On the third night of Harry Styles’ six-night residency in Chicago, as the British pop star, promising actor and spiritual scion of Mick Jagger took the stage, the United Center rattled, buzzed, seemed to implode in a white-hot screech of 23,000 screams. Every generation or so this happens. Rod Stewart. New Kids on the Block. Marvin Gaye. Justin Timberlake. Elvis. The Beatles. To stand at the center of it is shocking. Even teenagers who plan to live forever hold their ears at the volume. If you’re old enough to remember the sound of the audience on “Cheap Trick Live at the Budokan,” this was louder. I once stood right in front of the amplifiers of Neil Young and Crazy Horse.
Harry Styles was louder.
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Or rather, his audience was louder than hell, but with a difference: There was Beatles-esque love within that sound, a warmth even the hottest performer on Earth at any given moment doesn’t always receive. I saw at least two grown women cry — with joy. I saw circles of women, their arms across each other’s backs, leaping in exuberance. If you’re wondering when I am going to mention music, understand: For the first few songs, it was hard to hear Styles’ voice clearly, never mind instruments. The audience was that loud. But it was weirdly fitting. Tucked into the (very pricey) cost of tickets was an ambient decency.
Styles explained early that his “one job” was to entertain, then he invited the audience, for at least a night, to “be whatever it is you always wanted to be.” The man comes off as corny, and yet real.
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Since I’ve already dated myself here, well: I was reminded, in a way, of Bruce Springsteen. Not musically, or lyrically; Styles is early in his career, still feeling his way toward depth. But I was reminded of how Springsteen, before his superstar stadium days, earned a reputation for seeming like a human being on stage, not a rock star. He was funny, often knowingly contrived, and he encouraged you to laugh. Styles has that. He wants a seemingly permeable barrier between himself and his audience — in a vibey way. He is the progressive hand on your shoulder. He gets you. He likes you — yes, you.
A woman named Ruby — I know her name was Ruby because Styles was polite enough to ask for her name — held up a handwritten sign, a reference to declaring her sexuality, that read: “Please help me come out.”
Styles grabbed a feather boa, stalked the stage and, as the drummer gave a roll, he declared, “When this boa is thrust above my head, you will be out!” With a showman’s wink, he asked: “Can you feel the tension?!” Then, as the boa waved, the crowd roared.
Social media is full of such charm at Styles shows. The singer soothing an infant to sleep. The singer requesting a head count on the number of golf dads in attendance.
Even the tour itself — titled “Love on Tour” — suggests a rare intimacy. None of this one night in Chicago and next night in Minneapolis stuff here. The tour is organized around extended hangouts. Six nights in Chicago. Fifteen in New York. Fifteen in Los Angeles.
It’s a fun, nearly innovative idea that I only wish the music could match. The songs, the music — all of which are sung word for word, by the entire audience, for the full 90-minute length of the show — is serviceable, and sometimes much better than just fine; a stomping, rousing cover of “What Makes You Beautiful” from his One Direction days hinted at what his unnecessarily restrained band seemed capable of delivering, and the sauntering, autumn-feeling Sunday ramble of “Keep Driving” offers a break from too many ballads that grow as hard to distinguish as they would be to notice playing in a supermarket. But then even some of the blandly inspired songs carry surprising warmth.
Styles in concert, more than on album, likes a ‘70s AM groove, the kind of light funk with horns that has aged better than anyone of that decade could have expected. Tack that to a sartorial Bowie-like gender fluidity, a little Elton John razzle, moves like Jagger, a talent for audience work that would have made Freddie Mercury jealous, and you have a seeming genetically engineered 21st century pop icon. Near the end of the night, with his rocker “Kiwi,” there even came a convincing imitation of Black Sabbath sludge rock.
But it all felt minus the egos.
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The woman standing beside me drove in from St. Louis; she had come Thursday but the show was postponed and so she went home then returned on Monday. She had heard Styles bought his whole New York audience feather boas, so she wondered why he couldn’t have been as generous to Chicago, who were more than inconvenienced.
A moment later Styles was apologizing for the headache of the postponement, and the woman was dancing.
This may sound odd say about the broadest of pop stars, but, having more than established himself, it would be nice to see Styles click off the need to crawl into the lap of his audiences, and maybe even turn inward and a touch selfish. He recalls his inspirations so effortlessly, you hope he reminds himself that all of the above found room to be difficult, and push their audiences and themselves. So for the moment, a Harry Styles show is a celebration of his bond with fans. He blows kisses, waves endlessly, relaxes his loose-limbed body into a rubbery marching-band leader. He dances like no one is watching. He’s not challenging anyone. But that he does this with charm, that you smile wide even when the playbook is obvious — that’s showmanship.
cborrelli@chicagotribune.com
