Original Music: Black Sabbath

Choreographers: Pontus Lidberg, Raúl Reinoso, Cassi Abranches

Royal Ballet Sinfonia Conductor: Christopher Austin

Some social phenomenon commentators subscribe to the notion that much of the contemporary devotion to identity politics and the myriad demi-worlds the disciples of acquired self-delusion adhere to can be ascribed to their not having the tribal dedication to a fashion clique and/or devout following of a music genre their elders once enjoyed.

It is 1969, A 15-going-on-16 lad, was seriously into the watershed times of Progressive Blues metamorphosing into what would be later termed Heavy Rock and then likewise Metal. Said lad, whose parents were devout Catholics, packed him off to evening church Benediction. He had plans otherwise when offered the rare chance of going to the Mothers’ music venue in Erdington, Birmingham, at that time the hippest, coolest gig any self-respecting hairy could wish to be at.

The anticipated Inquisition unfolded. No, he indeed didn’t attend Benediction to pray to The Lord and seek succour and forgiveness for his sins – fifteen-year-old boys had that one particular ‘sin’ never disclosed at Confessional. So, where had he been? To see a group in Birmingham: yes, he knew it was a sin to tell lies and take the Lord’s name in vain. And what pray, err hem, was so important that he tells lies to his parents and the Good Lord just to see a Pop group? He should have said Earth but, being an honest sort told them Black Sabbath.

Tonight sees the apposite and timely reprise of the highly received Black Sabbath Ballet, the previous Press Night topped by Toni Iommi riffing his legendary prosthetic finger licks with youthful abandon. The souvenir programme brochure celebrating the dazzling rock chic chick with that poised kerranging mega axe swoop – the tang of patchouli oil redolent, the monster-mash at Villa Park and then Ozzy’s untimely death, the outpouring of sadness complemented by utter joy in his bonkers legacy feeds into the glorious ambience of tonight’s gig. The funeral procession along Broad Street indelibly scorched into proud Brummies – Home of Metal – and world Sab’s collective psyches. Matthew Boulton, Birmingham partner with James Watt, is quoted as stating – ‘I sell here. Sir, what all the world desires to have – power.’ Instead of steam, Toni Iommi added supulchral cranking chords.

An ensemble in three acts, comprising The Royal Ballet Sinfonia, archive voices of Black Sabbath, the BRB cast and the segue sinewing continuity of leather-clad axe-lad Marc Hayward as on-stage guitarist, what’s not to like? The iconography of Black Sabbath and subsequent Heavy Metal cloth badge rites of passage dominate the cavernous, austerity stage domain. Heyward is the Mephistopheles of Metal, conjuring spells with his wizard wand, his cherry-red Gibson guitar. A leather Lothario of latent lust – though sexuality was never Metal’s thrusting USP. Too much snakebite, acne and angst for that. Legendary behemoth riffs establish a narrative of nostalgic splendour. The second sequence of Act One celebrates a disconcertingly very un-Metal nuance as a pas de deux of two entwined lovers, embracing like butterflies consumed in dry-ice clouds of innocence, are tickled in an embrace of disembodied Iron Man riff-scapes. Fair enough. A recorded anecdote from one Band member relates how a coven of new age witches descends on them in a Nashville hotel – no punch-line spoiler here, but it might inform as to why a menagerie of grey wraiths consume and metamorphose dislocated dancers. The Act climaxes with full-on Ozzy vocals and an explosion of physical orgiastic aerial ecstasy.

Act Two opens with the defining Sab signature desolate soundscape of rain and the tolling bell, the opener for their debut eponymous album – a slightly cheeky reworking of Holst’s Mars riff they concede. Upstart Aston Brummies listening to classical music? Sup your bowl of Swarfega and know your place, upstart artisans. The crafting of demonic aural carnage notwithstanding their breaking the foundary mould.

And so it goes – a pile-driver pantechnicon after-burner-dazzling pantheon of napalm knuckle-duster plectrum-powered sensual delight. Sometimes awash with unabashed romantic divertissement, sometimes weird scenes inside a Goth mind. War Pigs riffs feature insistently in various tableaux as with Paranoid. The ubiquitous Axe Man, Hayward, like the insistent Mariner at the Wedding Feast, won’t let go until his demonic dirge is satiated. Closing Act Three Everybody Is A Fan – is dominated by a flux transient constuct of upturned car wreck and silver machined wingéd Satan on loan from Paradise Lost – sort of JG Ballard meets Hawkwind – tells you everything you didn’t want to know about your subjugated nightmares.  ‘What is this I see stand before me?’ Is it a defiant Lucifer prior to his fall from pride? A symbolic conceit for Ozzy’s pharmaceutical excesses that eventually saw him kicked out of the band. Psychoanalysis was never his strong suit – for Ozzy, Freud meant how he liked his breakfast. And as for Hubris? Something he dipped his kebabs in.

Carlos Acosta CBE precedes the performance with a dedication to dear Ozzy. And, well, fancy – Tony Iommi pops up at the whole cast full on climax to riff riotously, synchronously with his upstart doppelgänger, Mr Hayward. This was a one-off, a treasured treat for Press Nighters. Tonight’s was a magnificat of Metal and dance enchantment of the highest order – The ubiquitous Laney stacks cranked up to eleven. Monstrously heavenly indeed.

Runs until 27 September 2026 and on tour

100%

Ballet and Sab – bostin’ bab.