Elegance, Power, and a Tribute to Ozzy
How could the refined world of ballet and the raw power of heavy metal possibly share the same stage?
When Birmingham Royal Ballet first unveiled Black Sabbath – The Ballet in 2023, many thought it an odd experiment: how could the refined world of ballet and the raw power of heavy metal possibly share the same stage? One was the aristocrat of the arts — poised, precise, steeped in centuries of discipline. The other was the unruly child of Birmingham’s factories and pubs, a howl from the working class that shook the world
And yet, improbably, it worked. Two years on, the production has become a cultural phenomenon, selling out theatres across Britain and winning critical acclaim. But last night’s performance at the Birmingham Hippodrome was different. It was the first since the death of Ozzy Osbourne, and that meant the evening carried a weight of sadness as well as celebration. This was no ordinary ballet; it was a ballad, a living tribute to one of Birmingham’s greatest sons.
A Tale of Two Birminghams
To see this production is to see Birmingham itself on stage. This is a city of collisions and contradictions, and somehow they work. Out of its factories came Tony Iommi’s down-tuned riffs, shaped forever by the accident in a sheet-metal works that damaged his fingers. Out of its pubs and streets came Ozzy Osbourne’s unmistakable voice, full of grit, defiance, and longing.
And binding them together were Bill Ward and Geezer Butler. Ward drove his drums with the roar and energy of an accomplished blues player on steroids, while Butler — never a natural bass player, but one who adopted the instrument almost by accident — attacked his strings like a lead guitarist. That unlikely combination gave Sabbath their unmistakable sound: heavy, raw, and yet intricately alive.
Together, the four of them gave birth to heavy metal — raw, loud, unapologetically working-class.
Yet Birmingham is also the home of refinement: the Birmingham Royal Ballet, with its immaculate line, grace, and tradition. Ballet is as posh as art gets — the Posh of the Posh. Heavy metal sits at the other end of the spectrum. And yet, when you put them together, they don’t clash. They fuse. Ballet reveals the elegance inside Sabbath’s music, while Sabbath grounds ballet in raw power. It feels, astonishingly, like they were meant to meet all along.
Elegance in Motion
What struck me, as it had two years earlier when I first saw the ballet, was the elegance of the dancers. Their limbs moved in ways that seemed impossible, so natural and yet so precise, each gesture flowing into the next with order and grace. Ballet gives the illusion of effortlessness, even though it is built on iron discipline.
Set against this was Sabbath’s music, orchestrated yet instantly recognisable. The opening lines of War Pigs rang out with Ozzy’s voice, reminding us of his absence, yet filling the theatre with his presence. Iron Man arrived in a jagged, seven-beat rhythm, a familiar riff made fresh and unsettling. Paranoid closed an act in triumphant joy, dancers leaping as though carried by the music itself.
The miracle was that it all felt natural. Ballet and metal, posh and working-class, refinement and rebellion — on stage, they became one.
Farewell at Villa Park
For me, the poignancy ran deeper still. In July, I was at Villa Park for what was billed as Black Sabbath’s “last ever performance.” Less than three weeks later, Ozzy was gone, and so that concert truly was the final bow. To have been there was a privilege. To see Black Sabbath – The Ballet now, with its dedication to Ozzy printed in the programme, was to feel that Villa Park’s farewell was being remembered and reframed through dance.
This wasn’t just a show. It was a eulogy.
The Surprise
And then came the moment that lifted the roof.
I knew it was coming, but most of the audience did not: Tony Iommi himself would step onto the stage. He had done so two years earlier, when I sat beside him in the stalls only for him to vanish after the interval and reappear on stage, guitar in hand, to rapturous applause. That had been unforgettable.
But last night, it was historic. This was the first public performance by any member of Black Sabbath since Ozzy’s death. The Hippodrome erupted as Tony appeared, the audience roaring, the cast visibly moved. It was not just applause; it was gratitude, love, and recognition all at once. For a few minutes, grief turned into celebration, and Sabbath’s legacy felt alive again.
Tony makes rare appearances with the ballet as it tours the country, each limited and each spectacular. But this one was singular.
Backstage Joy
Afterwards, we went back to the dressing rooms, and the mood was joyous. Tony was clearly pleased, relaxed among friends and cast. The dancers themselves were radiant — youthful, healthy, full of energy, their elegance on stage spilling over into real life. They lingered in the dressing-room area, buzzing with the glow of performance. It was obvious: the whole night had been enjoyed by absolutely everyone.
When I got home, I found a message waiting from Alex — the man I had found myself sitting next to at Villa Park during Sabbath’s last-ever performance. He is a music fan extraordinaire, a true Sabbath devotee, and he had been to the matinee earlier in the day. He told me it had been a wonderful experience. For both of us, those moments bookend a story: from the last notes at Villa Park to the tribute at the Hippodrome.
A Pick in the Pocket
There was also a personal souvenir. I had the cheek to ask Tony for a plectrum — or, as he calls it, a pick. He reached into his pocket and handed me one, as he has before. Such a tiny object, just a sliver of plastic, yet it radiates significance. To me, it symbolises not just the riffs that defined a genre, but the extraordinary privilege of knowing the man who created them.
It’s not the object itself but what it represents: a life shaped by music, friendship, and history.
The Fusion Lives On
What Black Sabbath – The Ballet achieves is more than spectacle. It proves that ballet and heavy metal can not only share the same stage, but amplify one another. It tells the story of Birmingham itself: a city of foundries and theatres, of working-class grit and high art, of contradictions that somehow make sense.
Last night, it also told the story of Ozzy Osbourne. His absence was felt in every note, yet his presence filled the theatre. The dedication to him turned the performance into something transcendent. And when Tony Iommi stepped forward, guitar in hand, the ballet became what it was always meant to be: not just an experiment, but a celebration, a memorial, and a beacon for generations to come.
For me, the memory of Villa Park, the surprise of the Hippodrome, the laughter in the dressing-room, and the pick in my pocket all come together as part of the same story. Twice now I have seen the impossible fusion of ballet and metal made real. Twice I have witnessed history. And this time, in honour of Ozzy, it meant more than ever.