Tonight, the AO arena has become one vast Karaoke booth. With no material to promote, all three acts unashamedly head down the “greatest hits” path. This is a case of raiders of the back catalogue, and even the most fair-weather planet rock listener finds at least one track in each set they miraculously know all the words to. Europe are first out the traps and whilst they are all now in their late fifties, they have the playful air of five teenagers playing rock n’ roll for the sheer love of the music. The truth is that Europe don’t need to do this, in fact all five of them don’t need to do anything ever again. In ‘Final Countdown’ they have the ultimate pension plan, a fiscal gift that just keeps on giving. Rather than see it as an albatross around their neck (as some other perceived one hit wonders do) they have embraced it and the financial security that it gives them. Because of the ‘Final Countdown’ they can make the music that they want, and they do so with evident glee.

You see, backed by their aural sugar-daddy, latter day Europe have evolved into the most wonderful modern blues act. Tonight, we only get two post reunion numbers (opener ‘Walk the Earth’ and the anthemic ‘Last look at Eden’). Both are sumptuous affairs, bathed in just the right measures of evocative Hammond organ and rich bluesy guitar. As fits with the rest of the evening, the remainder of the set harks back to the heady eighties. Rather than be embarrassed or weighed down by their legacy, they dispense ‘Rock the Night’ and ‘Superstitious’ with unencumbered enthusiasm. These tracks may well be in their mid-thirties, but they are still the bands children, and that paternalistic love shines through.

However, a Europe gig always boils down to one track, that track. ‘Final Countdown’ has developed far beyond being a simple sing-along. It is now an evocable part of all our lives. It is one of those songs that has become part of our shared lexicon as a species. Everyone knows the words, and everyone has a memory tied to it. The arena goes ballistic, probably more than for any other track aired this evening. The ‘Final Countdown’ is the perfect example of one of the songs that no longer belongs to the band, as it is now sown into the fabric of all of our being. And Europe know this. They treat it with the respect that it deservers, never letting it wholly define them but also letting it unfurl its majestic wings when it needs to.

Whereas Europe still feel like a class bluesy bar band, Foreigner are in comparison a slick arena machine. Every move is choreographed and pre-plotted. They are masters of the art of making a cavernous room feel like a pokey club. You see the secret is ensuring that the occupant of seat 167 in row zz at the back of the hall feels as engaged as the obsessive fan cramped in at the barrier. You do this by using the screens and Kelly Hanson spends as much time gurning into the lens, as he does engaging with the front row. 

He may well still be the “new” kid in town, but it is getting hard to remember what a Lou Gramm Foreigner looked like. This evening he perfectly balances the synthetic precession engineered banter with a real feeling of warmth and empathy. He makes numerous mentions of the fact that he is now our neighbour as his second wife has a house locally and I am now fully expecting to bump into him in Morrisons when I pop in for milk. Set wise Foreigner, play an incredibly straight bat. There are no surprises and there are no re-evaluations of rare cuts. We get everything you would expect; ‘Cold As Ice’, ‘Head Games’, ‘Feels Like the First Time’, ‘Juke Box Hero’, ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’. As they say the hits just keep on coming. 

However, no matter how enjoyable their performance is, no matter how pitch perfect the presentation is and no matter how much I joyfully sing along, I am still left with two nagging doubts. Firstly, with a truncated seventy-five minute slot to play with, why on earth do they feel that it is in any way appropriate to spend a good fifteen minutes of that fannying around with a combined drum and keyboards solos? Yes, Michael Bluestein and Chris Frazier can play their respective instruments really really well. I can tell that from the songs, I don’t need them to prove it with self-indulgent solo spots. It is just jarred and with restricted stage time (from where I stood, I could clearly see the big digital display counting down how many minutes they had left) it felt an incredibly ill-advised use of a fifth of their set.  

Secondly, is this really Foreigner anymore? Ill health has forced Mick Jones (for many many years the only original member left) to take a back seat and he now only sporadically appears at selected encores (sadly not tonight). Essentially, we are watching six gentlemen play songs that they were not involved in the gestation or creation of. Essentially, no matter the strong connection that they have to the Foreigner brand, we are watching a cover band. A very very good cover band that does absolute justice to the tracks in hand, but all the same a cover band. At the end of this tour Mick will retire completely, the question is can the rest of them really keep on calling themselves Foreigner?

The naysayers warned me. “The voice is gone” they said. “Coverdale can now only croak” they crowed. I had to see for myself. Since I bought “1987” (in naturally 1987) with one of my first pay checks from my Saturday job, I have always had a soft spot for the man and his ever-revolving band of backing musicians. I had to witness myself whether these rumours were correct. The sad truth is that his silver larynx has indeed sadly failed him. He sings at best one tenth of each of the tracks aired tonight, opting to let “backing” singer, Dino Jelusick and the audience do most of the heavy lifting. However, what is still intact is the charisma and stage presence. He burns of the boards tonight. The range and scale may well be shot but he is still very much the master of ceremonies. For ninety minutes he owns this arena and he is not going to let us forget that.

There is no self-delusion here. David Coverdale is very very aware of his limitations, and he executes this new way of working admirably. The mic is consciously pointed away for the shrill notes while Dino, without fanfare, graciously picks up the slack. His voice may not be what it was, but boy can he still move. He shimmers and shakes across every inch of the vast stage, his steps total for this hour and half must be astronomical. As an audience we have come here to bath in David’s bronze glory and to sing. Actually, who really cares that the high (and low) notes are no longer in reach when we can all happily (and rather out-tunely) grasp them for him.

Aside from his magnetic personality, Coverdale’s other gift has been surrounding himself with talent. Whitesnake have always had a feel of a PSG or a Barcelona, unashamedly bringing into its ranks the best new gun slingers in town. Joining Dino as the new kids on the block is Tanya O’Callaghan, who effortlessly adds a funky bass layer to the sensual heavy blues. Our Dave may well be the boss but is not afraid to let his bandmates shine. Every member gets their moment in the spotlight (yep more pointless solos) but more importantly every member is allowed to put their personal mark on Dave’s immense back catalogue (stop sniggering at the back). For all his posturing and grand standing, Whitesnake still feels like a band as opposed to a glorified solo project.

 As with other acts on the bill, this is all about the hits. Every track (aside from ‘Hey You’ from 2019’s “Flesh and Blood”) is a bonafide Whitesnake classic. Dave knows what his people want and it is ‘Crying in the Rain’ followed by ‘Is This Love’ followed by ‘Here I Go Again’ followed by ‘Still of the Night’. This is the pure definition of crowd pleaser. Rousing communal sing along after rousing communal sing along. It all goes full circle for the closing number as they crank out ‘Burn’, the first track on Coverdale’s inaugural outing with Deep Purple. The bows and impassioned thank yous that follow make it abundantly clear that this really is the end. This is Whitesnake’s last hurrah in Manchester, and it was bloody brilliant.