Surrounded by a host of black t-shirts ranging from Muse, Sabbath, Thin Lizzy and even one Santana, I could feel the tsunami of oestrogen as sure as the stickyness underfoot before the warm-up band even got off stage. Coverdale was coming (excuse the pun) and the ladies could already feel it. Hell, I could feel it! Half way through the opening song, (from the latest album) I was graced with a choice phrase from my loving girlfriend, Laura:
Apparently she ‘definitely would’. Can’t say I blame her, to be honest. Yes, he’s nearly sixty. Yes, he looks like a chamois leather in a wig. Yes, he has a habit if getting phallic with his mic stand. But when Dave Coverdale thrusts his crotch at the crowd, a thousand ovaries begin mass production.
Tickling the underside if his sixth decade, he’s still got it. His voice hasn’t changed from the days of Deep Purple. And, when he addresses the crowd, he seems like a genuinely nice guy with a great sense of humour. When an audience member gave him a box of Yorkshire Tea at the Manhcester Apollo last night, he reacted with a mix of humble gratitude and fun that you’d expect.
The band were cracking. The drummer especially had me transfixed for ages in his solo section. But they were all great. I’ve been to a few gigs now. Stadium-sized gigs to see the likes of Greenday, but never have I heard a crowd sing along with quite so much gusto as at Whitesnake. Dave himself looked impressed enough that he might just go home and leave us to it with the band.
What a guy. What a band. If I was a fan before, I’m an uber-fan now!
P.s. Just for Shea Macleod…