The last time I found myself in Birmingham, it was for a Canvas conference. Like many of my colleagues, I looked forward to the event — but not the destination. Birmingham, for all its history, carries a certain reputation these days: gritty, grey, post-industrial. It’s a city people often pass through, not to.
This time, though, was different.
Birmingham named this summer the Summer of Sabbath, commemorating the band’s career throughout the city — from Ozzy the metal bull greeting us at the train station, to The Crown Pub and a dedicated exhibition at the Birmingham Museum. And at the heart of it all, the crown jewel: a farewell concert, the most anticipated event in metal music — and not only metal. It was a cultural moment, a homecoming unlike any other.
The concert’s title couldn’t be more appropriate. As the train left the station heading toward Villa Park, it felt like a trip into the past — back to where it all began. We passed many a traditional red-brick building, graffitied, worn and crumbling — echoes of a more prosperous time. Once the beating heart of British industry, Birmingham led the charge in manufacturing, engineering, and automotive innovation. That proud past still lingers, like soot in the air, even as the city shifts and strains under modern pressures.
For most visitors, this backdrop might feel unwelcoming — austere, even. But for this journey, it felt exactly right. I wasn’t here to experience the modern city. I was here for a pilgrimage: to witness the final homecoming of the godfathers of heavy metal. Black Sabbath, returning to where it all began.
There are already hundreds of reviews out there dissecting the gig itself —the epic setlist, the legends on stage (who could fill Villa Park on their own, let alone as a collective force. But for me, the most striking element wasn’t just the music. It was how perfectly the surroundings fit.
On stage, the massive screens displayed black-and-white footage of Birmingham in the 1960s. Steelworks, smokestacks, workers. As the haunting riff of “Black Sabbath” rang out, those old images reminded us that this band — and this sound — weren’t born in spite of the city’s hardship, but because of it.
From our spot in the Holte End, I looked to the right, out through a break in the stands. There, through the opening, you could see rooftops stretching into the distance, the occasional train rumbling past — a living, breathing reminder of where we were. In that moment, it all made sense. The music. The place. The people. Birmingham may not be glamorous, but it has soul. And for a band like Black Sabbath — it was always the only place to begin, and the only place to end.
PS: Writing this after hearing about Ozzy’s passing yesterday gives this experience a new depth, which is why I decided to share it. I wasn’t sure whether it belonged here, but after chatting with a few colleagues about the concert, I realised it might resonate more than I thought.
