Black Sabbath – ‘Sabbath Bloody Sabbath’
By their fifth album, 1973’s Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, the classic lineup of Black Sabbath knew the end was nigh. Thanks to the groundbreaking success of their first four albums, the band’s coffers were full. However, their increasing penchant for hedonism, narcotics, and alcohol was facilitated by the freedom of being in such a successful act. The cracks that show in this album are revealed as a structural problem threatening to bring the house down. Burnout and hellraising compounded one another, and while this record exhibits that, it also shows that class can see you through trying situations.
It is telling that ‘The Prince of Darkness’ described Sabbath Bloody Sabbath as “the beginning of the end” for the band’s original lineup. Despite the future becoming apparent during the making of the album, the result is better than you would think. It’s at least listenable.
After a month of trying to write for the album in Los Angeles with no outcome, with proceedings heavily impeded by heavy drug use and the mounting pressure to produce, the band rented Clearwell Castle in the Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire. Famously, the Castle has an eerie atmosphere, with Osbourne and guitarist Tony Iommi even claiming to have seen a mysterious hooded figure one night, adding credence to the old stories that the Castle is haunted.
The quartet rehearsed in the dungeons, and although it was a largely chilling experience, the atmosphere is credited with coaxing the title track’s thunderous riff out of Tony Iommi. This sets the tone for the rest of the record. It is a melody that arises out of musical uncertainty to bring a powerful onslaught of trademark sonic tar. Ultimately, the riff proves to only be a shot in the arm.
It’s fitting Sabbath Bloody Sabbath opens with the track of the same name. It’s one of their best cuts. The thick sludge of Iommi’s riff is infectious. His playing is dynamic, bouncing seamlessly from the rumbling main section to the airy, acoustic one. There, Osbourne sings, “Nobody will ever let you know / When you ask the reasons why / They just tell you that you’re on your own / Fill your head all full of lies”, indicative of the complexities of the band’s present juncture. The frontman’s delivery is excellent across the piece, ranging from a piercing shriek to the practically ethereal.
There’s also the meaty rhythm change at about 3.20. Whilst it might be a bit cheesy, it lodges itself in your brain and is hard to eliminate. You can tell the band were on heat when writing. Regardless of the variables plaguing them, bassist Geezer Butler’s work is as steadfast as ever, with drummer Bill Ward enabling the track’s constant movement with his dexterity.
The second track is ‘A National Acrobat’, arriving with another one of Iommi’s signature riffs, an overdriven flourish that’s one of catchiest on offer. The track’s highlight is when the guitarist cocks his wah-pedal at 2.16, and the rhythm melts away into a bluesy groove. It’s exceptionally suave. The pinnacle of this is how Iommi hits the jazzy chords on a quick upstroke before sliding up the neck. Unfortunately, the song becomes tired, and everything following 4.52 is unwarranted. It should have ended long before. The final sliding riff, aided by the optimistic key and rhythm, is just obscene, a sonic symbol of their excesses.
The third track, the instrumental ‘Fluff’, is stunning, with it a pure showing of what the band are truly capable of. Iommi’s layered acoustic is exquisite, as are the piano and harpsichord accentuating it. It’s a miracle the piece is overlooked, as it’s incredibly accomplished. It almost doesn’t sound like Black Sabbath. That may be why it’s a forgotten moment.
After this point, it becomes clear that the band is entering a no man’s land. ‘Sabbra Caddabra’ starts reasonably well, with a repetitive, high-octane riff reminiscent of Southern rock but it struggles to substantiate its notion. At this point, it’s clear that it’s not their best cut, although entertaining, it’s just not a grabbing affair. It goes on for far too long, losing its initial charm. There’s also that incredibly cheesy synth sound, which proves to be a sore point. Its use could have been forgiven, but it becomes more prominent across the record’s second half. It’s an indelible stain as the group flirts with a bizarre, proggy area. Minorly salvaging the damage is Bill Ward’s brief solo at the end—a moment of pure quality.
‘Killing Yourself to Live’ is undoubtedly one of the better aspects of the album, coming with an almost proto-grunge riff, an epic solo and a vocal performance from Osbourne reminiscent of the Paranoid era. The rhythm section is mighty here, with Butler and Ward creating an otherworldly rumble.
After this, though, things gradually fall apart. ‘Who are You?’ is the worst cut on the album. The violently wet-sounding synthesiser returns, although it is now part of the main cast. The primary melody on the electric instrument is parody-like and is not helped by an affected performance from Osbourne harping dated lyrics. It then heavily flirts with the bombastic, flamboyant side of prog in the second half, with the military-like rhythm taking the cheese to suffocating levels. Following it, ‘Looking for Today’ is best described as forgettable.
The final track, ‘Spiral Architect’, starts with much promise. It commences via Iommi’s intriguing acoustic guitar line, which evokes images of Arthur Lee and Love, creating a great deal of folkish ambience. You’d be forgiven for thinking we’re in for the album’s showstopper at this point. Unfortunately, that comes at the very start of this body of work.
Any excitement soon dissipates when a muted guitar line cuts through the mix, and the most AOR moment ensues. It becomes clear that you’re listening to an insincere fad that the band aren’t even certain about themselves. Proceedings are then pulled in an unexpected direction when a grandiose string section suddenly appears. The swooning strings and maudlin rhythm combine and reaffirm the exasperated ways of classic rock bands in this dull period. It’s self-indulgent tosh.
Sabbath Bloody Sabbath isn’t the worst record you’ll ever hear, but it attempts too much in the face of an inevitable outcome, leaving a lot to be desired.
