The Man I Am Carrying a Torch For
I’m almost afraid to write this one. Not because Ronnie James Dio doesn’t deserve it—but because how the hell do you write about someone this monumental without sounding like a gushing teenager in a Heaven and Hell-shirt two sizes too big? (Which, let’s be honest, I spiritually am.)
Until last week, I had never heard of Dio. Or Rainbow. (Pause for gasps.) I was innocently watching Metal Evolution by Sam Dunn—doing my due diligence as a metal fledgling—when this Dio name kept popping up like some ancient, mythic deity. Intrigued, I did what any good internet-addicted gremlin does: fell headfirst into a research spiral.
And oh, what a spiral.
So, Who Was This Guy?
Ronnie James Dio. Born 1942 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Died 2010 in Houston, Texas, of stomach cancer. A voice that could move mountains, summon demons, and still soothe your broken heart. Widely regarded as one of the greatest vocalists in heavy metal. Undisputed. Unchallenged. Unbothered.
This was the first time on my metal journey that I felt genuinely sad I’d missed seeing someone live. Not just "oh shame," but "curl up in a blanket and whisper Stargazer into the void" kind of sad.
Enter: Rainbow. And the Metal Awakening.
As a metal newbie, I wasn’t expecting to actually love anything. I thought I’d admire it from a safe ironic distance, maybe add a couple tracks to a playlist titled “Research Purposes Only.” But then came Rainbow. Their debut album—Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow (1975)—opened with Man on the Silver Mountain and within 30 seconds I was DONE FOR.
Rainbow, for context, was formed when Deep Purple guitarist Ritchie Blackmore poached Dio from his band Elf. What started as a quick two-song collaboration became a full album when they roped in the rest of Elf for the ride. It’s still rooted in ‘70s rock, melodic and accessible, but Dio’s voice? That’s where the magic happens. Man on the Silver Mountain and The Temple of the King immediately landed on my playlist. Permanent residency.
And somewhere between all the epic riffs and fantasy grandeur, there’s Catch the Rainbow—a track that doesn’t shout to be heard, but whispers its way straight into your chest. It’s slow. Dreamlike. Absolutely gutting in the gentlest possible way. The kind of song that doesn’t just play in the background—it settles into your bones, quiets your thoughts, and stays. If Stargazer is Dio on fire, Catch the Rainbow is him in candlelight. Tender. Timeless. Impossible to forget.
It’s the kind of song you play for someone when you want them to hear what you can’t quite say.
Rising, Literally.
Two more albums followed, but with Elf out and new blood in, Rainbow’s sound hardened into something more mythic. 1976’s Rising—yes, the one with the giant rainbow clenched in a fist—marks the real turning point. The riffs got heavier. The fantasy got thicker. And Dio? He started casting lyrical spells.
Stargazer is an 8-minute epic that tells the story of a delusional wizard and his enslaved builders. (As you do.) Backed by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra, it’s not just a song—it’s a full-on fever dream. The storytelling. The drama. The heartbreak. The sheer audacity of it. Dio delivers it all like he’s been possessed by the spirit of every medieval bard and space wizard ever imagined.
If you want to nerd out properly, check out The Charismatic Voice’s vocal breakdown of it. It’s like getting front-row commentary at a cathedral built out of reverb.
The Dio Era: Holy Diver and Horns of Glory
Now, because I have the attention span of a caffeinated bat, I skipped Rainbow’s Long Live Rock 'n' Roll and completely bailed on the Dio/Black Sabbath phase (he replaced Ozzy in 1980, recorded three albums, slayed). Instead, I crash-landed into Holy Diver (1983)—Dio’s solo debut—and felt like I’d just discovered fire.
Yes, I already knew Holy Diver. No, I hadn’t realised it was by that Dio. But now? It’s in my blood. It’s over-the-top, theatrical, and completely irresistible. Don’t Talk to Strangers and Rainbow in the Dark are just as iconic, packed with drama, power, and a voice that feels like being hit by a velvet thunderstorm.
And let’s not forget—Dio also popularised the metal horns. The sign of the horns. The international hand signal for “I’ve made peace with darkness and it looks damn good on me.”
The Legacy (and the Love Letter)
Dio’s lyrical obsession with knights, dragons, wizards, and epic quests laid the groundwork for entire subgenres. Power metal would not exist without him. Nor would half the visual language we now associate with the metal scene.
But beyond all that myth and grandeur, what gets me most is this: his voice. Controlled. Powerful. Emotional. There’s a kind of truth in it that you don’t expect from someone singing about magic towers and evil eyes. You believe him, even when he’s yelling about riding tigers.
He performed for more than 50 years with the same fierce devotion to music, never chasing trends or playing it safe. And yeah, I missed him live—but somehow, I still feel like he found me.
Ronnie James Dio wasn’t just the first metal musician to truly move me. He’s still the one I carry a torch for.