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.
