A classic Van Halen eruption

Instead of sweating to Van Halen, the ravers who packed Staples Center on Tuesday often looked as if they were gaping at a movie. They were; they all had to stand at seats, and the dynamic angles on the behind-stage mega-screen pumped the scene with a cinematic dimension.

They had another reason to lurk like peepers behind their cellphone cameras, though: They couldn’t quite believe they were seeing Van Halen reunited with singer-ringmaster David Lee Roth after more than two decades.

With his tile-work expanse of Smilin’ Bob teeth and his vaudevillian shtick, Roth has always been exactly the showbiz rocker Los Angeles deserves. After an early ‘70s launch in Pasadena, Van Halen survived the T-shirt tribulations of late-’70s punk, the scythe of addiction and several hiatuses to continue delivering a bigness and whirling glamour that never seem to go out of style. And while ego dust-ups between Roth and guitar god Eddie Van Halen may have led to singer transplants via Sammy Hagar, Mitch Malloy and Gary Cherone, Roth’s picture is the one that has stayed in most fans’ love lockets.

So the Roth reconciliation, which has teetered on the brink for more than a decade, was huge. Adding to the intrigue, Eddie Van Halen has said he agreed to try it mainly to offer his son with actress and ex-wife Valerie Bertinelli, 16-year-old Wolfgang Van Halen, a shot at filling the shoes of original bassist Michael Anthony. A dubious way to bend the Van Halen family twig, maybe, but that’s Hollywood.

A gusher of pent-up guitar energy roared from the stage shadows, the curtain ascended, and Van Halen bombed into the first hit from the group’s 1978 debut album, a headbanging cover of the Kinks’ “You Really Got Me,” to which Roth still hasn’t learned Ray Davies’ lyrics.

Both sporting trim short hair in contrast to their lank ‘dos of the ‘70s, Roth (in a series of embroidered jackets and top hats) and Eddie Van Halen (in fatigue pants, shirtless) split most of the spotlight time equally, appearing to hate each other very little.

Roth snapped hepcat fingers to Eddie’s solo during the jaunty “I’m the One,” blew powerhouse harmonica on the blues-shouting “Somebody Get Me a Doctor,” traversed the expanded stage arcs front and back with ceaseless muggery, flicked his hat Gene Kelly-style and mounted it on his crotch (no hands).

His best and most personal moments stretched through an extended rendition of the country-blues-flavored “Ice Cream Man,” where he picked some creditable acoustic guitar and spieled out a sunny, charming account of a youth spent smoking pot and driving his Opel around the suburbs, “where they tear out the trees and name the streets after ‘em.”

Roth’s mighty lungs were in prime condition.

His attack simultaneously weighty and buoyant, Eddie had fun zinging through the songs. He skipped and twisted during the hat dance of “Senorita,” and often leaned back into his trademark kneeling position to squeal, bend and flagellate the strings. He showed his structural flair too, with an intelligently balanced improvisation on the mid-tempo rocker “I’ll Wait,” and outright blazed on the introduction to the smoking boogie of “Hot for Teacher.”

One reason to be glad it’s 2007: The camera could zoom in, blowing up Eddie’s vein-popped hands on-screen to the size of willows, allowing guitar geeks to scrutinize every hammer-on and admire each knob inflection.

Eddie and Roth, both sporting swim-team physiques, had even rehearsed some nice turns together. Especially striking was the moment when they posed as if in a whaling skiff, with Eddie the steersman and Roth the harpoonist.

A helmet-haired Wolfgang plucked capable if not commanding bass while bulked up in a black hoodie, strolling the perimeter and interacting easily with his dad, with whom he hollered out excellent backing vocals; he even got to play a nimble, well-organized solo. He’s not comfortable yet, but getting there.

Alex Van Halen is surely accustomed to the bathroom stampede that accompanies his drum spots, but the restroom rioters missed some real chest-pounding stimulation. His big rumble powered the hard-driving band train all night.

Van Halen’s is a sexy sound, rhythmically flexible enough to accommodate the reggae tinges of “Dance the Night Away,” blurry enough around the edges to avoid testosterone overload. And the half-male, half-female crowd was way into it, minding not at all that there was no new material.

The rock didn’t go over the top, though, till near the end, with the doom-soaked riff of “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love.” When Roth lent his dramatic vibrato to the words about going to the edge and losing friends, the song took on meanings it didn’t own 30 years ago, for audience as well as band.

No surprise, the encore was Van Halen’s biggest smash, “Jump,” with its ridiculously catchy keyboard riff. (Where was that sound coming from, anyway? No visible keys onstage.) It fell apart a little, as it often does, but so what? Roth twirled his baton and waved a huge red flag; a monsoon of confetti poured down. It was over.

As the crowd filed out after the two-hour set, a guy grinned and said he wanted his money back. He obviously didn’t.

One of Bob Marley’s sons, the husky-voiced Ky-Mani Marley, opened, leading his slick, spare and heavy band through a listenable reggae set studded with the hits of his father. If you tell him he shouldn’t trade so heavily on his father’s legend, you’ll have to say the same thing to Hank Williams Jr. And Wolfie.