In the smoky underbelly of rock ‘n’ roll history, where riffs echo like thunder and betrayals cut deeper than a guitar solo, a long-forgotten treasure chest is rattling open – and it’s sparking a war that could rewrite Black Sabbath’s origin story. Jim Simpson, the grizzled pioneer who shepherded a scruffy Birmingham quartet from pub gigs to global domination in 1969, is gearing up to unleash Earth: The Legendary Lost Tapes, a bombshell album of raw, pre-fame recordings featuring a baby-faced Ozzy Osbourne and his soon-to-be-legendary bandmates. But Ozzy’s wife and manager, Sharon Osbourne, isn’t raising a toast to nostalgia. She’s calling it a greedy heist, accusing Simpson of hoarding the tapes for decades only to cash in now that copyright protections have expired. As legal threats fly and old wounds reopen, one question hangs heavier than a down-tuned riff: Who really owns Black Sabbath’s soul? And will these lost echoes of youth heal the band’s fractured legacy – or bury it for good?

Echoes from the Birmingham Basements: How It All Began

Picture this: It’s 1969, and the industrial grit of England’s Midlands is birthing a beast. Four lads – Ozzy Osbourne, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler, and Bill Ward – are hammering out bluesy covers in dingy clubs under the unassuming name Earth. Enter Jim Simpson, a late-20s visionary who’d just launched Big Bear Music, Birmingham’s first indie label. With a passion for raw blues and a Rolodex of hungry talents, Simpson spots potential in these long-haired misfits and inks them as his latest project. He shells out a then-modest £500 for studio time at Henry David’s Regent Sound, capturing their earliest jams: gritty takes on Blue Suede Shoes, Evenin’, and Wee Wee Baby, plus originals like Song For Jim (with Iommi bizarrely switching from guitar to flute) and proto-metal growls in Wicked World and Warning.

These weren’t polished demos; they were the unfiltered birth pangs of heavy metal. Just months later, Earth morphs into Black Sabbath, unleashing their self-titled debut in February 1970 – a seismic shift that topped UK charts and terrified parents worldwide. Paranoid followed in September, cementing their throne with anthems of doom and dread. Simpson’s stint as manager? It wrapped in September 1970, after which he pivoted to unearthing forgotten Black American blues legends, producing over 80 albums, and founding the Birmingham Jazz & Blues Festival. The tapes? They gathered dust in his archives, rediscovered decades later amid a career revival. Now, at 88, Simpson sees them as “a crucial segment of music history” – a raw snapshot of the Sabs’ blues roots before the occult-fueled frenzy took hold.

Sharon’s Scathing Smackdown: “He’s a Pig Who Wants It All”

Fast-forward to 2025, and the tapes are no longer ghosts in the attic. Simpson, partnering with Trapeze Music & Entertainment (stewards of Johnny Cash and Duke Ellington catalogs), plans a full release on his relaunched Big Bear Records. The tracklist? A treasure trove of unheard gems: two versions of Song For Jim, brooding instrumentals like Untitled and Free Man, and those early covers that foreshadow the Sabbath sound. Remastered for modern ears, it’s poised to thrill die-hard fans craving the “what ifs” of rock’s evolution.

But Sharon Osbourne, the sharp-tongued queen of metal management, smelled a rat. On a fiery episode of The Osbournes podcast this fall, she unloaded: “He says he paid the bill for the studio, which he says was £500… He would have never had that money to pay for a studio in those days. He claims that he paid, therefore he owns them.” Dismissing Simpson’s credentials, she sneered, “For the first 10 years of their career, they made millions and never got a penny.” Her real venom? Timing and greed. “He’s kept it quiet for all these years because they’re now out of copyright, which is 50 years. He’s never said ‘you’ll get a royalty’, not one penny… You are a pig, you want it all.” Sharon even torched his charity angle: “He’s lying, saying he will give money to charity. He’s never said what charity or how much money.” Her ultimatum? “He could have come to us with the tapes… Let it go to a proper record company and be properly distributed, properly produced.” And the kicker: She’s already lawyered up, threatening to sue if Simpson pulls the trigger.

It’s classic Sharon – unfiltered, fierce, and fiercely protective of her husband, the Prince of Darkness himself. Ozzy, now 76 and battling Parkinson’s, has been mum, but his silence speaks volumes. The Osbournes’ empire, built on decades of tours, merch, and reality TV, views these tapes as family heirlooms, not indie fodder. Sharon’s rage isn’t just personal; it’s a shield for a band that’s weathered lineup shakeups, substance spirals, and a “final” tour in 2017 that fizzled into farewells.

Simpson Strikes Back: “Inaccurate and Unfair – Let’s Talk Over Coffee”

Simpson didn’t flinch. In a blistering rebuttal to the Express & Star, the octogenarian manager called Sharon’s barbs “inaccurate and unfair,” painting her as a bully who strikes without dialogue. “At the time, Earth were just the newest of the bands I managed… The fact is that I did pay for the Earth recordings, and they belong to me.” On the copyright myth? Hogwash. “My reason for launching this album now is because it will become a crucial segment of music history,” he insisted, crediting his post-Sabbath odyssey – rediscovering 35 overlooked blues icons and juggling a festival empire – for the delay. No sinister vault-hoarding; just life getting in the way.

Royalties? Simpson claims he offered them upfront. “I wanted all band members to receive royalties from the album in the usual way, and I’m still more than happy for that to happen.” The band – Iommi, Butler, Ward, and Ozzy – shot it down flat on September 24, 2024: “Didn’t want it released and wanted nothing to do with it.” Undeterred, Simpson looped in St. Basil’s, a Birmingham charity for homeless youth, via a January 21, 2025, email promising proceeds if the Sabs pass. As for Trapeze? “They might not be what Sharon calls a ‘major’, but they are certainly not ‘little’.” And that olive branch to Sharon? A July 4, 2025, email during her Birmingham visit: “I suggested it might be fruitful for her and I to meet for coffee to discuss this issue.” No takers yet, but Simpson’s door stays cracked. “My reason for launching this album now is because it will become a crucial segment of music history… a great gift to the music world and to millions of Sabbath fans.”

The Band’s Bitter Silence: Ghosts of Glory Days

Notably absent from the fray? The Sabbath survivors themselves. Tony Iommi, the riff mastermind, has been radio silent, perhaps wary of dredging up a turbulent era. Geezer Butler and Bill Ward, who’ve traded barbs over the band’s “farewell” iterations, rejected the project outright – a stinging rebuke to their early shepherd. Ozzy, whose voice warbles through those nascent tracks like a haunted howl, might relish the nostalgia amid his health woes, but Sharon’s his gatekeeper. This isn’t their first rodeo with lost artifacts; bootlegs and demos have surfaced before, but Simpson’s claim feels personal – a reminder of the pre-Ozzy empire days, when Black Sabbath was just Earth’s gritty dream.

Metal’s Money Wars: Legacy vs. Loot?

At stake isn’t just vinyl sales; it’s control of the narrative. Black Sabbath’s story is metal’s genesis myth: four Brummie outsiders channeling factory despair into sonic Armageddon. These tapes? They humanize the icons – Ozzy crooning Elvis, Iommi fluting like a folk fool – showing the blues bedrock beneath the black magic. Fans salivate: Could this spark a Sabbath renaissance, with remixed tours or VR gigs? Or fuel endless lawsuits, echoing the band’s own legal tangles over 13 royalties and reunion snubs?

Simpson frames it as preservation, not plunder: “This is about giving back to the city that birthed it all.” Sharon sees exploitation, a “little” label leeching off giants. The truth? Likely a messy middle – rock’s littered with such scraps, from the Stones’ vault raids to Dylan’s bootleg series. But in Sabbath’s case, it cuts deeper: Ozzy’s frailty, Iommi’s solitude post-cancer, the quartet’s final bow. Releasing these echoes risks romanticizing a raw youth or exposing the cracks that fame widened.

Riffs of Redemption? Or the Final Nail?

As November 2025 chills Birmingham’s streets – once alive with Sabbath’s wail – the release dangles in limbo, delayed by drama but undimmed in promise. Simpson, ever the bluesman, urges coffee and compromise: royalties, charities, even co-production. Sharon’s firebrand fury demands major-label polish and family first. Somewhere, in a Montecito mansion or Warwickshire manor, Ozzy might chuckle at the chaos – after all, he’s danced with devils before.

This spat isn’t just about dusty reels; it’s rock’s eternal tug-of-war: art versus archive, memory versus money. Will Earth rise as a triumphant unearthed gem, flooding Spotify with Sabbath’s secret origins? Or will courts claim it, turning treasure to ash? One thing’s ironclad: In the church of heavy metal, these lost tapes preach a gospel of grit and glory. And whether Simpson or Sharon holds the altar, the faithful will kneel – because Black Sabbath’s thunder never truly fades. It just waits, like a riff in the dark, for the needle to drop.