Harold expected the man to look shocked, maybe apologize, and back away, but the man just nodded. $15,000? Hm. Can I see it? Harold paused for a moment. This man couldn’t be serious, but still Harold was a salesman. Of course, he said, and walked to the special section behind the register.
As he retrieved the record, Harold studied the stranger. The man’s hands were trembling. Parkinson’s maybe, or just old age. His face was tired, dark circles under his eyes. But something caught Harold’s attention. On the fingers of the man’s left hand were faded but still legible tattoos. Oz zz Y. Harold registered this detail but couldn’t make sense of it.
Maybe he was a member of some biker gang or just a stupid decision from his youth. He placed the record on the counter and removed it from its protective sleeve. 1970 Vertigo label UK pressing. Mint condition. Extremely rare. The man looked at the record. a strange expression spreading across his face like he’d just encountered an old friend.
His fingers touched the cover gently. Harold tensed. He hated when customers touched valuable pieces. “Please be careful,” he said. The man smiled. “Don’t worry, mate. I won’t hurt this record.” Just then, the door chime rang again. One of Harold’s regular customers walked in. Mrs. Witmore, 75 years old, widow of a former record label executive.
She came by every month, looked at the pieces in the display cases, rarely bought anything. “Harold, darling,” the old woman called out. Then she noticed the stranger at the counter. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, as if trying to remember something, but then she shrugged and walked to the other side of the display case.
Ozie noticed the woman’s glance, but paid it no mind. He turned back to the record. “This is a beautiful piece,” he said slowly. But you know, I bought this when it first came out in Birmingham 1970. Not 15,000, about £150 or something. Harold laughed impatiently. Everyone tells stories like that. Last week, someone claimed they had drinks with Hrix.
Ozie raised his eyebrows, but didn’t respond. His eyes drifted to the shop’s walls, examining the framed posters. Then he stopped at one. On the wall behind glass hung an old concert poster, Black Sabbath, European tour 1971. And in the corner of the poster were four signatures. Giza Butler, Tony Iomi, Bill Ward, and Ozie Osborne.
As Oussie looked at the poster, time seemed to stand still for a moment. 1971, nearly 50 years ago. During that tour, he’d only been 23. The world stretching out before him like an endless road. He and Tony were constantly fighting back then about everything, the music, money, girls. But on stage, on stage, everything was perfect.
Looking at that poster, he remembered his old bandmates faces, Giza’s corner of the tour bus where he’d read his philosophy books, Bill’s insane drum solos, Tony’s annoying self-confidence, always thinking he was right. And himself, young wild Aussie, believing anything was possible. This poster, he said slowly, his voice trembling slightly.
How much? Harold noticed the stranger’s interest in the poster. Maybe this man could actually spend some money. “That piece is very special,” he said, stepping out from behind the counter and walking over to the poster. 1971 European tour, original print, and most importantly, it has all four original members signatures, authenticity certified. Ozie nodded.
Yeah, the signatures. I see them. Harold paused for a moment before stating the price. $25,000 and I don’t negotiate on that.” Aussie smiled. $25,000 for his own signature. He remembered those nights in that little house on Lodge Road going to bed with his stomach growling. Now someone was asking $25,000 for his signature. Interesting was all he said.
But Harold misinterpreted this. Look, sir, he said, now trying to politely guide the stranger toward the door. This shop caters to serious collectors. Perhaps somewhere else you might find more affordable pieces. There are a few tourist shops on Hollywood Boulevard. They sell reproductions there. If it’s just for decoration purposes, Oussie raised his eyebrows.
Reproductions? No, mate. I’m looking for originals. Harold was growing impatient now. This man was wasting his valuable time. Then I’m sorry, but these prices may not be suitable for you. As I mentioned, this is an exclusive collection. Just then, Mrs. Witmore, who had been carefully examining something on the other side of the display case, turned around.
Her eyes locked onto the stranger’s face. Her mouth fell slightly open. Mrs. Whitmore had worked at Colia Records from 1975 to 1990. She’d known legends, Springsteen, Dylan. She’d even shared an elevator with Bowie once. And now in this dusty antique shop, she absolutely recognized the man standing before her. But something held her back.
She’d seen how Harold was treating this man, and a voice inside her told her to watch the situation unfold a little longer. “Harold,” the old woman said in an innocent voice. “Don’t you want to help this gentleman? Perhaps if he introduced himself.” Ozie looked at the woman and saw the recognition in her eyes. She knew who he was, but she was staying quiet, wanting to watch this game play out.
“No need for introductions,” Aussie said, not hiding that Birmingham accent one bit. “I’m just a bloke looking for old records.” Harold rolled his eyes. “Yes, a bloke looking for old records, and you’re looking at $25,000 signed posters. Look, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you’re wasting everyone’s time here. You and I both know these prices are too much for you.
Just then the door opened again. The man who walked in immediately made Harold tense. Expensive suit, Rolex watch, confident stride. This was someone in Harold’s real customer category. The man entered and his eyes caught the figure standing at the counter. He paused. He blinked. And then, in disbelief, he spoke in almost a whisper.
Excuse me, but aren’t you Oussie Osborne? Silence. The expression on Harold’s face transformed like a photograph changing in seconds. Doubt, confusion, recognition, and finally pure horror. Oussie turned and looked at the newcomer. Yeah, mate. That’s me. The new customer approached excitedly. I can’t believe it.
I grew up listening to the Blizzard of Oz album when I was a kid. Meeting you? This is incredible. Can we take a photo? Oussie smiled. that familiar, slightly tired, but genuine smile of his. “Sure, mate, why not?” The man pulled out his phone with trembling hands and took a selfie with Aussie. Harold Morrison stood frozen behind the counter.
His mind was racing, reliving the last 15 minutes. The man with the strange accent, the faded clothes, the trembling hands, the ozy tattoos on his fingers. Everything made sense now. and he, Harold Morrison, with over 40 years of antique dealing experience, had failed to recognize one of rock history’s most iconic figures, and had even tried to show him the door. Mrs.
