The attraction of this veteran pop-metal has got to be total predictability. The glistening solos, the surging crescendos, the familiar macho love rhymes, the tunes you can hum before the verse is over--not one heard before, yet every one somehow known. Who cares if they're an obscure nine-year-old vehicle for the guy who took over Deep Purple's vocal chores five years before that? Rock and roll's ninth or tenth "generation" of terrified high-school boys can call them their own. And may they pass from the ether before the eleven-year-olds who are just now sprouting pubic hair claim their MTV. D+

Whitesnake [Geffen, 1987]
The attraction of this veteran pop-metal has got to be total predictability. The glistening solos, the surging crescendos, the familiar macho love rhymes, the tunes you can hum before the verse is over--not one heard before, yet every one somehow known. Who cares if they're an obscure nine-year-old vehicle for the guy who took over Deep Purple's vocal chores five years before that? Rock and roll's ninth or tenth "generation" of terrified high-school boys can call them their own. And may they pass from the ether before the eleven-year-olds who are just now sprouting pubic hair claim their MTV. D+