A 4 am Public Apology To Harry Styles

                My blog writing process typically goes like this:

           1.   Some random godforsaken wee hour of the morning I will suddenly become highly intrigued by something. I could elaborate further as “something” is incredibly vague but that’s the worst part of it. There is absolutely no pattern to what goes on in my head or where the inspiration is derived from. Maddening? Yes. Welcome to a day in my life.

          2.    I’ll most likely start writing something simply to get my major thoughts down and proceed to stew about it for days and days and days.

           3.   One day I’ll decide I’ve stewed long enough in order to develop this matter of interest to enough understanding, thus allowing myself to create something tangible.

           4.   I rave on paper about nonsense for an hour or two. Edit. Reread. Edit. Edit. Edit. Post.

              And you guys read it.

              Why.

              Anyways. This post is a bit different as it is 3:27 on a Friday morning and I’m just going to wing it. Here goes:

              If I remember correctly, roughly around winter of 2011 five adorable British adolescents banded together by Simon Cowell released their first self-titled album including the smash hit You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful as One Direction.

              Contingent with most Hollywood teenagers, a slew of loyal nine-year-old fans ensued. Now instead of one Canadian Justin Bieber, there were five British ones; and the world was here for it.

              Over a brief period, a cult dubbed “Directioners” rose to global recognition as their antics (including frequent stampedes at concerts, nudity for attention, alarming cyber bullying of any female romantically associated with these boys, and just a lot of violence) led to some of the wildest headlines we’ve seen since Jimmy Hendrix and Woodstock. Examples include:

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              Needless to say, as these antics ensued and obsession with these boys became so intensely rampant in everyday life and day to day media; the rest of the population turned away and proceeded to live their lives with very little concern regarding One Direction, their drama, and their music. The One Direction phenomenon was another aspect of our world that did not directly affect us. They were not cool. Their music outside of an ironic addition to a dance party playlist was regarded with high disdain by individuals who considered themselves lovers of real music and real talent.

              In 2015 Zayne Malik made major headlines as he departed from the band in pursuit of a solo career. Zayne delivered to his skeptical audience a more authentic artist no longer confined to clouds of shitty media pop, as he released sexy ballads such as Pillowtalk, and collaborated with Snakehips.

              Now Harry Styles has followed suit with a single titled Sign Of The Times, and just wow.

              That. That is some beautiful shit.

              As a hobbyist songwriter and amateur lyricist, one thing I look for in a good song is poignant lyrics that allow enough room for consumer interpretation to breathe. I look for pleasant melodies and chord progressions that either homogenously capture the soul of the lyrics, or contradict them in a witty manner. Sign Of The Times accomplishes the initial and I am literally the surprised face meme when it comes to this song and the artist that is Harry Styles.

              What’s the point of this blog post? I guess I just wanted to say that I was wrong. This is my public apology to Harry Styles. For so long I kind of hated you simply because physically, you are a beautiful creature and I know I can’t have you.

               That’s okay I’ll live.

                I’m more sorry, however, that I disregarded you as a mere media puppet with a good voice. Clearly, there is a pure brooding soul in there and I am very excited to see more of it as your career unfolds. Your music is a gift.

                 I am also so angry at you because now I’m a fan and I don’t know what I’m going to tell all my pretentious grunge friends dammit.

                Good night. Good morning? Who cares. I’m in a bit of an existential crisis and everything feels fucked up anyways. Cheers.

Salome Solomon