Whitesnake have reached the point where nostalgia is no longer a dirty word. There is no new album to promote, no Deep Purple tribute and no attempt to reposition the band for modern tastes. What remains is the catalogue: hits, hard-rock staples and a setlist built almost entirely around the version of Whitesnake that conquered arenas in the eighties.The bluesier character of the early records is largely absent, but as a celebration of the Whitesnake most people came to hear, the setlist is difficult to fault.
Coverdale's voice is no longer the astonishing instrument it once was. The upper register is increasingly fragile and the band frequently has to carry some of the heavier lifting, but enough of the old tone, phrasing and charisma remain to make it work. There will inevitably come a point when that balance becomes unsustainable. Tonight, it hasn't arrived yet.
Around him is a band built for maximum impact. Tommy Aldridge remains an animal behind the drums, attacking the kit with the same spectacular force that has defined his playing for decades. Guitarists Reb Beach and Joel Hoekstra provide the required combination of muscle, flash and wonderfully unapologetic eighties cheese, with Hoekstra in particular treating every pose as seriously as every solo.
That lack of embarrassment is central to Whitesnake's appeal. Where Coverdale's old role model Robert Plant has spent much of his later career resisting the gravitational pull of his hard-rock past, Coverdale embraces his completely: the excess, the nostalgia, the ridiculousness and, most importantly, the fun. There is no attempt to make Whitesnake tasteful or contemporary. The hair may be whiter, the voice rougher and the musicians mostly hired hands, but the basic proposition remains untouched.
And why should it change? This music was never meant to age gracefully.
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