But who cares? We’re all somewhat cornballs underneath. All it requires is a 45-second investigation into dude’s Instagram to unmask his cornball temperaments. Those who’ve never understood The Weeknd’s character miscalculated its appeal: Never is it about The Weeknd himself, but how he serves as cypher for you to assume a sensually desired and-yes-sexy role. But instead of acting like some previous star, he funnels all those influences through a persona familiar yet refreshing. It’s also a glorious reboot of all things 80s pop, disco, and electrowave. The Weeknd’s new album Starboy isn’t only phenomenal, space opera splendor. On some level, I feel contradictory making that criticism. Ron Perry, president of Songs Music Publishing, ecstatic about its smash record possibilities, exclaimed in the same profile, “It’s ‘Billie Jean!’ It’s Billie Jean!” He meant this positively. But another short example: In an NYTimes profile around the time, The Weeknd described “In The Night” as a pop compromise he was willing to make for global stardom. If you’ve heard “Can’t Feel My Face” you know what I mean. It created this persona as The Weeknd as a millennial Michael Jackson, mostly because that’s exactly what he and his team wanted you to believe. It prompted a naked and necessary reinvention through Beauty Behind The Madness, an uber-engineered, marketable stylized pop behemoth. His 2013 album Kiss Land revealed a singer stuck in repeat. If he leaned into this, maybe his act would be forgivable, and possibly fun.Ī fair conceit. Someone who never even hints within the contradictions of his music- like, bro, if you want love so bad, maybe stop playing such a douchebag. A put-on character who only pretends like this sadomasochistic pussy hound.
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Now this is where some would call total and utter bullshit. You always wanted more: more sex, more self-loathing, more of his sleazy songs. In that way they always tend to fail, parental warnings and respectability politics only invited you further into The Weeknd’s sordid fantasies. Whereas the most beloved art incites wonder into audiences, questioning, “How Is This Possible?” The Weeknd’s sound on first listen instills dread, the dilemma instead, “Should This Be Possible?”īy now it’s obvious just how appealing we all find consuming something we possibly shouldn’t. Or if the inescapable “The Hills,” from 2015’s Beauty Behind The Madness, punctured your pop radio speakers, its menacing warble both alluring and alarming.Įither way, The Weeknd’s music felt like a secret, and not one you were necessarily supposed to know. This is certainly true if you listened from his delirious first mixtape House of Balloons, relating-or more likely, fantasizing about relating-with “bring the drugs, baby, I can bring my pain,” those guitar strings sounding more like plucks on out-of-tune heartbeats. Any first encounter with The Weeknd and his ravishing, raw falsetto takes on the air of a surreptitious affair.