By - Imlisanen Jamir
Ozzy Osbourne’s death isn’t just a moment for metal fans—it’s a reminder of how music once moved. Especially in places like Nagaland, where access was limited, but curiosity wasn’t.
There was a time before YouTube, before Spotify, when finding music took work. You didn’t discover artists through playlists or algorithms. You found them through people. Older cousins. A friend in the hostel. Someone at school with a scratched CD. Music moved hand to hand. Pirated, burned, renamed, half-tracked. You rarely knew what album it came from. You just knew it hit hard.
Ozzy was part of that circuit. Not because anyone pushed him, but because he stuck. A few riffs, a weird voice, something wild enough to pass around. Someone played “Crazy Train” on a cheap guitar at school. Someone else had it in a shared folder called “metal.” The sound traveled. That’s how most of us heard heavy music in the first place.
Pirated CDs were everywhere. Mix compilations with no cover art, no context—just twenty songs crammed into 700 MB. You’d get Black Sabbath, Metallica, Sepultura, maybe even Boney M on the same disc. Didn’t matter. If it sounded different from the praise songs at home or the radio pop in shops, it stayed with you.
In Nagaland, you didn’t get access to live shows or official merch. You got fragments. A bootleg DVD of a concert. A badly printed guitar tab. A hand-drawn band logo on a school notebook. That was the music scene. Bands formed in classrooms, playing Sabbath or Maiden covers at school functions or church halls. Not for fame. Just to play.
There was no streaming. No way to “discover new artists.” If someone had a pen drive with 3 GB of music, you copied everything. You listened to songs without knowing who wrote them. You memorized tracks from mp3 folders with names like “rock 2003” or “guitar solo best.” The discovery was messy, and that made it stick.
Music wasn’t ambient. It was intentional. You made time for it. You repeated the same album for weeks because it was the only one you had. You learned lyrics by mishearing them. You didn’t follow trends—you followed file paths.
Today, things are different. Easier. But also more disposable. Music scrolls past. You skip before the hook. The ritual is gone.
Comments can be sent to imlisanenjamir@gmail.com
