Everybody knows the rap on Whitesnake–bad Led Zeppelin rip off, dumb songs without a spark of originality, and even dumber vocals by former Deep Perp singer David Coverdale–the guy Robert Plant once playfully renamed David Cover Version.
And you know what? As much as I like to be a contrarian, in this case everybody’s right. Whitesnake’s self-titled 1987 breakthrough is a fearsome display of relentless banality, and almost makes me rethink my hatred for the music of Sammy Hagar. It’s as if both band and producer checked their brains at the studio door, then proceeded to check off the boxes of a rock cliché checklist.
The stupid song titles tell the story; if “Bad Boys” and “Still of the Night” don’t give you the horrors, “Children of the Night” certainly should. They scream “formula” and it’s formula you get–the pair of songs with “love” in the title are trite power ballads (as is the LP’s only listenable tune, “Here I Go Again”); as for the rest of the songs, they seem to be an attempt to prove that Whitesnake isn’t a Led Zep tribute band because, well, they’re happy to rip off just anybody. So on Whitesnake you get cheap facsimiles of Van Halen (“Children of the Night”), Sammy Hagar (“Bad Boys”), “Here I Go Again” (Bon Jovi) and “Is This Love” (Jennifer Warnes and Don Henley).
There’s no denying that the band produces an impressive din. Ansley Dunbar is one helluva drummer, and one can only wonder why he’s slumming with these bozos. And despite his knack for playing solos that go nowhere, John Sykes plays one manly guitar. Whitesnake’s problem is that it doesn’t have a single unique thing to say.
So they rob from their betters. And sometimes take their burglary to absurd lengths, such as on the shameless Zep rip that is “Still of the Night,” the spacey middle section of which comes straight outta “Dazed and Confused.” Over the hills and far away, Led Zeppelin’s copyright attorney is mulling a lawsuit.
And the lyrics! One doesn’t expect all that much on the literary front from bands like Whitesnake, but many contribute to my happiness by writing lyrics that are so awful they’re funny. Whitesnake won’t grant me even that much. They truck only in colorless generalities, and perversely avoid the mixed metaphors, stupid sword and sorcery imagery, boneheaded sexism, delightfully inane similes, and uniquely stupid turns of phrase that can make metal so much fun. Even “Bad Boys” fails to live up to the promise of its title.
And when all’s said and done, that’s the problem with Whitesnake. It neither impresses nor amuses. Some albums are so awful they make me laugh, and that’s a wonderful thing–laughter is a joyous thing. Other albums are so awful they piss me off, and that’s okay too; as John Lydon himself once pointed out, anger is an energy. Whitesnake makes me feel nothing at all. It’s a nullity, and I can’t even find it within myself to despise it.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D-
