Randy Rhoads 1956-1982: An Inspiration For All Young People

Back when I was 5 years old, down at the end of the hall from my room was a door that led straight to the pits of hell.

One would think a small child would want to avoid hell, but even though I was forbidden by my mother to go in there, I kept sneaking in, day after day, night after night, entering a world of fiery madness that both repulsed and fascinated me.

It was my older brother's bedroom.

Paul was six years my senior, and from about the age of 10 was a huge fan of heavy metal music. His entire room — walls and ceiling — were plastered with heavy metal and hard rock posters. Judas Priest, Motley Crue, Iron Maiden, Ozzy Osbourne, Randy Rhoads and Van Halen covered every inch, their leather, spikes, chains, wild hair and menacing smiles a sight utterly out of this world to my eyes.

Paul also played guitar, so a few of them were always lying around, as was a record player and piles of albums and music magazines. I used to sneak in there when he wasn't home, flip through the magazines, strum his guitar and play Van Halen's debut album over and over. Eruption would blast into my eardrums as I stared up at the posters on the wall, staring off into another universe, trying to understand and comprehend it.

****

It's March 19, 2012, and as I am traveling eastbound on the 134 Freeway, leaving North Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley, my mind drifts back to those young, impressionable days of sneaking into my brother's room and straight into hell. I wonder today what my brother's bedroom did to my young mind, my soul, my musical tastes and my artistic passions. I certainly know if it weren’t for that room, I wouldn't be where I am right now, on my way to San Bernardino to visit the grave of Randy Rhoads, the legendary guitarist.

Today is the 30th anniversary of his death.

I am here for my job and to write a story about today, allegedly, but in truth I am here simply to satisfy my fascination. As editor of North Hollywood-Toluca Lake Patch, a hyper-local news site, this is by far the furthest I have ever travelled to cover a story, and my being here is completely unnecessary because we have already covered Randy Rhoads quite extensively on my site. Just a few weeks ago, I published a two-part story by contributor Paul Zollo about and Kelle Rhoads, Randy Rhoads' brother. It is in my opinion one of the finest stories ever to appear on my site, and covers in detail how Kelle and Randy's mother, Delores Rhoads, started up Musonia in the 1940s.

See the stories here: 

Paul's interview with Kelle, who runs Musonia today, is extensive — definitive almost — and covers the whole history of the Rhoads family. Much of Paul's story focuses on the brothers' relationship, and I believe that is why my mind is wandering back to 1982, the year Randy Rhoads died, the year I was 5 years old and first remember sneaking into my brother's room and listening to the "Blizzard of Ozz" album while flipping through Hit Parader magazine.  

If my boss called me at this moment and asked what I am up to, there would probably be a long pause of silence after I told him. But here I am, pulling off the 210 Freeway, some 60-plus miles from North Hollywood, and into the parking lot of Mountain View Cemetery, the final resting place of one Randall William Rhoads, who died March 19, 1982 in a tragic plane crash at the age of 25. He has been dead five years longer than he was alive, and is considered by many rock fans to be one of the greatest and most inventive guitar players of all time. 

Randy became the lead guitarist for the Ozzy Osbourne band at the age of 23, when Osbourne was already world famous as the former lead singer of Black Sabbath. As Paul Zollo wrote about in his story, few humans are considered to have ever achieved the kind of "fluid virtuosity" that Rhoads brought to the electric guitar. The son of a music schoolteacher, he was said to have practiced hours a day at Musonia until he and the guitar were one.

All of these thoughts and memories, both of my own brother, Paul, and Paul Zollo ’s story, are bouncing around my head as I get out of the car. I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone right now, really; I've just felt compelled to come and experience whatever it is that is going to happen. Maybe I won't write anything at all. Maybe this will just be about me today. Or maybe I will just hang back and observe and write a contemplative tale about what I see and feel.

I really, truly don't know what to expect when I get there. I have read that this gathering at Randy's grave is an annual affair, and this being the 30th anniversary is expected to be the biggest ever. I don't know if this is going to be a huge party with booze and Ozzy tunes blasting, or a quiet, solemn, sad candlelight vigil with tears.

It turns out to be neither. At least 200 or so people are gathered near Randy's grave on a sunny, brisk day. There is a large pop-up tent next to the grave where tables are lined up and filled with memorabilia. People are gathered in groups, large and small, while smiling and talking. There is no music playing, no keg stand, no party. But it is by far the largest group of hardcore rockers young and old that I have ever seen gathered where music was not playing.

I make my way over the grave itself, which is a grand, 12-foot tall marble structure with roman pillars and the words RHOADS chiseled over the top. On the inside wall are a few simple words that read Randy Rhoads 1956 - 1982, An Inspiration For All Young People.

I have only been here at least 60 seconds when I hear someone say, "Tom Morello is here with his mother."

I turn around and, yes, there, about 10 feet away, is Tom Morello, the Rage Against the Machine guitarist. He is standing near the tent with his mother as about six fans and a journalist are vying to get pictures, autographs and interviews. Before I know it I have wedged my way into the crowd and am standing two and half people away from Morello. I did this without really thinking about it. I had just arrived, and for all I knew he was leaving. I wasn't really in the mood to talk to anyone but when standing at the grave of one of the greatest guitar players of all time, and another of the greatest guitar players of all time is standing next to you, a good journalist doesn't stand around shuffling his feet. The crowd around him was also starting to swell. This could be my only chance. Apparently I am doing interviews today and I am going to write a story.

Morello has taken a few photos with fans and is just finishing up a short interview with a reporter from the San Bernardino Sun. I snap one of him myself as he is taking a photo with a fan (see attached). I have liked Rage ever since their debut album 20 years ago, which I owned at the age of 14, but am not exactly an expert on the band by any means, so I am slightly nervous. I was prepared to talk to heavy metal guys — I had even envisioned meeting Ozzy and asking him some questions — but I am not ready for Tom Morello at all. At that moment I think of my buddy Phil, one of my best friends and a former roommate. He idolizes Rhoads and Morello and probably knows 1,000 times more about them than I do. Phil is also a dedicated musician and guitar enthusiast. I wish he were here with me, this would mean so much to him.

The reporter finishes and walks away. I step up and stick out my hand. There are many others gathered and waiting. I will have, at best, two minutes with him, but one minute is more likely.

I tell him I work for Aol and run a website about the North Hollywood area. The buzz from the crowd around us is loud. People are snapping pictures of us. He leans closer and asks me, "About what?"

"About the North Hollywood area," I say. 

"Okay," he says.

"Where Randy is from —"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he interrupts, knowingly, already realizing what my connection is to Rhoads.

"We interviewed Randy's brother a couple weeks ago —"

"Yup, yup, yup," he says, either already intimately familiar with Paul Zollo's story and North Hollywood-Toluca Lake Patch or just wanting me to hurry up.

"I guess just tell me what Randy meant to you, and why you are here," I ask.

"Well, Randy was my biggest inspiration as a guitar player. He was the poster I had on my wall when I was practicing eight hours a day. I named my first son after him. His name is Rhoads."

I did not know this. Holy sh**. Phil would have known it, though.

"And it was his seriousness as a musician which I was drawn to. He wrote great riffs," Morello continued. "He had the most imaginative — but it was his commitment to the instrument which I aspired to. It's like, I was not like a party rock and roller and so, like, his, the fact that he was — I practiced eight hours a day because I heard he practiced eight hours a day, and that was very inspiring. He was a serious musician, yet loved rock and roll at the same time."

I want to try and ask a question about the actual music, the actual guitar playing, something Phil would ask. What jumps into my head is that I think there are many Rage fans that have never listened to "Blizzard of Ozz" in their life and wouldn't realize its connection to Rage if they did.

"Where would a Rage fan, someone who may not know Randy though, where would they hear it —"

I hold my fingers up to my air, mimicking the music entering my eardrum.

"First of all, one of the things that was most inspiring about him was his originality on the instrument. He took the building blocks of his life, he was a guitar teacher and a student of the instrument, and you hear that in his playing, the musicality of how the classical music of how he was brought up on finds its way into the composition of his rock work, that's another way that you can see it. In his work, and in mine too, the way that I compose myself in solos, I try to make them compositions within the song. Even though I might use different sonics than he does. But also, any technique that I've amassed is because I loved his ability as a technical guitarist."

I'm stunned by the complete perfection of this answer. What he has given me is so thoughtful, so introspective, so perfect, I don't feel the need for another question. There are others waiting. I thank him and shake his hand again.

Later on, I look it up. Rolling Stone ranks Tom Morello No. 40 on their list of Greatest Guitarists of All Time. Randy Rhoads is No. 36.

I find Kelle Rhoads surrounded by many fans wanting pictures and autographs. I don't know what's going to happen when I introduce myself. I had spoken on the phone with Paul Zollo on my way out here and he informed me that Kelle had contacted him many times before his story ran, but never called afterwards. Paul was worried Kelle hated the story or was upset about something in it. People get upset about things that appear in news stories about themselves for the strangest reasons sometimes, and since I have never met Kelle I really don't know what to expect.

When I finally get a moment to introduce myself, I am half expecting him to go, "Oh, you're the ass**** that published that junk on your little website about my brother."

He does not say this. His face lights up when I tell him who I am. He grabs my hand, shakes it, and says he "loved, loved, loved" the story that Paul did. He raves about it and pulls me though the crowd to introduce me to his wife. They both tell me they love Patch, and she tells me she reads it every day now. I sigh with relief.

Kelle may have grown up to be a respected classical pianist who has released several albums, but he's got the swagger, look and confidence of a true rock star. He is in the middle of explaining to me how moved he is that so many people around the world remember his brother. He grabs a beautiful blonde girl who is dressed in a Randy Rhoads T-shirt and carrying a guitar.

"You, Blondie, come here," he says. "Do you know who Tommy Bolin is?"

"Yes," she says.

Kelle is a little thrown by the answer. He tries again.

"Okay. Do you know who Rory Gallagher is?"

"Yes," she says again.

Kelle smiles to himself. She has ruined his point he was trying to make.

"Okay, well, most people wouldn't know that. But everybody knows Randy Rhoads."

Kelle then glances down and sees the guitar in her hand.

"Most people wouldn't — but she's a guitar player. She was the wrong person to ask."

Later on, I grab Blondie for an interview. She's sweet, with innocent eyes and a soft voice. I have to know more about the girl that ruined Kelle's point, and what her connection to Rhoads is.

Her name is Christy Matthews, she is 22 years old, has been playing guitar for 11 years and has driven all the way from Salt Lake City by herself to be here today. Her parents were huge Rhoads fans, and he is also her No. 1 idol. She also tells me she once met ex-Quiet Riot bassist Kelly Garni. (Rhoads played in Quiet Riot before leaving to join Ozzy.)

"I actually went down to his studio in Boulder City, Nevada," Christy tells me. "He told me basically that all the great stuff that I heard about Randy Rhoads was true. Because a lot of people think he was put on a pedestal because they never hear anything bad about him, but he basically confirmed that it was all true. From there on I've kind of met more and more of the Rhoads family. I've been here twice before. It's something that I like to do."

This is true. No one has ever spoken ill of Randy Rhoads, it seems. Ozzy and his wife, Sharon, still speak about Rhoads with great reverence. Ozzy said the first time he heard Rhoads play was like "God coming into my life" and that he was the "truest musician I've ever known."

"He was extremely humble," Kelle told Paul Zollo for his story. "If you came here and met him today, instead of me, you would almost think he was humble to the point of apologizing for his fame. He was very, very soft-spoken and humble and shy. Everyone loved Randy. He was the belle of the ball. When he walked into a room, the party started. Extremely generous person."

I tell Christy that I truly believe all the things I hear, too, and that's because of who his mother is, and who his brother is, and how their dedication to music as a family is so unquestionable and inspirational. She agrees. 

"I think there's a difference between people who play music just for the sake of, whatever. They're not really passionate about it," Christy says. "But when you meet people like Delores Rhoads or Randy Rhoads, it's who they are. If music didn't exist, they wouldn't either. I've always felt that way."

Most of the people I talk to are musicians themselves. People like Kevin Gomes, who traveled from San Francisco with a buddy to be here today. Kevin, perhaps twice Christy's age, is in a band and has been a Rhoads fan ever since he first heard him. He repeats many of the same things I hear over and over — It's the musicality, the dedication and the inventiveness of Rhoads that has made him a life-long fan.

***

Back on the 210 westbound, back to the Valley, back to North Hollywood, I'm comparing in my head what I just experienced to what I was expecting, how I thought this might be a huge keg party of some sort with "Crazy Train" blasting. It is far from that. The entire time I was there, not a beer was drunk, not a joint was lit or a cigarette smoked. It was a grave, and people were there to pay their respects. Everyone I talked to there was like Christy and Kevin — a die-hard, to-the-core lover and appreciator of rock and roll in it's most authentic form.

I think back again to my brother's room, and to the pure, visceral experience it was just simply sitting in there. It was a cave of horrors and fascination. There was such anger and attitude on those walls, and in the magazines, and in the music itself. I didn't understand it at such a young age — the anger, the aggression. I didn't understand what it was these dudes were fighting. I'd never had cause yet to be that mad at the world and reckless and out of control. But the music took hold of me. By the age of 6, I think I knew more about metal than any other kid my age.

My brother Paul is a lot like Randy Rhoads. Randy was considered to be one of the nicest, most genuine guys one could ever meet, and so is Paul. He is the nicest guy I have ever known, and I know many others that say the same. He's giving and caring and kind and a peacemaker. I mention this because I didn't have to actually sneak into my brother's room to be in there. He would let me come in and hang out with him all the time, and some of my fondest childhood memories are of us listening to records and hanging out in his room. But for some reason the strongest memories I have are of when I was alone in there, alone for a whole afternoon and free to explore the many wonders it had to offer. Alone to take two hours and read three issues of Rolling Stone while playing AC/DC's "Back in Black" album over and over. 

My brother's room continued to be a place I would sneak into and play around in until I was 12 or 13 and he went away to college. It was about the same time grunge took over and my Guns 'N Roses T-shirt was quickly swapped for a Nirvana one. Metal quickly became a thing of the past, as did my brother's bedroom of heavy metal wonders. I've written recently about this transition: Nirvana's 'Nevermind' Released 20 Years Ago Today

It was because of my brother's room that I was a regular reader of Rolling Stone magazine at the age of 9. It was because of my brother's room I could name all four members of Motley Crue at the age of 7. And, perhaps more than anything else I ever encountered in my very young years, it was the only indication I had as a small child that the entire world was not exactly like my quiet, peaceful block of three-bedroom, multi-level suburban homes and manicured lawns.

I never created my own shrine to my heavy metal heroes in my own room, and I didn't grow up to be a rocker like my brother was as a teen. I don't exactly know why this is. I loved music and rock and metal and Randy Rhoads and Ozzy, and later grunge and rap, but it never grabbed my soul, at least like it grabbed Christy. I never felt compelled enough to play music myself. I don't know exactly why.

I did in the end gravitate toward other artistic experiences and became more into drawing, writing, filmmaking and acting. Music was very important to me growing up, like it is to most teens, but I think in the end its appeal to me was where it took my mind and what it opened my imagination up to. I still often listen to music when I write. Can you guess what I am listening to right now?

I thank God for my brother, and my brother's room, and guys like Randy Rhoads and how they opened me up to the world of artistic expression. I shudder when I think what I might have become if model airplanes had been my brother's primary hobby.