Ronnie James Dio stood slightly more than five feet tall, but thanks to the undeniable power of his voice and the impact he had on heavy metal fans worldwide, he has loomed large for more than 40 years. With Sunday’s news that Dio died at 67 after a battle with stomach cancer, that man, small in stature, now casts a larger shadow than ever before.
Dio — who fronted Elf, Rainbow, Black Sabbath, Heaven and Hell and his own band Dio — wrote fantastical songs about the balance between good and evil, and to make his point, he often used mythical and mystical imagery, like knights, castles and rainbows. That led to some over-the-top stage props, like dragons and swords or his capes and billowy blouses. But none of it was a gimmick; it was a natural extension and expression of the man and his music.
When Dio’s stomach cancer diagnosis was announced late last year, I felt my own stomach drop. And when a friend on Sunday morning sent me a text message that said “Dio died?,” I stopped in my tracks, found a quiet place and tried to confirm the news. Turned out it was an Internet rumor, and his wife and manager, Wendy, released a statement saying that Dio was indeed alive but “not doing well.” Later in the day, Dio’s condition worsened and Wendy announced that he had died.
As sad as I am, I’m also thankful that I’ve had the opportunity to know the man’s music, and, in a roundabout way, the man himself.
A few years ago, I was flipping through the channels on a boring Saturday night and came across some bludgeoning sounds on VH1 Classic. It was a concert by Heaven and Hell, the recently renamed Dio-era Black Sabbath lineup. I was floored by the intensity of Tony Iommi’s guitars and Dio’s skyscraping vocals and demonic stage presence. The song “Heaven and Hell” — the title track from Sabbath’s first album with Dio, which later became the band’s namesake — particularly moved me.
I saw the concert a few more times on TV, and I bought the DVD, as well as a Sabbath CD called “The Dio Years.” Growing up, I was never much into Sabbath, and I didn’t even know the band carried on after Ozzy Osbourne left. I had known who Dio was; his band’s album covers always caught my attention when I was a kid, but never enough to buy one, I guess.
Last year, when Heaven and Hell announced a tour, I was disappointed that it was coming to the WaMu Theater inside Madison Square Garden on a Tuesday, the Weekender’s hectic deadline day. But one morning, I bought a pair of tickets and asked our staff writer and fellow metal fan Nikki Mascali if she wanted to go. Even though it was a Tuesday, we decided to do it, and we worked extra hard that day to get to New York in time.
Our seats were amazing, and when Dio and company hit the stage, we knew we made the right decision. He prowled the stage like a man possessed, flashing the devil horns hand sign he brought to heavy metal, but he also smiled and slapped hands with fans. The tiny man’s huge spirit filled the theater, and it was truly something to witness.
After the initial shot of despair when Sunday’s news sunk in, I felt a little silly. Why should I get so worked up about someone I never knew? But then I realized I did know Dio.
I never met Ronnie. By all accounts he was a humble, accommodating gentleman, never too busy or too tired to sign an autograph, pose for a picture or make a fan’s day.
A particular instance in which his humility struck me came when Dio allowed a Houston TV station to interview him in the hospital, including a scene while he underwent chemotherapy. In a hard-rock genre where a strong, macho image is important, Dio wasn’t too vain to show his vulnerable side.
The interview was posted online a while ago, but I avoided watching it until last week. I didn’t want to see Dio like that. But I’m happy I finally watched it. And last Thursday night, three days before the metal master left this earth, I listened to his “Stand Up and Shout: The Anthology” over and over during a drive back from Philadelphia.
I didn’t know it then, but watching the hospital interview and listening to those songs were Dio’s ways of saying goodbye. And this is my small, insignificant way of saying goodbye, too.
Here’s to the last in line — there will never be another like him.
w
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