'OH, YESSS ! Sweet."

Bay Guardian film critic Cheryl Eddy and I have just pissed off a mulleted Shoreline Amphitheatre crossing guard by jaywalking outside Ozzfest Aug. 13. Gotta keep those stone-cold crazies in line, I guess. But it looked like they'd missed a spot: Below us on the sidewalk, scratched out in chalk, was the familiar "666," an upside-down cross, and, best of all, "Black Sabath." Where are those crowd-control Nazis when you need them to keep the Mountain View streets clean, or to correct spelling?

As usual, our slacking had cut into some of the fun: I was psyched about getting to Ozzfest at 9 a.m. sharp, the start time specified on the ticket. I wanted to see what kind of sleepy headbangers were stumbling in at that unholy hour to watch Wicked Wisdom's Jada Pinkett Smith try to one-up Hubby.

Yet when we get there, at 2:30 p.m., there's still too much to take in: a more vigorous frisking at the entrance than we've "enjoyed" in ages (When was the last time a guard checked my cleavage for a weapon?); literal and figurative rednecks in abundance after hours spent baking in the sun; at least one lewd dwarf; lots of sliding up against bare, sweaty chests; teenage boys with pretty hair and braces, in XXL Black Sabbath T-shirts; and more Hooters Ts than I've seen outside of, well, Hooters. Speaking of which, we notice that despite the random girlfriends, metal moms, and weathered divas of the Sabbath generation, the ratio of women to men is pretty slim. That explains the dude with "Show me your tits" written on his chest and the kid, who looks about 14, holding up a small, sad, handwritten cardboard sign reading, "tits." Whether he is asking for pharmaceuticals or pneumatic action, I can't tell.

"It's a good day for Satan," Eddy notes as we count the umpteenth pentagram T-shirt and study the "Help wanted" sign and stickers on the "Kick me in the f– head" midway game. (Ozzfest does stand apart, like a twisted carny, from other music fests with its trad-ish carnival amusements.) "I have to check out SatanLovesYou.com."

At the Hot Topic stage, Rob Zombie goes through the moves he may have patented but that are by now rote gestures for Ozzfesters: chest pounding, leaning a foot against a monitor like a brave captain at the bow. Zombie's magnetic enough to allow us to imagine Viggo Mortensen playing him in the VH1 White Zombie TV movie, although the music hasn't aged very well – these days, late WZ sounds too inorganic and early-'90s Reznor.

After admiring the mixed messages among the midway vendors (iron-cross pendants decorated with roses and peace symbols, and a jovial drunk yelling, "Where are your rings for a big toe?! I want to pierce my big toe! Can you pierce my big toe?!"), we settle down in our seats to watch a 20-minute set by In Flames, our jollies slightly dampened by the kid totally jamming on air guitar in the seats behind us and repeatedly whipping Eddy's head with his long hair.

Next comes Zakk Wylde, looking like a new-wave '80s Viking with his cascading blond locks and black-and-white-dotted Flying V, and surrounded by about 26 speaker cabinets and amp heads. His band, Black Label Society, is very old-school metal – with lots of showy noodling and showy showmanship (playing the guitar behind his head and with his teeth – I predict a campfire next, to no avail) by the obviously adept Wylde.

Shadows Fall fare better with us, if only because they fall in line with their stated inspirations: Bay Area thrashers like Metallica. Mudvayne, however, completely lose Eddy and me with their shout-outs, including singer Chad Gray's intro to a ballad (!): "This one is for those who provide our blanket of security: the men and women of the US armed forces!" Later, the Mohawked frontperson stares in our direction, yelling, "Get your fucking hands up in the air!"

"Look, he's looking right at us!" Eddy yelps.

"But what about all those people in front of us?" I complain. "Why can't they get their 'fucking hands' in the air?" You have to admit, even as an Ozzfest band falls down musically, they still know all about crowd control – or the lack thereof. You could write a dissertation (and I'm sure you have) on the many expressive manifestations of them devil horns. (Wiggle both trigger fingers for that extra goof. Double-fisted, facing, and then – flipped, for her pleasure. Throw both hands in the air in the "Land found!" gesture as the wife braces your spine so you don't fall backward.)

Thank Pan for the main attractions. Iron Maiden pulls out the stops with the energy, theatrics, props, and multiple backdrops: The first is a collage of Killers-era Ed (the skeletal zombie mascot), topped with a lit-up, Illuminati-like pyramid. Bruce Dickinson runs out with a flying kick and scampers like an enraged Peter Pan. Arms akimbo, he scolds the audience for not yelling loud enough, and launches into two anti-corporate entertainment rants (with Osbournes-bashing along the way): "We're not heard on corporate radio stations! Or any M-'Suck my dick'-TV show!" As the number 666 flashes against a curtain, the band begins "The Number of the Beast," and up rises a giant goat-headed devil puppet, sitting cross-legged like a Buddha and nodding sagely, as if to say, "Yes, that's my number – try not to call after 10."

But despite the Maiden's charms, I am won over by the headliners, Black Sabbath. Geezer Butler is now officially a geezer, and Ozzy looks like someone's psycho grandma, extending his hands and stumbling forth in a creaky "Come give Grandma a kiss" gesture. Twice Osbourne wobbles across the stage to dunk his head in a pail of water and get the desired insane, drowned-ghost or crazed-goblin effect. (The cool weather doesn't stop him from dumping the remaining buckets on the audience.) Especially real-beyond-reality-TV scary: the moment he takes off his shirt and reveals the tats adrift on a jiggly, wiggly old-fella torso.

It doesn't get much more sinister than that: Osbourne completely out-creeps Ed by cooing, "I love you all!" and "God bless you all!" between demands that "Everybody go fucking crazy!" in that unforgettable bark and whine (one that might be heard at Ozzfest for the last time, Zombie hinted).

The force, however dark, is clearly still with Black Sabbath, who seem unconscionably rock 'n' roll next to all the hardcore-metal units. Minimalist, even, with one very unflamboyant guitarist (apart from the crucifixes on his Gibson SG fret board) in Tony Iommi. "War Pigs," "Iron Man," "Paranoid," "Dirty Women," "Fairies Wear Boots" – what more can we ask for? Maybe more than a snippet of "Sweet Leaf" to fortify us as we embark on the 45-minute journey out of Shoreline's heavy metal parking lot?

Sign of the times Pagans, Pan-flute players, and stargazers might ask Scout Niblett for some help with Mercury retrograde, which was in full effect till this week (next: Nov. 14-Dec. 3). Relocated to Oakland in January and just as likely to move on soon ("I kind of wanted to live near the sea. Kind of fell for a guy who lives there, but it didn't work out"), the Birmingham, England, native has been making astrological charts since she was 18, and she offered me this advice on the phone from the road: "The big thing is not to send anything on post, or rely on communication, because they normally go wrong. Any communication usually tends to get a bit mixed up. It's a time when people reflect." The Libra with Aquarius rising says her astrological obsession comes out in her music, from the title of her latest album, Kidnapped by Neptune (Too Pure), to the "very potent" time she chose to record it last year, with producer Steve Albini (she plays with his band, Shellac, in SF this week).... More after-the-fact Mercury-retrograde advice: Drive carefully. And that goes for Record Collection's Get in the Van tour, with Simon Dawes and Kate Earl (and either Mt. Egypt or Big City Rock), appearing at Cafe du Nord Aug. 17, as well as Citizens Here and Abroad, emerging from the studio to play at Great American Music Hall Aug. 20 and premiere their "Cadillac crashing" video for "You Drive and We'll Listen to Music." And it goes most of all for eye-patched vocalist Shawn Mehrens, of Mill Valley's Abi Yoyos, who got an appreciative nod from Trainwreck Riders Aug. 14 at Cafe du Nord for being a supertrouper and performing after an auto accident the previous Friday. A cut cornea, ouch. Godspeed – or, better, not.

Get in the Van Tour takes place Wed/17, 8:30 p.m., Cafe du Nord, 2170 Market, SF. $8. (415) 861-5016.

Citizens Here and Abroad play with Loquat and Ex-Boyfriends, Sat/20, 9 p.m., Great American Music Hall, 859 O'Farrell, SF. $12. (415) 885-0750.

Ry Cooder signs Chavez Revine (Nonesuch) Sat/20, 2 p.m., Tower Columbus, 2525 Jones, SF. Free. (415) 885-0500.

Scout Niblett performs with Shellac Mon/22-Tues/23, 9 p.m., Great American Music Hall, 859 O'Farrell, SF. $15. (415) 885-0750.

Banging your head – against a brick wall?

Contact Kimberly Chun at kimberly@sfbg.com.