Oz Obituary - Captn's Lounge Studios

Requiem for the Electric Kool-Aid Kid: OZ shuffles off this mortal coil

Ding-dong, the Wicked Witch is dead! That's right, kiddos, OZ magazine, the technicolour terror of the establishment, the jester who juggled Molotov cocktails while whistling Lennon tunes, has finally croaked. Kicked the bucket. Gone to join Tim Leary on a cosmic acid trip behind the curtain... or maybe it just got bored of your beige reality, tired of sticking pins in the balloon of normality. Who knows? We wouldn't be OZ if we played by your straight-laced rules, eh?

Born on a Sydney April Fool's Day, back in the roaring sixties when rebellion still had some bite, OZ was never meant to live forever. We were a comet streaking across your uptight sky, a thumb in the eye of your square-toed morality. We were Martin Sharp's psychedelic freakouts scribbled on your pristine pages, Richard Neville's razor wit slicing through your hypocrisy, Felix Dennis's rock 'n' roll swagger shaking your foundations. We were the revolution on newsprint, the acid test for your tired minds.

Remember when we told you Santa was a capitalist stooge and Rudolph a reindeer on speed? Remember the Schoolkids' Oz issue that gave your uptight magistrates a collective meltdown? We poked fun at your gods, questioned your wars, and made you laugh at the absurdity of it all. We were the echo chamber for the marginalized, the megaphone for the voiceless, the middle finger to your precious status quo.

Sure, we got busted, banned, burned at the stake (metaphorically, of course, the censors couldn't handle a real blaze). But did it stop us? Hell no! We just hopped continents, mutated forms, and kept the fire burning under your arses. We were the counter-culture hydra, sprouting new heads every time you tried to chop us down.

But even revolutions get tired, my friends. The zeitgeist shifts, and the fight changes face. Maybe the world caught up with us, maybe we got lost in our own kaleidoscope. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to let go.

So raise a glass of something mind-bending to OZ, the magazine that dared to dream in neon, scream in technicolour, and laugh in the face of your boring reality. We may be gone from the shelves, but our spirit lives on in every subversive thought, every act of rebellion, every giggle that erupts in the face of your po-faced world. We were the jester's kiss on your cheek, the tickle in your toes, the reminder that life's a playground, not a prison.

So go on, dig out those dog-eared copies, crank up the Stones, and remember what it felt like to be truly alive. OZ may be gone, but the electric Kool-Aid never runs dry. Peace out, squares.

P.S. Don't worry, we'll be back. This isn't goodbye, it's just an intermission. See you on the flip side, reality... we're gonna blow your mind.

Issue one was published on April Fool’s Day 1963, featuring a hoax cover story about the collapse of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and reportage on chastity belts and abortion.