What a revelation to see Styles live the same week as Paul McCartney – a tutorial on the connection between joy and brilliance. So is this album. The songs are built to last, standing up to months of ridiculously heavy listening. The only rock star who can come on like Macca and Mick at the same time. The only rock star who could earn all six minutes of ‘Sign of the Times.’ The only rock star using his hard-won artistic freedom to craft the kind of hilariously anti-commercial old-school personal statement where every song counts, making big guitar moves everybody else this year was too timid to try. The only rock star who thinks cigarettes in New York are ‘cheap.’ The only rock star.
Tag: rob sheffield
Harry and Louis are the Stevie and Lindsey of the mermaid-tattoo-era stadium-rock eye-contact game. Louis’ eyes are dark, intense, controlling, with a surly “damn your love, damn your life” edge. Harry’s eyes say “I hear the darkness you’re expressing and it’s important to me but my heart tells me to twirl right now,” so he twirls and touches his hair. The brooding look vs. the beatific twirl. When one of them gets happy, the other gets wistful. When one of them gets bitchy, the other gets sugary. I could watch them sing together for hours. I could probably watch them do laundry for hours. (I doubt they do laundry.) xx
God mother fucking bless Rob Sheffield to eternity.
326 Miles 