Is harry styles gay
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“If a song’s about someone, is that fine? Or is that gonna get annoying for them, if people try to decipher it?” Has he ever got that judgment call wrong and taken a bollocking from an angry ex? Styles raises an eyebrow. The only time he worries about an individual lyric is if it risks putting an ex in a difficult position. Styles says he keeps to a general rule: write what comes and don’t think about it too much afterwards. On the lyric “There’s a piece of you in how I dress” I wrote: maybe Kendall? In a song about a lover “way too bright for me”: surely Taylor. While I listened, I couldn’t help scribbling down names, possible subjects. There are up tracks, down tracks, some with the trippy delirium of harpsichord-era Stones, others with the angsty Britpop swell of strings. The new album, Fine Line, is at its best when capturing late-hours moments, drunk calls, “wandering hands”, kitchen snogs. Styles, who writes in collaboration with Hull and producer Tyler Johnson, sounds as if he took the advice. A year ago, when Styles was floating around near this pub in north London, where he lives, and California, where he tends to record, looking for inspiration for the new album, his close friend Tom Hull told him: “Just date amazing women, or men, or whatever, who are going to fuck you up… Let it affect you and write songs about it.” It’s a ratio Styles tries to adjust in favour of the music by being vague about his ex-partners, real and rumoured ( Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner, Parisian model Camille Rowe), diverting to discuss his songs about failed relationships. What must be the black-market value of that thing? If fans were to get hold of it, would they want to open Styles’s music app first, to listen to tracks from the new album, or rush to see his messages and calls, to find out who Styles has been flirting with late at night? The interest in his music has always run at a ratio of about 50/50 with the interest in who he is dating.
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I’m weirdly anxious about Styles’s phone, which is slung on the table in front of him. A photo is requested they say they’ll wait. Maybe I need to start scaring babies in supermarkets?”Ī couple of lads hustle over to offer drinks. But, then, there are also a lot of good artists who are dicks. “I just don’t think you need to be a dick to be a good artist. Styles, who has just released his second solo album, Fine Line, the penultimate track of which is called Treat People With Kindness, has to hope not. (“ Soooo much cocaine,” he marvels.) We talk for a bit about whether extreme dissolute behaviour and artistic greatness go hand in hand. Styles read Keith Richards’ autobiography a while back, and he recently finished Elton’s, too. It’s when you meet the people who are successful and aren’t nice, you think: What’s yer excuse? Cos I’ve met the other sort.” “People who are successful, and still nice. Main image: top, waistcoat and trousers, Harris Reed. Maybe they’ve heard of Styles there, too.īoots, waistcoat and trousers, Gucci. A woolly jumper beneath has a picture of the planet Saturn on it. As it is, cover blown, he removes the parka. If Styles could only do something about his appearance from the neck up (elfin brow, wide Joker smile, a face that’s recognisable across multiple continents) you sense he could drink in pubs like this anonymously enough. He’s tall, around the 6ft mark, and carries himself with a slight stoop. “That’s frickin’ Harry frickin’ Styles,” whispers a young man at the bar, “in this pub.” The pop star is asked what he wants to drink and in a voice already inclined to undertones, quietly orders a cup of tea.Ī former teen star who is now 25, a happier and rockier solo artist since his boyband One Direction split a few years ago, Styles has hidden himself inside a large, swamp-green parka. Instead, the two-dozen punters turn hushed and intent, as if a unicorn has just trotted in off the street, and nobody wants to scare it off. If there was an old vinyl record player in the place it would scratch quiet. H ere he comes, one of the planet’s most conspicuous young men, stepping out of the London drizzle and into a dusty suburban pub.