As I sit here in my Mongolian yurt surrounded by Moroccan rugs, braiding a small child’s hair, my mind, alone, riffs on the void that is the wafer-thin transubstantiation of new age consumption. My spirit weaver weaves slow, for it grows limp. It has lost its one direction. What to listen to now that Coachella is over?
Where is Harry Styles when you need him? Where for art thou, Harold? . . . Oh, there he is. Sitting across from me, commandeering his own yurt.
For Harry has released his first solo album. It’s a moment. A passion. An elephant in a room wallpapered with drawings of elephants. First he dropped the single ‘Sign of the Times’ which I believed was going to be a Prince cover. I was bummed when it wasn’t. I said to him: “Harry I’m bummed it wasn’t a Prince cover.” He replied by updating his Instagram via an eyelash entrepreneur.
“I, like you, Harry,” I said to him, “often feel the urge to stroke Rick Rubin’s beard. Where are the drums?” He replied by running a bath and going all acoustic.
Where ‘Sign of the Times’ is a crushingly sad song that sounds bizarrely like it belongs on the end of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, ‘Sweet Creature’ is a finger-plucked ballad with an annoying chorus in the vein of Van Morrison, pre-drink; reminiscent of Ed Sheeran’s ‘poverty listening’ world tour. It’s a guitar chord change that will now have three thousand YouTube tutorials.
“What is music?” I asked him.
“Why are there things at all, instead of nothing?” He replied.
I told him, “Harry you’re a second rate golfer”. He answered by saying “I’m not a lawyer but I’ve watched a lot of Law and Order” in his dreamy, hypnotic way, from the bath.
Nice, subtle, doubled-up vocals in the second verse, we agreed. At least it’s not OK Computer. At least it’s not R&B smooze. “It’s better than Oasis,” I said to him. “At least I’m not Anthony Keidis from the Red Hot Chilli Peppers,” he replied.
But it’s all gone a bit Sting. A bit Robbie Williams. I imagine Liam Gallagher will be turning over in his grave, the grave that he hasn’t finished digging. “Harry,” I texted in his general direction, “2009 feels so long ago. So was Hiddleswift. Snake emoji.” His instant text reply: “The women scientists are holding together your continent.” Such woke, though.
The new Actress track ‘X22RME’ started playing on the ancient wood-panelled turntable. His beautiful eyes lit up.
Before I could confirm he was ever there, Harry had made his exit. His spirit weaved, in search of drums. Or a swimwear flash sale. 10 out of 10.