Rock music is not meant to be perfect.

Hear the words of Ozzy Osbourne, the prince of heavy sound, who declared: “Rock music is not meant to be perfect.” Though uttered in the tongue of the modern age, these words rise like a timeless anthem, carrying the wisdom of rebellion, freedom, and authenticity. For in this short phrase lies a great truth: that art, and life itself, are not sanctified by perfection, but by passion, honesty, and raw spirit.

When Ozzy speaks of rock music, he calls forth not just a genre, but a force of life, a fire that has burned since the first time man struck a drum in defiance and lifted his voice against silence. Rock was born not in palaces but in garages, not in the halls of the elite but in the restless hearts of youth who longed to shout, to break free, to live unchained. To demand perfection of such a force is to tame it, to strip it of its wildness, to silence the very spirit that gives it life.

Perfection belongs to statues and polished marble, to symphonies rehearsed until every note is tamed. But rock belongs to sweat and stumbling, to cracked voices and distorted guitars, to mistakes that become magic. Its beauty lies in its flaws, for they are the fingerprints of the human soul. To hear a missed chord, a raw scream, or a drumbeat that runs too fast is to hear the truth of a moment that cannot be repeated. In this imperfection lies authenticity, and in authenticity lies power.

History too reveals this truth. Consider the story of The Sex Pistols, whose sound was jagged, rough, and raw. Critics scorned them as chaotic, untrained, even incompetent. Yet their music lit a fire across the world, birthing punk rock and shaking the foundations of the establishment. Their greatness was not in technical perfection, but in the fearless honesty of their imperfection. This is what Ozzy means: rock’s purpose is not to polish but to pierce, not to conform but to awaken.

In his own journey, Ozzy embodied this creed. With Black Sabbath, he forged heavy metal, a sound that was dark, imperfect, even unsettling—but real. It carried the weight of the industrial world he grew up in, the smoke, the struggle, the defiance. If he had sought perfection, if he had tried to smooth the edges, the music would have lost its soul. Instead, he embraced imperfection, and through it, created something immortal.

The lesson for us, O children of tomorrow, is clear: in your own life, do not seek to erase every flaw, to polish every edge, to appear flawless to the world. Perfection is a mask, but imperfection is truth. Be like rock music—raw, real, alive. Let your voice crack when it must, let your steps falter, let your work carry the marks of your humanity. For it is these imperfections that will speak to others, that will inspire, that will last.

Let your practice be thus: do not wait until you are perfect to act, to create, to speak. Begin with what you have, where you are, however flawed. Strum your chords, raise your voice, write your words, even if they tremble. In time, the world will remember not your perfection, but your passion. For what matters is not the polish of the performance, but the fire that burns within it.

So, remember always Ozzy’s words: rock music is not meant to be perfect. And neither is life. Embrace your flaws, for they are proof that you are alive, that you are real, that you are free. Let your life be a song of raw power, unpolished yet unforgettable, a testament to the truth that perfection is not the goal—authenticity is.