For the third week in a row, Belgium was visited by an international pop sensation: first Olivia Rodrigolast week Billie Eilish, and now it was time for the greatest of the greats: Harry fucking Styles. The organization had learned something and explicitly asked that they only come on the day of the concert, but there is simply nothing to get between a teenager and his idol. Dozens of young people already went to Sportpaleis on Wednesday evening with tent, sleeping bag and pocket altar. A small price to be able to smell your God.
Those groupies become Harries mentioned: it is not original, but it says it all: being a fan of Harry Styles is their identity. This is what Beatlemania must have looked like at its peak. The approaching action was spoken of as if it were the return of the Messiah. There was something beautiful about that joint fixation. In the queue we were isolated from the filthy world around us, head to head with that charismatic Brit. The feathers of the frequently present boas, torn by the wind, blew idyllically around our ears. In the distance I saw a man in his fifties in a Iron Maiden T-shirt decked out with facial glitter: a scene titled “Father Love.” Life laughed.
Unfortunately, the dark side of it also came fandom squeak: a young girl cried, begged, and screamed when it turned out that a villain had sold her fake tickets. The look from the helpless man behind the counter indicated she wasn’t the first tonight. She would get her money back, but he took the experience away from her. Crying uncontrollably, she drifted off while her friends looked on, they were on their way to the evening of their lives.
Because that’s what it would be. The concert was legendary for them even before a note had sounded. Styles was allowed to play solitaire for an hour and a half in his dressing gown and the reactions would still be lyrical. But Harry had more in mind: ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ blasted through the speakers at dimmed lights. A strange choice, unless his intention was to show the young audience that they did not master the iconic text as well as they thought. That and the muzak that filled the hall for minutes afterwards, resulted in a stiff start to a show that was organized down to the last detail.
Styles also started modestly: ‘Music for a Sushi Restaurant’ and ‘Daylight’ sounded less intense than on record and the faded versions of ‘Golden’ and ‘Adore You’ could not convince either. No goosebumps for a moment, no itch in the legs. But especially the C4 for the drop cock who decided to fill half the floor with chairs. A pop star who fills Wembley two nights in a row does not want to see from his podium tentacle in Antwerp which footwear the third row is wearing. You would start at half power for less.
For the first peak we had to wait until number seven, but it was immediately one of the first category. ‘Matilda’ finally straightened our hair. The disappointment that seized us at the start suddenly transformed into that blissful queue feeling. A turnaround, because after that Styles played on a different level. After a fairground race we suddenly rode the Tour.
Outside the numbers it also ran wild. After 12 years on stage, Styles knows the tricks of the trade. A crazy fish on his head, wave a thrown LGBTQia+ flag or chatter with his most loyal fans. Each ‘Good evening’each ‘How are you doing?’, every minute hip beat was met with deafening screams. In the front row he spotted a birthday girl: how old did he think she was? 20. As far as possible, the 27-year-old closed Jolien him even deeper in her heart. And then Styles sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to 20,000 more people. Of course Jolien didn’t keep it dry. A little further on a girl kept the sad words ‘My ex boyfriend is moving in with my ex best friend’ above her head. I didn’t understand the relevance, but Harry thought it was sad, and the audience loved that. Cheers!
Anyway, we got on track. A disco medley, including the catchy ‘Treat People with Kindness’ and the handsome ‘Love of My Life’, also contained ‘What Makes You Beautiful’, from his previous One Direction life. The fact that the audience was able to squeeze out ten extra decibels before that, proves above all that his new music only comes in second place for many fans tonight. They are here for him, and him alone. Even if he’s Norwegian poland alternated with an alphorn performance, Styles would sell out the shack. But that also applies vice versa: give him the charisma of Wouter Beke and the hall remains empty.
Although they haven’t reached the level of their driving force yet, Styles’ songs are certainly not evil. Exhibit A: the tight bisronde, in which he hurled hit after hit at our heads. The emotional ‘Sign of the Times’, cheerful ‘Watermelon Sugar’, record-breaking ‘As It Was’ and his and my favorite ‘Kiwi’ – more of that on the next record. And yet, on that very last note, we got the long-awaited climax – anyone still surprised it’s about show rather than music? – the Harry Styles spit (unwitting boomers are asked to turn to the internet). The crowd screamed one last time, louder than ever.
I was warned in advance from all sides not to make grotesque comparisons, so I keep it modest: as gender-fluid as David Bowiethe stage presence of Mick Jagger and the charisma of Micheal Hutchence† But musically less than bazaar.
Four stars his, tinnitus mine.
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