Donington Park long considered hard rock’s spiritual home was less a place of exultation and worship, and more one of frantic and increasingly desperate prayer, as tents were swept away in a vicious mud slide. For the first three days the only thing remotely biblical about Download was the downpour. A campsite flooded, a perennially wild atmosphere drowned, and a festival so waterlogged, it may finally supplant Glastonbury 1997 in the popular memory as the most unpleasant and unfortunate event in festival folklore.
By the time Download’s reunion packed Sunday rolled around a burning heat had replaced the torrential downpour. Cruelly, rather than relieving the seditious conditions under foot, the sun turns the loose and slippery into the deep and adhesive. Worse still, the freezing shivers of the first two nights have given way to the familiar fetid stench of vomit, urine, and sweat.
Hardly the most welcoming of circumstances for three of rock’s great innovators to make their long awaited return, but in truth, Ozzy Osbourne wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
As oppressive as the conditions may have been they couldn’t hope to compete with the crushing gloom of Tony Iommi’s Signature SG. Deeper, louder and heavier than anyone who preceded them: the reformed Sabbath retain the unmistakable uniformity of purpose that changed the face of music in 1969. The simplistic riff of “Black Sabbath” lumbers and compresses its way across the jam packed festival field - announcing the bands arrival. It bears down on every last soul in attendance; the sheer weight of the music is unavoidable.
The cavernous oscillations of Iommi and Butler effectively blackening the sky, as the duo lurch from one crushing riff to the next. Ozzy, on the other hand, is anything but glum. His shrill cry may be harrowingly apocalyptic, but his demeanor is affable, almost dementedly so. As Tony and Geezer grind the audience into the dust, Ozzy flings himself around like the spectre of a muppet who perished during the filming of a Christmas Carol. His spirit will not rest until every last member of the 80,000 strong audience is jumping, clapping, or bellowing. If even one person relents, they are treated to Ozzy’s familiar cry of “Come on you motherfuckers”.
Musically, after a series of deliciously imposing jams, Tony’s fingers become more fleet and dexterous as Sabbath open up. Blending blistering solos and blues scales with some of the biggest riffs in Sabbath’s arsenal. The imperious “N.I.B” is an early show stealer, matched only by “The Wizard’s” incestuously catchy chorus and Ozzy’s jaunty harmonica riff.
By this point, the entire audience is swaying in unison; hands are in the air, fists are pumping, and Sabbath are in no mood to disappoint as they wheel out the anthems. “War Pigs” is a nilhistic sermon echoed by the masses, the “Iron Man” riff is roared entirely out of tune by the gleeful throng, and “Children Of The Grave” sees Sabbath gallop and the masses bounce. “Paranoid” is almost a formality. Everyone is smiling from ear to ear, and by sheer force of will Sabbath have reasserted their primacy among metal’s elite.
