Harry Styles has entered his imperial phase – but his music still has no distinct identity

At the turn of this century, looking back on the late 1980s when the Pet Shop Boys could do no wrong and everything they touched turned to platinum, Neil Tennant coined the concept of a musician’s ‘imperial phase’. You can be hugely popular at other times in your career – you can sell just as many records – but the imperial phase is something different.

The imperial phase is when an artist isn’t just selling records; it’s when approval of them has reached such a pitch that they can do no wrong. It’s when every magazine and newspaper uses any excuse to run photos of them, when their peers garland them with approval, and they seem to have a golden key that unlocks every day. This period usually defines a star for the rest of their life: a young Elvis swivelling his hips; Marc Bolan with tumbling curls and glitter on his face; Michael Jackson – whose empire stretched further than anyone before or since: the Alexander the Great of pop – in a red leather jacket and a single glove.

Harry Styles projects not rebellion or aloofness, but kindness and decency

Harry Styles is just on the cusp of entering his imperial phase. Don’t be fooled by this show being in a theatre: next month, he’s playing six UK stadiums, which is half a million tickets. He’s got the old guard of pop and rock falling over him. He’s got critics salivating. At this point, if you don’t know what Harry Styles looks like, you may as well drive to Barnard Castle to test your eyesight. He’s a pop star for our times: he projects not rebellion or aloofness, but kindness and decency. He’s an amorphous blob of concern all wrapped up in soft linen. Yet he is so indefinite that you can project whatever you want on to him – as fan, as critic, as anyone.