The entire dispute — the accusations from Sharon Osbourne, the unexpected rebuttal from Jim Simpson, the battle over ownership, legacy, and a set of 1969 recordings predating Black Sabbath’s rise — now turns on one fragile question: who has the right to guard the band’s earliest heartbeat?
The story began with surprising stillness. Jim Simpson, now in his late eighties, had lived quietly for decades with a set of tapes recorded when the group was still known as Earth. These sessions took place in small studios, long before fame, long before the roar of metal became part of the world’s soundtrack. For Simpson, they were pieces of history — moments he believed he had protected through time, circumstance, and changing eras.
That quiet changed swiftly when Sharon Osbourne spoke publicly, accusing him of greed, deception, and manipulation. Her words carried the emotional force of someone who spent a lifetime protecting the legacy of a musician whose impact reshaped generations. She argued that Simpson never paid for the recordings, never owned them, and was now attempting to profit from a past tied deeply to the late Ozzy Osbourne.
Simpson’s reply arrived with a steadiness sharpened by age and memory.
💬 “How could she possibly know what I could afford back then?” he wrote, challenging the accusation that he failed to finance the sessions. He described booking the studio, paying the engineers, coordinating the work, and keeping the tapes safe for more than half a century. For him, these recordings were not bargaining chips; they were relics of beginnings — beginnings he witnessed firsthand.
What surprised many was not only Simpson’s tone, but his explanation. He insisted he had offered royalties to every member of the original group. If those royalties were declined, he proposed that the profits be given to charity. His argument was not framed as a pursuit of money, but as an effort to preserve a moment in musical history that he believed he had a part in shaping.
As the discussion grew louder, the central issue expanded beyond the tapes themselves. It became a debate about guardianship — about who holds the right to tell the story of a band that redefined the boundaries of heavy music. Some argue it is the Osbourne family, who now carries the weight of protecting Ozzy’s legacy. Others believe that Simpson, who played a documented role in the band’s earliest steps, deserves recognition as a caretaker of that chapter.
The complexity lies in the nature of early history. In the late 1960s, contracts were sparse, agreements were informal, and no one involved could have predicted the future significance of those recordings. Memories have blurred. Documents have faded. The emotions tied to those years remain powerful and deeply personal.
For fans, the situation is painful and compelling in equal measure. Many long to hear the tracks — to step inside a time before fame, before noise, before metal found its identity. Others fear that reopening these recordings could fracture a legacy that has already endured decades of struggle, triumph, and reinvention.
Today, the tapes remain in Simpson’s possession, their future uncertain. He insists he has honored them. Sharon Osbourne stands firm in her belief that they belong with the estate. And the music world watches, waiting for clarity that may never come easily.
In the midst of the debate, one question hangs heavier than all the others:
Are these lost tracks a treasure meant to be shared with the world… or a history too fragile — too contested — to ever be reopened?
Only time will decide which truth is worthy of the past.