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Black Sabbath, Holst & travel — a tribute to Ozzy

Black Sabbath, Holst & travel — a tribute to Ozzy

West Australian23-07-2025
As we travel, we collect pieces of a jigsaw, without even having the lid.
That picture may only emerge later, unexpectedly.
And this is how a jigsaw came together.
It's mealtime and I'm flicking through Emirates' entertainment system, looking for something not-too-long to watch. I stumbled across a music documentary about the heavy metal band Black Sabbath.
They're not really my cup of tea, but emerges is the story of a bunch of Birmingham boys who invented a whole musical genre, and remained down to earth, and friends, despite the excesses of the era and frontman Ozzy Osbourne.
Musically, it's actually pretty interesting. There are complex time signatures and key shifts. Guitarist Tony Iommi's instrument was tuned lower to slacken the strings under his missing finger tips, which were cut off in a work accident.
This is the 50th anniversary year of the Black Sabbath's genesis. They have sold more than 70 million records, won two Grammys and been inducted into both the UK Music Hall of Fame and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
The chaps are actually endearing and their story inspiring. I feel like I've found the corner piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
Future note to self
— Things to see and do in
Birmingham
. Brindleyplace and the canal quarter (Cinderella story with bars and restaurants), Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, Jewellery Quarter (more than 200 listed buildings), Cadbury World, just about any Indian restaurant, and Moseley Bog for a walk. (Yes, really. A bog.)
I'd always thought the name 'Black Sabbath' came from the band being from the Black Country (so-called for the heavy-industry history of England's second city), but it was actually taken from their first song.
And here's the second piece of my jigsaw.
Despite his name, Gustav Holst was an English composer born in 1874 in rather elegant Cheltenham, 80km from Birmingham.
The descendent of a Swedish family (by way of
Latvia
and Russia), he's most famous for composing The Planets suite, written in 1914 — Mars, Jupiter, Mercury and all the other known planets of that time given their characters.
Mars, the bringer of war, is the first and perhaps most dramatic, opening with a primitive rhythm with an
irregular 5 /4
time signature. It develops into an ominous low riff of three notes, based on the note G. An eponymous anthem.
Black Sabbath bass player Geezer Butler recalls being in a recording studio in the early days of the band, and being a 'medium-sized fan of Holst's The Planets' he was trying to play the opening to Mars. Then next day, guitarist Iommi came in and played it differently — extending the second note upwards. He was playing G, A and Db — a flattened fifth. He was playing the devil's chord, the 'diabolus in musica', and a sequence that had been forbidden by the church for centuries. He was actually playing what became the signature riff for their first famous song, Black Sabbath.
As we travel, we collect pieces of a jigsaw, without even having the lid.
That picture may only emerge later, unexpectedly.
And this is how a jigsaw came together.
There's a refrain in the middle of Holst's Jupiter which, separately, became known as Thaxted. It was once best known for its use in the hymn I Vow To Thee My Country, but it has become rugby union's theme.
It was morphed again, into the anthem World in Union, first heard at the 1991 Rugby World Cup, held in England.
Rugby union is widely recognised by being invented by William Webb Ellis in 1823. The 2023 Rugby World Cup, to be held by France, will mark its 200th anniversary.
Note to self
— Things to see and do in
France
. Paris cafes, the D'Orsay Museum, the Eiffel Tower, Palace of Versailles and stroll the gardens of Luxembourg Palace and the little streets of St Germain and Les Puces
flea market
, of course.
But here comes another part of that jigsaw …
For sometime in 1899, Holst, then still an aspiring composer, was in London and visited the British Museum's Reading Room. He asked for several books, including works by the 5th century classical poet Kalidasa.
Though having to earn a living playing trombone for the Carl Rosa Opera Company and in a popular orchestra called the White Viennese Band, Holst, who went to the Royal College of Music in London, had become interested in Hindu spirituality.
He wanted to set some of its most important texts to music but didn't like the clunky translations he'd found and came here, to the British Museum to find precious early versions.
He later told his daughter that he'd never felt more foolish than the moment the huge tomes were brought to him, and he found they were in Sanskrit.
He surely felt less foolish after he learnt Sanskrit at University College London, specifically so that he could translate them himself.
Holst did, indeed, set many of India's most famous early texts to music. There was Sita, a three-act opera based on part of the epic Ramayana poem, composed between 1899 and 1906. In 1908, Holst wrote Savitri, a chamber opera based a story from the Mahabharata. He wrote Hymns from the Rig Veda, and based other works on texts by the great Indian poet Kalidasa.
Note to self
— Things to see and do in
London
. British Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, Science Museum, Natural History Museum — all free. But don't forget the Royal Academy of Music Museum and perhaps The Musical Museum, which has one of the world's best collections of self-playing instruments, including a massive Wurlitzer. It's in Brentford, near Kew Bridge railway station.
Phrases in the poem by Kalidasa which follows will be recognisable the pieces of many jigsaws.
For Kalidasa wrote this, possibly more than 1600 years ago …
'Listen to the exhortation of the dawn!
Look to this day!
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course lie all the verities
and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth, the glory of action,
the splendor of beauty;
for yesterday is but a dream,
and tomorrow is only a vision;
But today well lived makes every yesterday
a dream of happiness,
and every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day!
Such is the salutation of the dawn!'
Kalidasa poet probably lived from around 350 to 460AD and, I think, it is widely accepted (and logical) that he was associated with the informed era of Chandra Gupta II (who reigned from around 380AD to 415AD). His work flourished in the 5th century.
I have been collecting Kalidasa's works for years. It takes me to backstreet book shops in odd little towns in India. It takes me into tight little conversations with intellectuals and locals on the streets, who just read and know the poet.
I see the Encylopaedia Britannica sites him as 'probably the greatest Indian writer of any epoch'.
Note to self
— Things to see and do in
India
. In Mumbai, visit the main railway station,Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, and Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya museum in South Mumbai, join Bollywood Tours and a one hour boat trip from Gateway of India to Elephant Island, with its 5th-century temples cut from the rock. Fly one and a half hours north east to the
Ujjain
in the state of
Madhya Pradesh
to visit the Kalidasa Academy, with its museum of Sanskrit theatrical arts and outdoor theatre, and the nearby Gadkalika Temple, dedicated to Goddess Kalika, who is associated with universal energy. It is said that Kalidasa, who had no formal education, acquired his knowledge and literary skills through blessings from the goddess, because of his complete devotion to her.
The final part of this jigsaw comes when friend and outback travelling companion Grady Brand sends me a picture of a page from the book Legend of the Kimberley, about flying doctor Lawson Holman, compiled by Janet Holman.
Found among Dr Holman's papers was this quote – another version of Kalidasa's word — which is published in the book:
'Yesterday has gone, it is no more than a memory.
Tomorrow is the future, for which you plan and hope.
Today is life.
Make the most of this day, for in it is all the truth and reality of your existence; of heartache and happiness of learning and experiencing new things; the joy and the glory of action; the splendour of beauty.
Today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness and every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Such is life.'
— Kaladasa
It sang out to Grady, and he sent it to me.
And that sent me, immediately, back to the red dust and blue sky of the Kimberley.
I've always had an affinity for Derby, out there, surrounded by the sun-crazed mudflats, with that huge tide driving its rhythm, and its wide streets lined with big boabs.
It marks the west end of the Gibb River Road, opened as a beef road in the early 1960s and now, usually, busy with mobs of tourists.
At the start of the road, among boabs and the woodlands of this pindan country, is Holman House, built by Owen Ah Chee about 1915, and where Old Doc Holman, as Lawson Holman was affectionately known around here, lived in the 1950s. Doc died in 1993, aged 64, but is still a legend in these parts, remembered for his outstanding commitment to the health of the town, its outlying communities and the patients of the Derby Leprosarium. Holman House is recognised as a State heritage icon — just like the man who lived in it and 'invented' his own blood bank. For Old Doc Holman set about categorising Derby residents into blood groups. When blood was urgently needed, he rushed to the compulsory donor and bled them.
I'm leaving Derby, driving east on the Gibb River Road, as I have so many times, with country music drifting out of the windows and bulldust drifting in as sneezy as snuff.
And I'm playing country music (of course). And I'm playing Kris Kristofferson (of course). It's a digital version of his greatest hits, which I've been playing since the 80s, after I spent some time with Kris and wrote about him.
And he sings …
'Yesterday is dead and gone
And tomorrow's out of sight …'
Another piece in the comforting jigsaws that help me make it through the night.
Note to self
— Things to see and do in
Derby
and the
West Kimberley
. Do the flight out to Horizontal Falls in a seaplane; it's worth the money. Fish and chips on the jetty, visit Derby pioneer cemetery, and the grave of PC William Richardson, who was killed by Pigeon, and graves overtaken by antbed mounds. See if Sandy is still doing the best boab nut carving in WA. Set out on the Gibb River Road and have a swim Bell Gorge. Live life to the full
+ Legend of the Kimberley, Lawson Holman — Flying Doctor is published by WA's Hesperian Press ($35 plus postage.
hesperianpress.com
)
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Suddenly, just minutes from us going to air, a mortar struck a ridge a few hundred metres away. It not only unnerved Trent and me, but also startled the master control in Sydney, who was setting up for the cross. 'What was that noise?' Gavin Plunkett asked over the phone. 'It was a mortar hitting that hill,' I said, as Trent panned to the rising smoke. The satellite trucks and lights of TV crews from across the world who had set up on the hillside must have made a tempting target for Hamas mortar and rocket crews. Strangely, despite the proximity of the explosion and the very real possibility of more, there was no panic. No one decided to move. We all just went on reporting. It's one of the risks of being in a conflict zone: something that would appear dangerous in other circumstances suddenly seems less so. By the second day of the invasion, Israeli tanks had reached the city of Khan Younis. Again we could see the fierce battle from a distance. 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'It's a long process that we have to, I'm sorry . . .' She flinched as more explosions could be heard nearby. 'I know it's a long process in order to get a better life here in Sderot [but] I just want it all to be over.' A city of just 30,000 residents, Sderot had become one of Hamas's main targets. In the years leading up to 2008, more than a dozen locals had been killed and dozens more wounded by an average of four rocket and mortars a day. By the time we arrived, the attacks had increased to 60 a week. Because of Sderot's proximity to Gaza, locals had only seven to 15 seconds to find shelter. The population was heavily traumatised. Many wanted, but could not afford, to leave. Steel canopies had been built over playgrounds in the hope of giving children some protection from incoming mortar or rocket fire. Because Trent and I wanted to experience what it was like for Sderot residents to live under the constant threat of attack, we decided to sit with our camera in the middle of the town, just metres away from one of the many public bomb shelters, and wait for a missile attack. We waited. And waited. Several hours passed but there were no rockets. For us it was a good news, bad news situation. Conscious that we didn't want to be left empty-handed for that night's news, Trent and I decided to give up and began walking back to Mustafa, who had parked nearby. We were loading our gear when an announcement burst from the speakers that lined Sderot's streets. The message was in Hebrew but the meaning was obvious. We were under attack. Trent and I grabbed the camera and ran for the public bomb shelter. Breathless, Trent filmed as we scrambled inside, packed in with other panicked residents. The thud of an explosion rang out before we could make it to safety. Some of those sheltering with us whimpered at the sound of another loud bang. They had been through this many times. You could see it on their faces, the mixture of terror and resignation. The bunker was rudimentary and hardly seemed bombproof. Built above ground, with cement-brick walls and a reinforced concrete roof, it would provide only limited protection from a direct hit. But it gave at least some chance of survival. In hindsight, it was a totally reckless thing to do: exposing ourselves to the risk of a rocket attack. It was a classic example of thinking of the journalistic upside while not considering the real danger of the downside. I can honestly say, not for the first time in this book, that even as a father, selfishly my mortality never entered my head. We returned to our car, desperate to find out where the rockets had landed. We found Mustafa in the front seat. He told us that he had been waiting for us to finish putting the equipment away, when he realised the warning had sent us scurrying, leaving him there alone. By this time, it was too late for him to join us in a rush for cover. 'I just sat there praying. I kept telling the rockets that I was one of the good guys, that I was on their side,' Mustafa said with a chuckle. We beat the local fire brigade to the aftermath of the rocket attack — just one of 30 fired at the community that day. Thankfully it had exploded in a front yard, causing some damage to part of a home and a fence but no casualties. Not far from the attack, we found fresh Israeli forces marshalling on the Gaza border. The soldiers tried to stop us from filming their columns, physically pushing us away. They, too, would soon join the street-to-street battle against Hamas. Unlike the troops excitedly chanting before the ground invasion began, these young conscripts had heard tales of what lay ahead. No one was in more demand than the Israeli bomb squad. As dozens of rockets rained down on local communities, a lot of ordnance was left unexploded and required disposal, a delicate and dangerous task. We rode along with squad members for a day. They drove us past the checkpoints where media had been stopped along the border with Gaza. Army Humvees were the only other traffic on the dirt roads. 'We are now just on the outskirts of the Gaza Strip,' Inspector Micky Rosenfeld, the Israel Police national spokesman to the foreign media, told us. You could see the Palestinian villages just a few hundred metres across what looked like unused farmland. A small concrete wall, of the type used in roadworks, provided our only protection as we stopped to film. 'It's very dangerous if we're spotted,' Rosenfeld warned. 'We can be in target range of rockets that can be fired or mortars that can land on us.' As he gave me a pair of binoculars to take a look, his handheld radio crackled with a message in Hebrew. Rosenfeld's facial expression and mood suddenly changed. 'We have to get back into the vehicle,' he said urgently. Trent and I needed no convincing. Back in the relative safety of the bulletproof truck, racing away from the border, it was soon clear that, just as Rosenfeld had said might happen, we had indeed been targeted by a Hamas mortar team. A plume of smoke marked an explosion from a mortar landing not far from where we had stood moments earlier. But Hamas would soon find their target. The bomb squad responded to a direct hit on an apartment building in Ashkelon, about 15 kilometres north of the Gaza border. A car was left pockmarked with shrapnel. Locals gathered around in despair, though this time they had been lucky and no one had been seriously injured. Hamas rockets and mortars were packed with small ball bearings. 'It's designed to cause a lot of damage,' Rosenfeld said. 'Anyone within a 30-metre radius will be killed with those small ball bearings that fly like bullets through the air.' Every Israeli civilian casualty would be matched ten-fold by the losses of Palestinian civilians in Gaza. Because we had been banned from entering Gaza, it was incredibly difficult to report on what was happening in the strip. We were, though, determined to report fairly on the claims from both sides of the conflict. There would be worldwide condemnation over four Palestinian orphans who had to be rushed to hospital, starving, too weak to stand after they had been left for days next to the corpses of their mothers. 'Mama, where did you go?' cried a little boy with a broken arm in a steel brace, from his hospital bed. The Red Cross said it could not reach the children because Israeli soldiers had blockaded the neighbourhood. According to Katharina Ritz from the International Red Cross, 'There was no food given. No medical treatment given. The soldiers were nearby.' As the conflict dragged on, we tried to capture both the mood of Israel – a country at war again – and what the war meant for the Palestinians who also called this land home. Tension was building on the West Bank and along the border with Lebanon. We travelled to a nursing home in Israel's north that been hit by one of three Katyusha rockets fired by Hezbollah in Lebanon. It had pierced the roof. The manager said it was a miracle no one was killed. 'We want to live in peace. It could be a wonderful place in the Middle East.' There were now fears that a new front could break out on the Lebanon border. It had only been two years since Israel and Hezbollah had been locked in a conflict that claimed hundreds of lives. As we drove back from the Lebanon border, we were once again pleading with Mustafa to slow down. He was again offering his reassurances, when suddenly we rounded a blind curve at well over 100 kilometres an hour to find traffic stopped in a small village ahead. Mustafa was forced to brake suddenly, swerving to narrowly miss one car, angering its occupants. Whatever was yelled by them at Mustafa in Hebrew was repeated by Trent and me in English. One frightening moment was soon to be followed by another. Israel had banned Palestinian men under the age of 50 from taking part in Friday prayer at the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. We knew there was going to be trouble. The Temple Mount is considered one of the holiest places in Judaism, Islam and Christianity. The mosque, built on a hill in the Old City, is the second oldest in Islam. Up to 400,000 worshippers can pray in its courtyard. It is also where the First and Second Jewish Temples are believed to have once stood. Running below the Temple Mount is the Western Wall, all that remains of the temples, destroyed by the Babylonians and the Romans, respectively, and sacred to Jews. It is also known as the Wailing Wall because Jews pray there to mourn the destruction of the temples. It was feared Muslims could target Jews praying below, in retaliation for the war in Gaza. In defiance of the ban, men prayed in the streets outside the mosque, kneeling in unison on their prayer mats, reciting verses from the Quran. They were expressing deep devotion to their faith but you could also feel their anger slowly reaching boiling point. Israeli riot police dressed in battle gear stood nearby, clearly anticipating trouble. A group of young men and teenagers suddenly gathered, taunting and swearing at the police. Trent and I noticed other local media scurrying to their cars, pulling out and putting on helmets. We soon found out why. Rocks began to rain down on the police, who were dressed in heavy protection, and we were caught in the middle of a fullblown rock fight. The young Palestinians would break up pieces of the road and hurl them towards the police in an attempt to push them back. Under normal circumstances, you would be impressed by their throwing ability. Under a hail of rocks, Mustafa bravely made a dash to his precious Mercedes, quickly moving to save it from damage. The rock throwers would advance, only to be repelled by the heavily armed police, who used shields to protect themselves. At one stage, the officers thought they had won and the protesters had disappeared. Everyone began to relax. Some of the police even removed their helmets. There was chuckling at the sight of two clearly unprepared foreign journalists. Suddenly there was a thud. Then another. Rocks were landing near us, this time from a different direction. The young protesters had outsmarted the police by circling around in an ambush. They ran out of a side street, closer than before, pummelling us with road fragments that could easily have cracked our unprotected skulls. It never occurred to us to put on helmets. This remains one of my most dangerous encounters. The rock throwers quickly vanished again, but the anger they carried on their faces wouldn't disappear so easily. The next day we drove across Israeli checkpoints, and past Bedouin camps, into the West Bank and its capital, Ramallah. We had been warned it could be dangerous for Western media, but Mustafa had convinced us that we would be safe with him. We entered a bustling city, like Gaza virtually cut off from the rest of the world by an eight-metre-high wall that ran for 700 kilometres. Because of the fear of suicide bombers, the movement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinian workers to and from Israel had been heavily restricted, sending unemployment and resentment in the West Bank skyrocketing. Added to that outrage, residents had watched in horror the suffering of their fellow Palestinians in Gaza. As local schoolteacher Ramadan Shekawi told us, 'It's a catastrophe because it's not part of another country, it's part of Palestine. So the people there are our people.' He shared the common Palestinian view that Israel was an occupying force. 'There are 550 checkpoints within that are stopping us from going from one Palestinian city to another Palestinian city.' As we left, we stopped to do a piece to camera in front of the enormous border wall separating the West Bank from Israel. There we were surrounded by young children. Seemingly just inquisitive, they quickly became aggressive, grabbing at our equipment and trying to snatch anything they could out of our pockets. As grown men, it was hard to know how to fight them off. I was afraid that one of them could have a knife. Thankfully Mustafa hurried from the car and yelled some stern words in Arabic that sent them fleeing. It was yet another example of how danger can present itself at the most innocuous of moments. To get back to our hotel in Jerusalem, we had to return through one of those many checkpoints that Ramadan Shekawi had mentioned. There was a long line of cars waiting to get through, but Mustafa was having none of that and decided to drive along a median strip and push his Mercedes into the line just before the checkpoint. This, naturally, angered other motorists and caused alarm among the already nervous young Israeli soldiers, concerned that our car could be a suicide bomber speeding towards them. They approached us with machine guns drawn, yelling at Mustafa who, rather than easing the situation, proceeded to yell back. It was an argument that was in danger of spiralling out of control. From the back seat I told Mustafa to shut up and wound down the window to apologise to the officers, showing them our Australian passports and explaining that we were journalists. They waved us through. Mustafa smiled, as if he had won. As the war in Gaza dragged on, and Australia's appetite for coverage waned, Trent and I would file our story in the morning and spend a few hours exploring the region in the afternoon. In Bethlehem we visited the Church of the Nativity and the grotto that Christians believe was the birthplace of Jesus. There were tourists there but not the crowds you would expect for such a holy site. A local restaurant owner complained of the border wall that cut his neighbourhood in two. Friends and family who lived only a few streets away suddenly were cut off. A visit that previously took just a minutes could now take hours as it required passing through checkpoints. The wall also restricted the flow of visitors to the ancient city. When we drove through Jericho to the Dead Sea we saw children throwing rocks at an Israeli armoured vehicle. Trent jumped out of the car to film the stand-off, only to find himself between the opposing sides. Even in the most revered places, it was difficult to escape the conflict. Trent and I would spend three weeks covering the war, which ended in a ceasefire on 18 January. The United Nations estimated that 1400 Palestinians were killed in the war, almost a thousand of them civilians. Three Israeli civilians were killed by rocket attacks and 10 soldiers died in the war, four of them killed by friendly fire. Heartbreak and anger. Those have been the overwhelming feelings watching the unfolding violence between Palestine and Israel since 7 October 2023. Not only had little changed but the situation had worsened, fuelled by continued unbridled hatred. The attack on Israel and the subsequent retribution were far greater than anything Trent and I had witnessed in 2008. The thousands of lives lost over Christmas and New Year back then did little to prevent the heavy toll of killings that would be inflicted more than a decade later. There seems to be no end. No solution. Those who continue to pay the most terrible price are caught in the middle: average Israelis and Palestinians who ultimately just want what we all want, for their loved ones to live a peaceful life. I saw their anguish and grief back then and can only imagine the horror they have since endured. An independent Palestinian state — surely the only long-term answer — still seems like a fanciful concept, buried alongside the victims of the violence. To be clear, the 2023 Hamas attack was barbaric. These weren't freedom fighters; they were bloodthirsty terrorists, cowards who killed and kidnapped, even raping their victims, before retreating to hide among their innocent fellow citizens, men, women and children. Many of the atrocities committed were in the same border towns Trent and I had visited. Israel had every right to hunt down and kill those responsible, including the Hamas leadership, and liberate the hostages. But, as we witnessed first hand, the Israeli response was again heavy-handed and indiscriminate: killing tens of thousands of civilians and destroying entire towns. Sadly, politics prevented some plain talking – conservatives backing Israel unconditionally and labelling any criticism as antisemitic; liberals, particularly the young, defending, even justifying, the Hamas attackers as freedom fighters. Many of the loudest voices couldn't find Gaza on a map. They refuse to concede that there are major faults on both sides. Neither is willing to buckle to the other. Trent and I left the region feeling torn. The history of the conflict is hard to truly grasp. We had great empathy for the Palestinians, who were effectively imprisoned on their own land, both in Gaza and the West Bank, cut off from the rest of the world. Young people with little hope were growing up resentful.

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