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February 16, 1970. Arriving late at our local rock club on a rainy Monday night, the 15-year-old me is hoping to catch American blues guitarist Freddie King, but, approaching the venue, Friars Aylesbury sounds to be under some kind of bombardment. A sheet of paper tacked on the door says King can’t make it, and Black Sabbath are playing instead for the half-price admission of 30 pence.
The band have just gone on. Entering the small hall is more like stepping onto a Hammer horror film set as, bathed in blinding white light and flickering strobes, three black-clad musicians (two wearing large silver crosses) lay into the most evil-sounding three-chord riff I’ve ever heard, at a deathly slow tempo. Like conducting a malevolent ritual over this monolithic churn, the mad-eyed singer intones and screams from under whirling brown hair.
After the song (also called Black Sabbath) grinds to a screeching halt, he announces another in a distinct Brummie accent. Launching into a Cream-like jam, the moustachioed guitarist extracts blistering runs from his Gibson SG, while the drummer seems intent on hammering his kit right through the two-foot stage.
The Freddie King show when Black Sabbath filled in. Andy “I’ve Got King Crimson’s Speakers” Dunkley was the club’s DJ, who shared a flat with Robert Fripp in 1969. Note: The ad erroneously lists the gig as taking place on January 16, rather than February 16. | Credit: Friars Aylesbury
None of the 30 or so Friars regulars braving this alien maelstrom dares to sit in the two rows of chairs facing the band, but pockets of ‘idiot dancing’ are breaking out, limbs flying everywhere as a sign of approval (including this writer).
After an extended jam around Aynsley Dunbar’s Warning, Black Sabbath leave the stage, smiling at cheers from the tiny audience. “Great set!” I squeak when they hit the bar. “Thanks, mate,” Ozzy Osbourne says with a grin.
With their debut album released only three days earlier (on Friday the 13th) and scant press coverage, little was known about Black Sabbath beyond the previous November’s Peel session.
Next day, I’m still sufficiently blown away to hit the local record shop after school, grab the album in its scary sleeve and hear Side One in the listening booth. I hear that monstrous riff again, and I have to take it home. Soon, Paranoid becomes the most-played 45 on our local pub jukebox.
Forty years later, Geezer Butler helpfully told the Friars Aylesbury website: “Unfortunately, I don’t remember too much about the gig. But I’m sure we were delighted to be asked to play there, as gigs back then were few. We were always grateful for being asked to play.”
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