Harry Styles Sydney

He is this decade's all-purpose, all-ages British showman. The fun time to be had by all.

And of course, slinky and suggestive, like Watermelon Sugar, which may or may not be about a certain sexual act but is definitely a way to spring-load a stadium audience for the sprint to the end of the set. His penchant for some beefy guitar moves puts the relatively ordinary Woman – only the bland Love Of My Life lands lower – squarely in an ’80s rock parade, while Matilda and Little Freak, sung out on the edge of the satellite stage, pull everything back to delicate singer/songwriter fare. Or grand pop gesturing, like Sign Of The Times, the heavily-laden, arms-linked, sing-it-together-brothers-and-sisters ballad which is his version of Robbie Williams’ Angels, and a bold resetting at the beginning of the encore. Giddy and sunny, like Golden and Satellite, gossamer tunes that lean bright (Golden) and wistful (Satellite) but really operate dead centre pleasure. “It’s a family show, a family show,” he declared mid-evening. A bit of cheek, a bit of sexiness and a bit of charm; some swing in the hips but not a fancy dancer; a way with a gag that slides past too-busy-grinning censors; a past as a teen favourite, a present encompassing their parents who always secretly enjoyed him but now get the wider musical influences, and a future equally at home in stadiums, cabarets and screens.