The best and most memorable day of my career: My 35 minutes of non-stop talking with the prince of darkness.
CarlotaToday’s the day. I guess I’m finally ready to speak on Ozzy.
Yeah, I posted the picture the day he died. I announced it on the radio. And I openly wept.
I’ve never openly wept. And I’ve done a lot of death announcements over the years. My first one was Kurt Cobain. And everyone who came after. So why was Ozzy different? Why did I break down, mic open, no filter?
As we get older and our heroes die… our childhood dies a little too, right? Maybe that’s part of it.
Ozzy was my first concert. He was my first real glimpse into the dark, mysterious, and beautifully chaotic world of heavy rock. And I carried that world with me—not just in my childhood, but through my entire career.
Maybe that’s it.
He was always there. A constant. A soundtrack to every phase of my life. Maybe it hit so hard because, yeah… my career is closer to the end than the beginning now.
Maybe that’s why I wept.
But more than anything, I know this: My experience with Ozzy was the number-one highlight of my entire career.
It was 2007. He was being inducted into a VH1 Honors Hall of Fame, and they brought him to the radio station for an interview. My boss said, “Carlota, go meet him in the conference room. He’s signing stuff. Go introduce yourself before the mic goes live.”
So I walk in. Posters, vinyl, photos—Ozzy memorabilia spread across the table. He’s signing everything.
There was this one poster of him in a purple glitter cape, hair feathered back—probably from the Bark at the Moon days.
As he signed it, he muttered, “What the fuck was I thinking?” Then he looked up at me and said, “Nice to meet you.”
I had Ozzy in my studio for 35 minutes.
We talked about everything—from Sharon almost dying in the back of an ambulance (and yes, he cried)— to his daughter, her jump into music, and her cover of "Changes."
We talked about the insane, chaotic stuff he did. And he just… kept talking.
He wanted to be there.
It was surreal. VH1 and MTV were outside the studio furious because they only got five minutes with him. I got what felt like forever.
Eventually, I had to say, “Ozzy, I gotta let you go.” I didn’t want to. But I did. And in that moment, I saw who he really was.
Not the cartoonish bat-biting, Alamo-pissing, ant-snorting wildman the media sold us in the ’80s— but the kindest, most gracious, generous soul I’d ever met in rock. He hugged everyone. Said “God bless you” to everyone. He radiated humility.
Carlota I met him a few more times after that. Of course, he never remembered me. But I never expected him to. He was Ozzy. That was more than enough.
One story not many people know:
After leaving my interview, he headed to another station across town. In the car with some record label folks I know, he started talking about how obsessed he was with the show COPS.
As they sat at a red light—Flamingo and Lindell—a car ran the light, smashed into a wall, and was chased down by police.
Then a film crew jumped out of the backseat.
Ozzy stared in silence, jaw on the floor. The label guy called me and said, “I can’t make this shit up. COPS was being filmed in front of him… and their biggest fan was sitting right there.”
So yeah, today, as they lay him to rest, I still find myself crying over a man I met only a handful of times— but who lived in my bones, in my headphones, in my heart, for almost my entire life. Is it because a piece of my childhood died with him?
Maybe.
Is it because my career is nearing the twilight, and losing Ozzy makes that feel more real?
Maybe.
Or is it because he was Ozzy, and there’s no replacing that—and now, this world is a whole lot less dark without him? Yeah. I think it’s all of the above.
Rest easy, Ozzy.
You were never just a rockstar. You were a legend… and for some of us, a lifeline.
