He Told Bob Dylan “These Are Collector’s Items, Not For You” — But Ozzy Osbourne Heard It All
November 3rd, 2018. Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles. Two men in the same record store at the same time. One had created the darkest voice in rock history. The other, the deepest voice in American poetry. Ozzy Osbourne had come to buy a first pressing of his own album for his son Jack’s birthday.
Bob Dylan just wanted to browse through some records, but the store owner couldn’t recognize either of them and declared one a valued customer because of his cashmere sweater. The other, he directed towards the door because of his worn leather jacket. And Ozzy was about to do something that would change this store’s fate forever.
The store’s owner, Gregory Ashton, was 45 years old, had studied music history at Oxford, and had written his doctoral thesis on the commercial commodification of American rock music. This academic background gave him an air of authority when it came to music, but it had also instilled in him a dangerous arrogance.
Around half past two, the store’s jingling door opened and a man walked in. He appeared to be in his mid-70s, wearing a faded brown leather jacket, a simple white shirt, and black jeans. A worn hat on his head, dark sunglasses over his eyes. His neck was tilted slightly forward, his walk slow but deliberate.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly inward. It was a man’s effort to take up as little space as possible. Without a word, he walked straight to the rock section and began running his fingers along the spines of the records. Gregory sized him up from behind the counter. Shoes? Old cowboy boots. Watch? None.
Hands? Dry, aged. The calculator in his mind whirred and delivered its verdict. Tourist, probably walked into the wrong store. A few minutes later, the door opened once more. This time it was Ozzy Osbourne, though he wasn’t easy to recognize. The 69-year-old rock legend had dressed like a normal person today, at Sharon’s insistence.
Navy cashmere sweater, dark gray trousers, spotless white trainers. Jack’s 33rd birthday was 5 days away, and Ozzy was looking for a special gift. Jack, like his father, was a record collector, and he’d been chasing one particular piece for years. A 1971st pressing Sabbath’s Paranoid album, Vertigo label, gatefold sleeve, UK original.
A clean copy went for 3 to 5,000 dollars on the market. “Bloody hell, I sang on that record. Tony played it. They gave us 20 quid back then. Now they’re asking 5,000 dollars.” He’d told Sharon. But when he imagined the look on Jack’s face, the money didn’t matter. That childlike excitement in his son’s eyes was the most valuable thing money could buy.
When Ozzy walked into the store, Gregory straightened up immediately. Cashmere sweater, clean shoes, this man could spend money. He stepped out from behind the counter, put on his best smile. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Goldmine Records.” Ozzy looked around. “I’m looking for a Black Sabbath Paranoid. 70 first pressing, Vertigo, UK original.
” Gregory’s eyes lit up. “Of course, we have a copy in excellent condition. Follow me, please.” As he led Ozzy towards the back, he glanced at the old man in the leather jacket from the corner of his eye. The man had moved to the folk and blues section now, studying a record sleeve. On the way, something caught Ozzy’s attention.
Bob Dylan records gleamed in the glass display case on the wall. The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, 1963, first pressing, 12,000 dollars. Highway 61 Revisited, 8,500. Blonde on Blonde double LP original 15,000. Bloody hell, you’re asking a small fortune for Dylan’s records, Aussie said without thinking. Gregory replied with his know-it-all smile.
Our Bob Dylan collection is the most prestigious part of our inventory. Aussie nodded. He’d first heard Blonde on Blonde in 1970 in a friend’s room in Birmingham and it had changed the way he saw the world. But right now, the real business was Jack’s gift. Gregory opened the locked cabinet in the back. He put on white gloves and pulled out the record. Paranoid 1970 Vertigo label.
The record was nearly flawless. “Near mint condition,” Gregory said. “4,800 dollars.” Aussie examined the record. Tony Iommi’s guitar riff started playing in his head. “I’ll take it,” he said quietly. Just then, a sound came from the front of the store. Gregory’s nephew Elliot, blonde, 25 years old, a young employee who had inherited his uncle’s arrogance but not his knowledge of music, was talking to the old man in the leather jacket.
“Sir, these records are collector’s items. Our prices cater to a particular segment. If you’re looking for something more affordable, Amoeba Records is two blocks away.” The old man looked at Elliot. His expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses, but his posture hadn’t changed.
He didn’t step back and he didn’t get angry. He simply raised the record in his hand slightly. “Is this a first pressing?” he asked, his voice low and dry. But the way the question was asked carried a strange authority. Elliot hesitated. There was something familiar about the old man’s voice, but he couldn’t place it. “Yes, first pressing.
But like I said, sir, the records here Gregory left Aussie and walked quickly to the front. “Elliot, is there a problem?” Elliot turned to his uncle. No, just explaining our store’s concept to the gentleman. Gregory looked at the old man. Sir, welcome. Our store is a boutique specializing in collector’s records.
Our prices start at $200 and some pieces go up to tens of thousands. If you’re looking for records to listen to, I can recommend other stores. The old man continued examining the record in his hands. He ran his fingers across the sleeve, slowly, thoughtfully. Then, almost as if talking to himself, he said something quietly.
The photograph on this cover is reversed. In the original pressing, the hat should be on the right side. Here, it’s on the left. This isn’t 1963, it’s a ’65 reissue. It’s not worth half of what’s on the price tag. Gregory’s face froze. The old man had made a claim about the $12,000 Bob Dylan record.
If he was right, it would be a disaster for the store’s reputation. You must be mistaken, sir. Gregory said, his voice hardening. All our records have been verified by international certification companies. The old man looked at Gregory over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes were pale blue, tired, but sharp.
Verified? He paused for a moment. All right. He placed the record back slowly without saying another word. But Ozzy had been watching this scene from the back of the store and something had stirred inside him. There was something about the old man’s voice. Ozzy’s mind began working fast. From the streets of Birmingham to the stages, he’d heard thousands of voices.
He’d met thousands of musicians and this voice, this posture, these hands. No, it couldn’t be. But what if it was? Ozzy took a step forward, then stopped. 1970, Birmingham. That voice drifting from the cracked speaker in his friend’s room. The same voice. The years had taken their toll, but the DNA of a person’s voice never changes.
Just as he would always recognize that dark tone Tony Iommi drew from his fingertips, he recognized this voice, too. But he didn’t want to walk up to some random old man in a record store and ask, “Are you Bob Dylan?” and make a fool of himself. If Sharon heard about it, she’d never let him live it down.
But what if he wasn’t wrong? Gregory didn’t seem to care about the old man’s claim about the record. He’d gone back behind the counter, getting ready to wrap Ozzy’s Paranoid. Elliot had retreated to his corner, busy with his phone. The old man was left alone, standing among the shelves, hands in his pockets, quietly looking at the cover of another record.
Nobody was looking at him. Nobody saw him. Ozzy made his decision. Half a century of stage experience had taught him one thing, to know people, you have to look them in the eyes. He walked slowly toward the old man. When he reached him, he stopped and looked at him in silence for a moment.
The old man must have sensed Ozzy’s presence because he turned his head slightly. The two men looked at each other. Ozzy smiled, that famous crooked smile of his. “Blonde on blonde.” Ozzy said quietly. “I listened to it in ’70 in Birmingham in my friend’s room. The most beautiful record I’d ever heard. Still is.
” The slightest movement crossed the old man’s lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, more like a recognition. “Birmingham.” The old man said, his voice close to a whisper. “Beautiful city. Cold, but beautiful.” Ozzy’s eyes welled up. For 50 years he’d listened to this man’s music, found comfort in his darkest nights, taken shelter in his songs during his hardest times, and now that man was standing right here, inside a worn leather jacket, in cowboy boots, belittled in a record store, directed towards the door, yet still standing tall with that immeasurable calm. “Ozzy Osbourne,” Ozzy said, extending his hand. The old man looked at him for a moment, then shook it. His palm was dry and cool. “I know who you are,” he said quietly. “Paranoid. Good record.” Just then, Gregory called out from behind the counter. “Sir, your record is
ready. Shall we proceed to payment?” His voice was impatient. He’d found the time spent on the old man unnecessary. Ozzy turned. He looked at Gregory. “One moment,” he said, and walked toward the counter. “I have a question. What did you just say to that gentleman?” Gregory’s smile tightened slightly.
“I simply explained our store’s concept, sir. Our price range, our target clientele.” “You showed him the door,” Ozzy said, his voice still calm. “You looked at his clothes and guessed his wallet. Then you directed him to the store two blocks away.” Gregory’s face flushed. “Sir, it’s a business decision.
We do customer profile analysis. It’s standard.” “Standard?” Ozzy took another step closer. “Well, let me tell you something. That $12,000 Dylan record on the wall, that gentleman just told you it’s a fake. Reversed cover, a ’65 reissue, and you didn’t even listen to him.” Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “That record is certified, sir.
The claims of a random customer.” “A random customer?” Ozzy took off his sunglasses. That familiar spark was in his eyes. The one Sharon had known for 40 years. The one that appeared just before he took the stage. “That gentleman, the man you directed toward the door, is the person who recorded every single one of those records on your wall.
Those records were made with his voice and written with his words. And you told him, ‘If you’re looking for records to listen to, try somewhere else.” Silence. Even the Chet Baker playing in the store seemed to have gone quiet. Gregory’s face went red first, then white as a sheet. Elliot dropped his phone. Both of them turned to the old man in the leather jacket at the same time.
He was still standing among the shelves, hands in his pockets, watching the scene. There was no expression on his face, no triumph, no anger, no satisfaction. Just that deep, tired calm. “This can’t be,” Gregory said, his voice trembling. “Bob Dylan is in Los Angeles? In this store?” Ozzie shrugged.
“Musicians buy records, too, mate. Sometimes they even look at their own. They want to see what’s become of their music in other people’s hands.” Gregory stepped out from behind the counter, his legs shaking. He walked toward the old man, his face a mixture of horror and shame. “Mr. Dylan, I I’m truly sorry. I didn’t recognize you. Please, forgive me.
This is a terrible mistake.” Dylan watched Gregory’s panic, then he spoke very slowly, very quietly. “Fix the record. The rest doesn’t matter.” A simple sentence, but those words struck Gregory’s face like a slap. The man didn’t want an apology. He didn’t want respect. He didn’t want recognition.
He just wanted the truth. He didn’t want a fake record sold for $12,000. Gregory lowered his head. He couldn’t find a word to say. Ozzie turned to Bob Dylan. “Would you like to get a drink? There’s a nice coffee place nearby, my secret hideaway that Sharon doesn’t know about.” A real smile appeared on Dylan’s lips this time.
“Coffee works,” he said. Ozzie turned back to the counter. “Wrap the record, and have that Dylan collection on the wall checked. If one of of is fake, they’re all suspect. Gregory nodded mechanically. His hand trembled as he prepared the credit card machine. Ozzie held out his card, then paused for a moment.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Sharon. Sharon love, I got the record, but something else happened. You won’t believe it when I tell you. No, the police weren’t called this time. Yes, I’m behaving normally. Just I’m going to have coffee with a friend. Who? If I tell you, you’ll drop the phone.
10 minutes later, Ozzie and Dylan were sitting in a small coffee shop two blocks from the store. Ozzie had a milky coffee in his hand. Dylan had a plain black Americano in front of him. They sat in silence for a while. Ozzie didn’t want to break the silence because the silence itself was a conversation. Two men, one who had created the darkest voice in rock, the other the deepest voice in American poetry, sitting side by side, sipping their coffee and saying nothing.
Words weren’t needed. Finally, Dylan spoke. For your son? That record? Ozzie nodded. Jack. Turning 33. Record collector. He’s been looking for an original paranoid for years. Dylan turned his coffee cup slowly. Music from father to son. That’s a beautiful thing. That man in the store, Ozzie said, taking a sip of his coffee, studied music history at Oxford.
Sells your records on his wall for tens of thousands of dollars. But when you walked through the door, he couldn’t recognize you. You know why? Dylan waited. Because he looks at records, not at people. He searches for music in labels, not in eyes. And you, mate, are the most unrecognizable famous person in the world. I think you do it on purpose.
Dylan took off his sunglasses. His pale blue eyes, tired but deep, looked at Ozzie. Not being recognized is freedom. He said quietly. Being recognized is a cage. They sat for half an hour. They talked very little about music, mostly about life, about growing old, about children, about the value of silence.
When it was time to say goodbye, Ozzy extended his hand. This was special for me, truly. Dylan shook his hand. Tell your son Paranoid is a good record, but Sabbath Bloody Sabbath is better. Ozzy’s jaw dropped. Then he laughed, laughed so hard that everyone in the coffee shop turned to look.
Bloody hell, I’m telling Tony about this. He’s going to lose his mind. Dylan raised the collar of his leather jacket, straightened his hat, and disappeared into the crowd on Melrose Avenue. Nobody looked at him. Nobody recognized him, just the way he wanted it. That night when Ozzy got home, Sharon was waiting at the door.
Did you get the record? She asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Ozzy held out the record. Got it. Sharon stepped closer. So, who was this friend on the phone? Ozzy smiled. Bob Dylan. Sharon stared at him for a moment. Then she laughed. Ozzy, you’re truly out of your mind. Ozzy shook his head.
Sharon, love, I swear, Bob Dylan in a record store. They directed him to the door, didn’t recognize him. Sharon’s smile disappeared. What? She said, her voice changing. Ozzy told her everything. Sharon listened in silence. Finally, she said just one thing. What did you do? Ozzy shrugged. The right thing. Sharon looked at her husband.
In over 40 years of marriage, she was the person who knew this man best. And right now, beneath that navy cashmere sweater, she could still see the boy from the back streets of Birmingham. The boy who waited at the doors of the wealthy. The boy people judged by his clothes. I’m proud of you. Sharon said quietly.
Ozzie was surprised. Sharon didn’t say those words easily. Then Sharon added, “I don’t want you wearing that cashmere sweater again. It never suited you.” Goldmine Records changed after that day. Gregory Ashton had every record in the store checked one by one. It turned out Dylan had been right.
The Freewheelin’ really was a ’65 reissue. A story began circulating among the record shops on Melrose Avenue. The story of an old man in a leather jacket who walked into a record store was looked down on and turned out to be Bob Dylan. Everyone who told the story added a detail of their own.
Some said Dylan sang a song, others said he bought the store, but the real story was none of those things. The real story was this. For the first time in his life, Gregory Ashton learned the price of judging a person by their clothes. And from that day on, he began asking everyone who walked into his store, whether they wore cowboy boots or cashmere sweaters, the same question.
“What kind of music do you like?”
