OTTAWA -- To quote the heavy-metal warlord Ozzy Osbourne, "You've got to be effen kidding."

In the weeks leading up to Wednesday night's concert at the Corel Centre, the promoters were more than willing to get as much free buzz as the local media could muster on the dinosaur of heavy metal. Now they had the gall to say the press wasn't welcome at the show.

No photos. No filing stories from the site. Not even a thank you for all your help.

The censorship came from Ozzy himself. Odd given this was coming from a guy who lets a camera follow he and his family 24/7 for his twisted reality show The Osbornes and whose career was built on outrageous public antics.

Granted, Ozzy's one of the reigning heavymetalweight champions at age 53. But looking more like 83, he's not even pretending to play the game or hide his disdain for the press.

Well, there was no way this crusty old bastard was going to keep me away from the show. So if the 'Blizzard of Ozz' wasn't willing to meet us on our terms, we decided we'd meet him on his.

Dressed from head to toe in black leather gear from Ragtime Vintage Clothing on Flora St., I decided to go undercover as a member of Ozzy's army.

Feeling feral in my new animal skin wardrobe -- black leather pants, vest, jacket, gloves and bitching black cowboy boots -- I had the look of danger and smell of sex down pat.

After clearing a full-body frisking and two more layers of burly security, I tried to blend in with my fellow metalheads, but I just couldn't pull it off. Regardless of what they're wearing, these metalheads are too cool.

DRESSED ONLY IN A TATTOO

You could read my lack of metal all over my face when one young lady walked past wearing a full torso tattoo as her only cover.

For the most part, real Ozzy fans wanted nothing to do with Project Wyze and The Tea Party. They were too busy sucking back the ales and flagrantly breaking the city's no-smoking bylaw (as well as a few federal laws) while they waited for the aging prince of darkness to take to the stage.

Finally, three hours later, it was the hour of Oz.

Osbourne opened with a hilarious video montage of Ozzy deconstructing Christine Aguilera's Lady Marmalade video, a campy send-up of Miss Cleo's tarot-reading commercials, an X-rated role in Jennifer Lopez's Love Don't Cost a Thing video, a passing satirical nod to Sex and the City and an outright gut-wrenching parody of Madonna's Music with Ozzy as the chauffeur, projected on two large screens that cleaved the stage.

But live, there's less to Ozzy than meets the eye. Looking much older and feebler than his 53 years, Osbourne resembled a Shakespearean vision of the mad villain Macbeth or Edward II. Physically frail, he spent as much time and energy just standing at the mike screaming at the audience as he did singing.

Even at his best, Osbourne was never much of a singer. His strength was more in the wailing department. And a penchant for personal unpredictability made him something of the archetypal rock star, screaming obscenities and hurling objects at the 7,000 Corel Centre courtiers.

BULLETPROOF

Ozzy, after all, is bulletproof. The light but vocal attendance was proof he is as much an aquired taste as a rock legend. Indeed, Ozzy and Black Sabbath have made a resilient career that's spanned two generations. His Satanically inspired metal has become a bond for many who regard Ozzy's raw and gamey rock a family affair.

Sirens signalled a blurred version of the Sabbath anthem War Pigs, followed by Believer and Mr. Crowley, his tribute to the famous satanist, Suicide Solution and the heartily received post-Sabbath hit No More Tears.

Accompanying Osbourne was one of those armed-and-dangerous bands consisting of bassist Robert Troyheel, keyboarder John St. Clair, drummer Michael Warden and the satanically gifted guitarist Zakk Wylde.

Amplification was so cranked up, the blistering fast, but unsculptured, guitar solos and frenetic rhythms succeeded only in generating more noise than big fat rock riffs.

No stranger to the rock arena, Osbourne edged his way to a climactic finish, dipping generously from his Sabbath and early solo records with Iron Man, the cigarette lighter ballad Road To Nowhere, Crazy Days, Mama, I'm Coming Home and Bark at the Moon.

In the end, Osbourne's two-hour long set (good stamina, Ozzy!) was anything but unpredictable. Quite the contrary, this was textbook rock. Flog the new album, Down To Earth, and titillate the faithful fans with a well-placed hit from the Black Sabbath archives.

And always, and I mean always, tease the fans with that oft-heard but seldom obeyed exhortation, "Make some effing noise," followed with a coquetish "I can't hear you," (turn up your hearing aid, Ozzy!) and finally building to the encore with misguided permission to "go effing crazy."

An Ozzy concert comes down to the critical mass of three Black Sabbath albums from the early 1970s, which is not that much music to keep a 30-year career going on.

But in the end, Wednesday night at the Corel Centre was more about carnival, about "going effing crazy" than the music.

I mean, where else would I wear such a costume?

(More on: Ozzy Osbourne).