In the ever-shifting mosaic of the music industry, there is a name that consistently stands head and shoulders above the rest, capturing the hearts and playlists of millions; Abel Makkonen Tesfaye, or as we know him, The Weeknd. The Weeknd’s distinct voice has broken down the doors of a massive number of genres, which has led to him having an unprecedented reign over the music charts across the planet.
From the start, he was a puzzle box of puzzles. The Weeknd began to emerge as a mysterious unknown, a midnight rumbler flashing brilliant multi-colored 678-foot pitches that hinted an incomparable talent had been unleashed upon the world. He did not simply “break through.” Little star that he is, he broke free with an attack upon the status quo and leapt into the consciousness of service for the masses like a shocking bolt of energy. That’s why he named himself “The Weeknd” — his music feels like a party without end, and just to be clear, everybody in the world could come.
Perhaps the most prolific song-writing tool that the Weeknd possesses is his voice. It sounds like how you’d imagine a divine being would sing, with its silky falsetto and utter inhuman breath control, and it glides and slides over and around the words that come out of his mouth, instead of merely speaking them. Through it, the Weeknd is able to conjure emotions that you didn’t know you were capable of feeling, for every note really is a journey into the depths of ecstasy and pain and lust and love. It’s an experience, and every song is a Rome.
But The Weeknd is more than just a virtuoso musician; he’s a master storyteller. His songs read like pages ripped out of a diary, tell us stories of love and lust, of misery and remorse and hurtling redemption. He doesn’t sing songs; he excavates his life with forceful keyboard riffs. It’s a vulnerability that has resonated with millions, turning his songs into anthems of the human experience. His lyrics are a collection of photographs, full of visual images that transport us to the Scarborough neighborhood where he grew up.
And let us not forget about his vivacious stage presence. When The Weeknd radiates onto a stage, it is an event that mere words cannot do justice to. A Pandora’s box of emotions of lights, thrilling visuals and a enigmatic presence leaves fans captivated during the length of his shows. It is not just a concert, it is a sensory experience, a soul extending from a physical self.
What truly sets him apart is his ability to evolve and reinvent himself, and no album better illustrates that than “Starboy.” “Trilogy” often has been described as “House of Balloons” until it loses its way. The first half is filled with the moody, introspective night time R&B that Tesfaye became famous for. The second half lacks the creativity of “Thursday,” and Tesfaye’s voice becomes grating over the Mike-WiLL-Made-It produced beats.
But it’s not as if his other albums have been bad — they just haven’t been anywhere near as good as the initial trilogy. He’s redefined the sound of pop music. His voice, his style, the melodies he chose to put his words to all have influenced the direction that the industry has gone these last five years. There might not be another album that better epitomizes the sound of “now” than “Starboy.” He’s likely got his ticket punched for the Hall of Fame. As long as he keeps putting out Albums, the Weeknd will always be relevant. He doesn’t have to be good, because the novelty of one of his albums only lasts until his next album drops, and then the game changes. But I fear that Tesfaye will go the way of Bob Dylan and Paul McCartney. People will keep buying his albums because of who he used to be, not because he’s creating the best music he’s ever made.
The Weeknd will spend the rest of his life trying to live up to that.
But it’s not just his music that grabs me; it’s his persona. There’s an enigmatic quality to The Weeknd that’s as magnetic as it is rare in the era of oversharing. He’s an icon for our time teetering somewhere between the private and the public, dwelling mostly in the shadows. His music now feels secondary to the questions we have about him. How someone can say so much, both musically and about his personal life, and still retain an air of mystery is an unknowable feat. It’s an enigma that can be agreed upon.
In an age of fleeting attention spans, when streaming has flooded our lives with endless music choices, The Weeknd’s skill of carving out a hit that lasts beyond peak news cycle and the midyear’s 12 most streamed albums is particularly unusual. John Lennon and Paul McCartney both did it, as have pop music’s would-be guardians — Max Martin, Pharrell Williams and probably Dr. James W. Bailey, that Rush Medical College neurologist tasked with researching earworms once admitted to billing 100 hours straight attempting to find a cure for catchy songs.
Every one of The Weeknd’s songs is a generational anthem, a song whose inevitable popularity “The Video Music Awards” will be mocking in less than a year’s time. Whether it’s “Earned It” or “Can’t Feel My Face” or “I Feel It Coming” or “Pray for Me” or “Blinding Lights,” we can name that tune in zero seconds. This is an international superstar, the sort who sings in English, gesturing at privacy and cocaine use, while inflicting hip-hop-quoting verse freestyle punishments on his Spring Break Europe crowds. On Tuesday night, there were taped shows from Paris, Los Angeles and New York, each climaxing with a blizzard of fireworks, as Abel Tesfaye sang “Starboy,” his tribute to partying. Monday night featured countless headlines about The Weeknd’s lock on the Grammy nominations, as well as an upcoming Super Bowl halftime show in Tampa Bay, Fla., two months hence.
Fame is often a fleeting mistress in our brave new world, trends are almost intentionally here today and gone tomorrow. But The Weeknd still demands to be called a star, a release of music from him is nothing short of a minor phenomenom, and his enduring popularity suggests that we’re beyond the age of burning bursts of fame, and now live in an era of history’s biggest and most professional celebrities. We aren’t simply a society imprinted with the Weeknd’s jams, we are him. His music is our music, we need him to feel through him. He is our resoundingly discontent voice, of whatever generation he’ll write songs about next. Our troubled, flawed, and conflicted hero of the age.
In the grand symphony that is the music industry, The Weeknd is the momentous crescendo that leaves us breathless, the infectious melody that gets stuck in our heads and the artist who has taken his place as undeniably the most popular music act on the planet; he’s not just a star, he’s like a damn supernova, and his reign shows no sign of dimming. The Weeknd isn’t going anywhere. And that music magic from him? We couldn’t be more grateful.
