When Abel Tesfaye first emerged a decade ago as The Weeknd, he arrived with an aesthetic so immaculately constructed that it soon became a creative prison. The early Drake approved mix tapes - house of balloons - were a pioneering blend of doleful R&B fed by emotionally despondent lyrics. The charm began to wear thin around the time of ‘Kiss Land’, but come 2018 and ‘My Dear Melancholy’ signalled something of a sonic retreat, a stylistic u-turn back to the downtempo noir-pop of his early work. Then came ‘Starboy', overflowing with chart propelling tunes, pumped with 80s disco in its veins.
His EP’s may have been diverse but the undercurrent remained constant - transcendence.
Ahead of his new album release, he promised “No more daytime music” and “A new brain-melting psychotic chapter”. This would not have been possible in 2011, when The Weeknd appeared with his mix tapes that established his sonic template : drug drenched, sex- dungeon R&B. A press shy Ethiopian kid from Toronto with close to zero interviews, managed to cultivate a near mythical image as a bed hopping, pill popping, chart topping mystery. “We live in an era where everything is so excessive. I think its refreshing for everybody to be like who the (explicit) is that guy? That’s why my career is going to be so long. Because I haven't given people (explicit)” He teased the drop in his Saturday Night Live performance, and the blood on his face said it all - he's in the middle of something dangerous and he's loving it.
Not many would have invested in the cinema that surrounds his songs. Oliver el Khatib of OVO sounds saw it differently. “ Apparently even drake wasn't with it at first”, Tesfaye says today. “Oliver was the one vouching for me”.
With its title referring to cocaine and his frigid hometown, ‘Snow Child’ has similar stark elegance. Abel turns reminiscent of his rise from a money-hungry 16 year old, to a rich benefactor. The narrative progresses from Coachella and Tribeca, to a deal with Mercedes, to the 20 million mansion he never lives in and the infinity pool he never dips in - from a trap house in Toronto, to Calabasas California.
Lines like “stack a couple M’s like i was shady” and the song ‘Scared to Live Again’ , which interpolates the iconic Elton John chorus, pay homage to the greats of the years long gone.
The power of After Hours lies in its cosmic fearlessness. Abel has experimented with electronic and synth soundscapes before (alongside Daft Punk) but After Hours still seems like unchartered territory. Tesfaye’s singing oozes with debauchery and After Hours is no different. He sets a murky undertone to the album with his sad boy swagger, and melodies that are and chilly and atmospheric, their thick narcotic haze sliced by his broken glass falsetto. Though one of its kind, the album has the signature Weeknd soul - his lean and powerful voice with trap and cloud rap beats, indie rock samples, unflinching lyrics about sex, drugs and R&B, and the blurry overlap between the three.
The only step he can take to supersede his previous has to be an XO-OVO link up.
The 14 tracks bridge the two eras that define The Weeknds career : a shadowy R&B crooner to an arena ready pop star, no less profane. Metro Boomin’s synth heavy, heart pounding production erupts under Tesfaye’s flow of mind-numbing vocal finesse. What sets his 4th studio album apart from its predecessors is its cohesion between songs. They bleed into one another.
It’s molly and madness. Debauchery, DMTs, death. Seduction, serotonin, self-harm. Hedonism, heroin, havoc. The trilogy of vices have remained a constant in the confessions of his subtly sadistic yet ever so sensual harmonies.
The police car sound effects that haunt the songs make you want to escape, but never stop listening to them. And thats when you develop an addiction of your own. Before you realise, you're running away from the desert lights, drowning in his voice, dancing in the purple rain.
Welcome to the after party.
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