Whitesnake
Trouble

In the beginning, there were the Deep Purple. Another quarrel between Blackmore and Gillan over who should play the prima donna of the group saw the former prevail, and so long to the most capricious vocalist in the history of music. In his place, a tall blond young man, flowing shoulder-length hair, avenger angel style and a deep bluesman's voice: David Coverdale with the Purple records the excellent Burn and the less fortunate Come Taste The Band. Then he says goodbye, because Blackmore's maniacal perfectionism is also getting on his nerves, the epitome of patience. An amicable separation, one might say, without the turmoil that made Gillan slam the door, but still a separation it was. And here ends the first chapter, the one dedicated to Deep Purple.

Then came the Whitesnake: thanks to Coverdale himself who, inspired by the DP, set out to create a blues band capable of winking at the burgeoning hard-rock without degenerating. Some albums range from more than adequate, decent, to good minus less, then this jewel: Trouble, the illustrious year 1978.

The best production of the White Snake: everything works wonderfully, starting naturally with Coverdale, who delivers a formidable vocal performance in all nine sung tracks.
But the reason why David and company’s fans listen to and re-listen to Trouble more than Saints And Sinners, just to mention another excellent Whitesnake work, can be found in the formidable contest of skill between the rhythm section leaders: bass (Neil Murray) and drums (David Dowle) enact from the first track a sort of mutual pursuit, chasing each other, alternating advances, catching up, returning side by side with impeccable punctuality. A call and response that the rest of the band seems to approve without drama, periodically accepting, within the forty-minute duration of the album, to also exit the scene, leaving the spotlight to their colleagues. It doesn’t matter if on keyboards there's a gentleman named Jon Lord, another former Purple who doesn’t have the conceit of Gillan and Blackmore and who, therefore, with the humility of a simple worker, is satisfied with just clocking in the ordinary.
But to say that keyboards and guitars – no less than two, with Bernie Marsden and Micky Moody making them purr – in Trouble merely act as a backdrop would mean reducing the greatness of an album based precisely on the perfect blend of individual sounds: if you want to have fun and seek proof of what has just been said, The Time Is Right To Love and the Hendrix-inspired Free Flight; the title-track, the instrumental Belgian Tom’s Hat Trick and Don’t Mess With Me or Take Me With You if you're interested in taking it a bit more seriously.

A uniform mosaic of genius and class, sophistication and skill, where everyone does their part admirably, without disturbing the listener with excessive displays of technique: an album that ends too soon and seems almost sinful to put back in the player after the last note, as if one feared being unable to reach the same peak of intoxication just experienced. Try it instead: positive result guaranteed.