Obliging to a fault, Styles has done the critics’ work for them: the first track on Harry’s House is called “Music For a Sushi Restaurant”, which very nicely sums up his brand of pleasantly non-confrontational background noodling. Johnny Hates Jazz came to mind, possibly for the first time since 1987.
#Hold me fleetwood mac guitar tab plus
On Harry’s House, you can hear all of that, plus less feted outfits of my own youth. Also yacht rock earworms, of the Steely Dan, 10CC variety. Like so many of us, Styles is in thrall to the soothing sounds and foppish styles of singer-songwritin’ Seventies Los Angeles, especially imperial phase Fleetwood Mac. Late night talking? I mean, jeez, how very sweet. “Late Night Talking” is the title of one of the new songs. The whole world might be going to hell, but at least we’ve got Harry, to wrap us in his warm embrace and then cook us a macrobiotic breakfast in the morning while asking tenderly after our mental health. “Watermelon Sugar”, that’s the only one I could have named until last week, when he released his third solo album, Harry’s House, an instant international megahit, and indisputably the sound of the summer. The tunes? Easy to hum along to, difficult to tell apart. He’s an Aperol Spritz, just the one, in the guise of a long line of coke. He does cute, he does soft, he does sugary, he does palatable. This is, indisputably, not the moment for a white cisgender pop god manque to project the old rock’n’roll values of edge, danger, sexual voraciousness, questionable lifestyle choices. He’s charming, he’s clean cut, he has beautiful manners (and great hair!) and he’s as woke as you like. If the overall effect is less lock-up-your-daughters than take-him-home-to-mum, then perhaps that’s what makes Styles the perfect chart-topper for 2022. Harry Styles is the pop star of the moment, and there’s no point arguing with it. Nick? Simon? Ronan? Jason? Abs? Ginger? Am I getting warmer? No wonder he has so totally eclipsed his former bandmates in One Direction, none of whose names anyone can remember. The sexy, but not too sexy, videos the toothsome chat show appearances the commanding red carpet sashays: anyone can see the guy is a pro. Not since, ooh, Jagger-Bowie-Prince-insert-name-of-preferred-gender-bending-pop-ledge has anyone had so much fun with a pot of neon nail polish, a feather boa and a small girl’s blouse.
It’s so gorgeous, and glossy, and just… yum.
God knows I’ve tried to resist Harry Styles, the dinky boyband poppet turned globe-frotting classic rock pasticheur.
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