Vol #200: Pantera, Amon Amarth & SNAFU

Rustbelt Rock Review

By: Z.M. Delgado

Rustbeltrockreview.com

Volume #200: Pantera, Amon Amarth & SNAFU

July 23rd, 2025

Blossom Music Center

Good evening to you. I hope this entry finds you well. May our shared love of Metal be a light to you in this dark, dark time. I sit here, now four days after the death of our beloved forefather, the mighty Ozzy Osbourne. My head is still spinning and my heart if obviously still broken, yet I find myself back at my computer with a job to do. I feel it will be nearly impossible to do, given what has transpired this week. So instead of my average concert review, you will get a slightly different account: that of my initial sadness and of the debauchery that followed. Many of you already have read the brief piece I posted the morning of the 23rd. (Included below.) It detailed my shock and the profound grief I experienced when I first heard the news. It explained how I was on the job at the time so I had to stamp down my emotions. My heart broke and my mind recoiled in horror, yet I had to hold it together. I bore down and buried the pain deep. I finally made it to the sanctuary of my car and I broke down. I had a long, tear soaked ride home as I played out some of Ozzy’s greatest hits... I particularly remember “Mr. Crowley” and “Fairies Wear Boots” coming across my stereo. I was a mess, but I couldn’t succumb to the undertow of grief. No, I had a family gathering on the docket for that evening, and I had to entertain. Again, I swallowed my pain. I took that pain and stomped on it. Holding it deep within myself. That night I slept poorly, and I rose the next morning early and penned my brief tribute piece and then I set about my day. There was much to be done and many preparations to be made. I was going to Blossom that night, to check out Pantera, Amon Amarth and SNAFU. I had a show to make ready for, work to accomplish, and errands to run. All the while there was this black cloud over my head. I decided I had to take the day head on. With a steady stream of reefer and Ozzy’s greatest works on the stereo, I did my best to advance the agenda. I won’t bore you with my list of chores. It was a shitty morning. I went through the motions, but it was hard. I couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. Like the world was somehow smaller now. In truth, I was happy for the bullshit I had to accomplish, because the activities kept my mind off of our collective loss. So I stayed busy, and I stayed high.

The day finally began top turn for the better around three pm, when Joha and Face arrived. Almost immediately I started drinking with Face and smoking dope with Joha. With a seltzer in one hand and a packed pipe of “Green Crack” in the other, I set my sights on a heavy early buzz and I fired away. Within the hour we were joined by The Shrape and Chen Killingsworth. With our party now complete, we loaded up and by 4 O'clock we were on our way south and west. We followed our most mysterious paths and landed at Blossom, parking our car in the secret lot. There we unloaded and began the intoxication. We were soon joined by even more members of our Metal family: Young Joseph, Dom, Jimmy “The Dook” and his boy, Kevin. Beneath a sweltering July sun we roasted and we mourned. On the stereo it was a steady stream of Ozzy, Sabbath and covers of both, as we drowned our sorrows. I brought two bags of gummies and two specialty doobies, Joha had about a dozen prerolls, and we all had our vapes, so the THC was in strong supply. The coolers were stocked with seltzers, beers and even some Jack for good measure. Time passed. During this period I had a lot to drink. In my drunkenness I met a mysterious man, who materialized and then quickly vanished. While there he presented us with chocolate bars saturated with a powerful dose of psilocybin. I ate a sizable portion of this chocolate and went about my business. Again, time passed.

Eric Stevenson: The Official Tattoo Artist of the Rustbelt Rock Review

Eventually we decided to break camp. We filled our pockets with drinks and weed and set out. In long sweaty line we traveled, like desert nomads we trekked, making our way to the gate. Upon arrival we had to grapple with the usual issues of security checkpoints and ticket mishaps. As I approached the gate I felt the undeniable first tingles of the mushrooms beginning to creep into my brain. I looked around and I realized I was surrounded by security guards and cops while rapidly descending into a psychedelic experience. I had to play it cool. My heart began to race as I waited in line. It pounded in my temples as I took my turn at the metal detector. This was all happening too quickly for me to process and yet it seemed to be taking forever. My mind was racing and I was certain at any moment one of those cops was gonna look at me and... they would know! They would yoke me up and drag me out of line and then there would be no concert for me, that’s for sure. Luckily I blew through security like a breeze and passed the cops by without arousing suspicion. My next hurdle was to successfully navigate my cellphone and produce the tickets for myself and Face. Now I don’t know what you know about psychedelics and cell phones, but let me tell you this right now: They don’t mix. It’s something about the screens. They don’t translate well to the tripping mind. They look weird, like you can see each and every pixel while losing the ability to discern the whole. They are always overly bright, and painfully frustrating. So while my vision is beginning to realign, and my cellphone is becoming a confusing riddle, I am met by a very nice gentleman and I am supposed to produce a pair of concert tickets. I have a mild freak out inside my head, and my inner monologue goes haywire. I get stuck in a loop of thought where I am melting down internally, while trying to look like I’m not melting down externally. I have no doubt that this guy knew I was about toast, but he was cool about it. He walked me through the process and somehow got both Face and I through the gate.

Now successfully within the confines of the venue we wandered down onto the lawn and realized that SNAFU was already on. In fact they were almost done, and we had managed to miss almost the entirety of their set, which was a bummer. We sat our asses on the lawn, smoked a joint and waited for the next musical offering. All the while I began to descend into the deepest depths of a wild mushroom trip. The shrooms grabbed me and wrenched my mind open bearing my sanity naked to the world. Which is of course, exactly what I had signed up for. According to the power of the internet, it was precisely 7:40pm when Amon Amarth hit the stage. Opening with their trademark symphonic score, I jumped up from the lawn and prepared for the sonic assault. Their drums sat atop a giant Viking helmet and on either side of the stage rose a titanic statue of a viking warrior. Now, I have to say that from this point on in the evening my memories are highly suspect. The whole night from this point on is a collection of snapshots and reels from grainy home movies. Amon Amarth are undoubtedly one of my favorite bands. So when they took to the stage I was nothing short of elated. I remember them opening with “Guardians of Asguard.” The beat pulsed and throbbed, washing over me as I felt pure joy. I head banged; rocking out and watching as the lawn around me came to life. Thousands of people enjoyed the raw and powerful Scandinavian sounds that I have grown to love. Moshpits raged all across the field. They cranked out “Shield Wall,” followed by one of my personal favorites “Cry of the Blackbirds” and then the epic “Deceiver of the Gods.” When “Put Your Back Into the Oar” and “We Rule the Waves” hit the speakers, many fans took to the ground, sitting and rowing in place like the Vikings of old. Next was “Way of Vikings” which always has me singing along like a fool. If my memory serves me correctly, it was at this point that armor clad Viking Warriors took to the stage and engaged in full blown combat. After that I have a vague recollection of the band dedicating “Raise Your Horns” to Ozzy’s memory and we all sang along in a great chorus. Finally closing out with “Twilight of the Thunder God” they summoned the force of the gods. I remember their front man hoisting a giant hammer and bringing it down with great force. The crowd roared as Amon Amarth brought their set to a close. It was a wild and bizarre experience, but a good one. Now desperately thirsty, I went and procured some water. Then it was back down the hill to prepare for Pantera.

This is the point in the evening when my memories get really unreleiable. It is a parade of joints and a melee of headbanging. There was a large banner erected before the stage, bearing the word “Pantera.” Soon events began to unfold on stage and the next thing I recall was the tell tale notes of “Hellbound” ringing out. And so it began. What followed was a sixteen song onslaught that absolutely devastated Blossom Music Center. We got all the hits. Every song you would expect to hear, touching upon each of their legendary albums. What most stood out to me though wasn’t the songs they chose, or even how bad ass they performed them. It was what was happening between the songs, and I mean after each and every track… Each time the music stopped the fans began chanting “Ozzy! Ozzy! Ozzy!” It was loud and resonant and completely organic. Phil picked up on this and began to encourage and then demand that it continue for the entirety of the show. It did. For the whole set, whenever Pantera wasn’t wailing, the fans were chanting the name of our lost patriarch. It was a fantastic and touching display of solidarity. There were a lot of feelings in the air, but it wasn’t until the band performed their cover of the Black Sabbath classic “Planet Caravan” that things got really emotional. Normally this portion of the set is dedicated to memorializing Vinnie Paul and Dimebag, but tonight's tribute was special. Obviously it was dedicated to Ozzy and it was beautiful. A slide show of photographs rolled by featuring Ozzy over the years, with different rockers from different times. The most touching photos were those of Ozzy with Dime and Vinnie. I found myself weeping. Tears streamed down my cheeks a ran into my beard as I stood with my horns held high; in a salute. The song rolled out, across the lawn and off into the night. It drifted up into the atmosphere then out into the cosmos and hopefully, to where ever Ozzy, Dime and Vince now reside. Where they sit with Bonham, and Dio and Lemmy and all the fallen Rock Gods. In that place where they watch us and beg we never forget their names... Pantera played four more songs after that and they were all devastating. “A New Level,” “Walk,” “Domination/Hollow” and “Fucking Hostile” came in succession and I went nuts. The power of the music was permeating me and I felt an impending explosion. In a fury I rocked out, banging my head and pumping my fist. In no uncertain terms, I lost my shit. The set came to a climactic finale and the crowd roared. Then it was over. We spent some time reassembling our party and then searching for a lost cellphone. In time all concerned parties were satisfied and we began the long walk back to the car.

From there it was the journey home, with little more of interest to report. We continued to listen to Ozzy’s music, but the mood had shifted. Their was more joy and less pain. More toasting and fewer tears, if that makes sense. The concert had undoubtedly acted as a wake, and for me, I felt as if I was able to say goodbye and have a bit of closure. We ventured into the night and closed the door on not just an evening, but on an era. What more can I say on the subject? It had certainly been an excellent show. I was bummed we somehow missed SNAFU. Amon Amarth had conquered and I was glad that some of my dudes got to see them for the first time. Pantera had crushed. They paid tribute to their own legacy, while honoring Ozzy’s passing, and providing me with a much needed escape from my grief. As I understand it, Pantera has now canceled five dates to mourn and attend the funeral. I feel fortunate that the night after his passing that the band was strong enough to play through their pain and perform. It meant the world to me. On that note I will bring this edition to a close. May Ozzy rest in power for all time. Thank you for reading.

Until next time, Rock on, Rustbelt,

-Z.M. Delgado

Rustbelt Rock Review

Rustbeltrockreview.com

7/26-7/27/2025

“I am so ill equipped to write this. My emotions are turbulent and my thoughts are scattered. Yet I feel I must say something, so here it goes.

Yesterday, as I sat a my desk, I heard the news. I was immediately crushed. I had three hours left in my work day and it was a struggle. When I finally punched out and reached my car, the flood gates opened. I cranked “Mr. Crowley” and with tears streaming down my face I made my trek home. The rest of the night was a blur of disbelief and despair.

As I sit here the morning after, I am still in shock. It simply cannot be true. There is no way that Ozzy can be dead. There is no possible conceivable twist of reality that would allow this to happen. There is no way that existence can continue without him. At least, not for me.

I am and have been a fan of Ozzy Osbourne for the entirety of my life. In fact, considering my old man is a die hard Ozzy disciple, I have probably been listening to the sounds of his voice all the way from the womb. I was raised on his music. His catalog was in constant rotation in my home as I grew. That is a tradition that continues to this day, as I pass his music on to my kids. Listening to my son and daughter sing along to “Iron Man” means more to me than I could ever say.

I was fortunate enough to see him perform five times, twice with Sabbath and three times solo. Each performance was incredible. I will never forget the way he commanded a crowd, the way he stole the show or the way he connected with an audience.

His musical contributions are immeasurable. His influence is impossible to quantify. He simply WAS Metal. He was our first frontman. He was the archetype. He was the voice of not just a generation, but generations of Metal heads. Since the day he first picked up the mic, he inspired every single Hard Rock and Heavy Metal musician who ever wrote a lick, and anyone who says differently simply doesn’t know their history.

Ozzy was legend, a giant and a demon. He was maniac, a train wreck and a truly one of the best of us. While walking among stars, he was truly a supernova. He glowed so much brighter than anyone else. He shone with greater brilliance than those who seem born to shine. He eclipsed all others.

I mean, honestly, what more can I say? How can I share this feeling? This profound emptiness. This infinite loss. How can we go on, knowing the world is now just a bit smaller, plainer, more… civilized? I don’t know.

Tonight I am going to a show. But it won’t be a show, it will be a wake. I know that there will be a cloud that hangs over the whole affair. I know there will be a tribute. I know there will be tears. But there will be more than that. There will be joy. There will be exaltation. There will be Metal! Last night we mourned. Tonight we celebrate. And that, I believe, is how he would have wanted it. Ozzy wouldn’t want us to languish in grief. He wouldn’t want us to cry and hang our heads. He would want us to Rock! He would want us to bang our heads and GO FUCKING CRAZY! That’s all he ever asked of us. To lift our hands, our voices and our spirits and lose our minds for just a little while. That was his gift to us. He was a Crazy Train, going off the rails for his entire life. He was pure, unadulterated insanity. He measured that lunacy and portioned it out for us in his songs. He passed that madness on to us and in doing so, he set us free. Thank you Ozzy. Thank you for… everything. For the life you lived, for the songs you sang, for the man you were. From the bottom of this steely heart, I say thank you and I say good bye. You may be gone, but you will live on for all time.

-Z.M. Delgado

7/23/2025”