CHICAGO — 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.
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.
