Adrian Vandenberg was never supposed to be the guy. At least not in my mythology.

Because my mythology already had a saint: John Sykes. The man who made “1987” feel like the Bible of hard rock guitar.

When Vandenberg walked into Whitesnake, my instinct was rejection. He wasn’t Sykes. He wasn’t even Vivian Campbell. He was an imposter playing in another man’s cathedral.

But mythology has cracks. And those cracks let reality bleed in.

I found an original “Vandenberg” LP in a dusty second-hand bin, the kind of place where forgotten dreams gather like broken glass. Dropped the needle, and suddenly the narrative collapsed. This wasn’t an imposter. This was a guy who’d already built his own cathedral, only to be dragged out of it to decorate someone else’s.

History doesn’t unfold in fairness. The man who creates the riff doesn’t always get to play it under the spotlight. Fate doesn’t care about authorship. It cares about convenience.

And so Adrian Vandenberg became my secret weapon. Not the name on T-shirts or magazine covers, but the guy whose lead breaks paraphrased the melody with surgical precision.

Who could lace a song like “How Long” with classical overtones subtle enough to whisper instead of shout.

Most of us spend our lives trying to be Sykes. Loud, undeniable, the architect of legends. But most of us end up being Vandenberg. Quietly building something brilliant, overlooked because it doesn’t fit the headline. Because “It’s hard to reach the sky when you’re on your knees” isn’t just a lyric. It’s life.

The “Alibi” album from 1985 started the journey.

All the Way

It starts with city noise, life interrupting art. A clean riff cutting through chaos like a busker ignored by the crowd. Greatness doesn’t arrive with fireworks; it begins with indifference.

How Long

The heartbreak track. Not mascara-streaked heartbreak, quiet heartbreak, looping endlessly in your head. The solo mirrors the vocal because memory recycles pain until you write it down or go insane.

Fighting Against the World

By ’85, anthems were fashionable. But this isn’t bombast, it’s conviction. “No rules for me” isn’t rebellion, it’s survival. The solo is testimony.

Alibi

Shiny, radio-built rock. The Def Leppard comparison is obvious. The tragedy? Talent bent under market forces. Sometimes bending makes you relevant. Sometimes it breaks you.

Once in a Lifetime

Prophecy. The Hysteria template before Hysteria. Too smart for its moment. History doesn’t reward prototypes; it rewards polish.

Then came “Heading For A Storm” in 1983. My journey was like a time machine.

Friday Night

Eddie Van Halen swing. Fun, maybe too much fun. But even when the words are throwaway, the guitar tells the truth.

Time Will Tell

Pedal riffs, AC/DC chords, Def Leppard gloss. A Frankenstein of influences that works. And yes, time told. You’re still listening.

Heading for a Storm

Schenker fingerprints everywhere. Structured, melodic, disciplined. The storm here isn’t destruction — it’s inevitability.

Waiting for the Night

Starts acoustic, erupts into Deep Purple territory. Anticipation is half the game. Most of life is waiting. The payoff usually disappoints. Not here.

Finally I got the self-titled debut from 1982.

Burning Heart

The single. The gateway. A whisper of Sailing Ships years before it existed.

Fate twisted the knife when a wrist injury stopped Adrian from playing it on Slip of the Tongue. Sometimes your best song becomes someone else’s “almost.”

Nothing to Lose

Track seven but should’ve been track one. Every band has that deep cut better than the single. The tragedy? Most never drop the needle that far.

Too Late

Halford phrasing, Rhoads fingerprints. Metal cosplay done with respect. The solo proves he could shred with the best — he just chose restraint.

And now we come to 1989.

“Slip of the Tongue” is one of those rock history ironies. Vandenberg co-wrote it with Coverdale, but a hand injury benched him.

Enter Vai: flash, fire, MTV darling. But the 2019 box set revealed the truth. The demos, the jams, the monitor mixes, Adrian’s blueprint was already there. Vai didn’t reinvent the wheel. He didn’t need to. It was perfect to begin with.

At Whitesnake’s peak, Coverdale pulled the plug. Just like that, done. Adrian’s left without a gig but drowning in offers.

The one he takes?

Manic Eden.

The rebound: Vandenberg, Sarzo, Aldridge, plus Ron Young from Little Caesar. Same pedigree, different vibe. Less gloss, more grit. A supergroup born in the wrong decade, playing the right music at the wrong time.

Do Angels Die (Manic Eden)

Wrong decade, wrong trend, wrong everything. Hendrix meets Stones meets atmosphere. That line: “It’s hard to reach the sky when you’re on your knees.”

Then ’94, Coverdale calls. Wants Adrian back. Not for a record, but a “Greatest Hits” lineup. Vandenberg takes it. He’s onstage with Warren DeMartini, Rudy Sarzo, Denny Carmassi.

That’s the lineup I caught at the Hordern Pavilion in Sydney, loud and defiant. A couple years later, Whitesnake stirs again with “Restless Heart”, only to be mothballed when Coverdale pivots solo. Classic Coverdale, always moving, never settling.

Too Many Tears (Whitesnake)

Rejected as “too Poison, too Chicago.” Years later, reborn as one of Whitesnake’s most soulful tracks. Moral: don’t delete your rejects.

Crying
Yes, it mirrors “Mistreated.” But blues-rock was never about originality. It’s about sincerity. And here, Adrian bleeds sincerity.

By the end of ’99, Adrian disappears. No records, no tours. Silence.

Over a decade later, 2013, the whispers prove true: Vandenberg’s MoonKings isn’t a rumor anymore, it’s a band.

Out of Reach (MoonKings)

Personal. No bombast, no myth. Just absence and ache. A real artist can scale down from stadiums to living rooms and still hit the nerve.

Sailing Ships (Acoustic)

The circle closes. What began as bombast ends as reflection. No walls of sound, just wood, strings, voice. The storm passes, clarity remains.

But Adrian wasn’t happy with the MoonKings compromise. He wanted his name back.

Adrian Vandenberg didn’t just fight for riffs, he fought for identity. Six lawsuits, years of bloodletting. Imagine Santana without Carlos. Exactly. The courts saw it too: Vandenberg is Adrian, period. He walked away victorious. And then came “Vandenberg – 2020”.

This record feels like a time machine. Not nostalgia, but lineage.

“Ride Like the Wind” is Gates of Babylon reborn.

“Hell and High Water” is Bad Company with grit.

“Light Up the Sky” is echoes of “Bad Boys”.

“Shout” is “Slow and Easy” on steroids.

“Shitstorm” has “Fool for Your Loving” DNA everywhere.

“Shadows of the Night” is straight Blackmore worship.

“Let It Rain” has Euro-Rock/Metal vibes.

“Skyfall” is the closer, the exhale, the triumph

The riffs hit. The structures hold. But it’s the lead breaks, those “song within a song” moments, that elevate it. “2020” was resurrection.

“Sin” is vindication.

You don’t follow up with something this strong unless you’re chasing ghosts. Vandenberg doesn’t just chase them. He outruns them.

The production’s leaner, darker. The band feels alive. Still rooted in Whitesnake, Dio, Rainbow, Bad Company, but modern, urgent, dangerous.

“Thunder and Lightning” is the declaration of war.

“House on Fire” has a Bad Company groove lit by gasoline.

“Sin” is Sabbath heaviness, Coverdale swagger.

“Light It Up” is sleaze for 2023.

“Burning Skies” is cinematic sweep.

“Baby You’ve Changed” is aching confession.

“Out of the Shadows” is the breath before the crush

And the solos?

Surgical. No shred for shred’s sake. Every note has intent.

Where 2020 said, “I’m still alive,” Sin says, “I never left.”

And in 2025, Adrian Vandenberg is still touring, still writing, still carrying his name like the flag it always was.