Photo: Wenn
Abel Tesfaye, otherwise known as The Weeknd, is now living the life he envisioned during 2011’s ‘Rolling Stone’; a melancholic number from his original mixtapes anticipating the demise of true self at the hands of fame and success. “I hope I’m not different, I hope you’ll still listen” he pleads.
Now with a No.1 album, Beauty Behind the Madness, under his belt, the Canadian is no longer balancing on the precipice, but diving full pelt, trying, no matter the odds, to make a critical and commercial landing. “Last year I did all the politicin’ this year I’mma focus on the vision” is the ethos revealed on the Kayne West produced ‘Tell Your Friends’. Performed on stage tonight at the Roundhouse, its piano, funk, soul arrangement springs a sense of grandeur, oceans apart from Tesfaye’s minimal, dubstep inflected beginnings.
With the fuller sound comes a clear sense of confidence, the man has the voice of an angel despite his devilish tales of escapism through drugs, sex and self-destruction, and knows how to use it. Falsetto flurries resounding as he glides from the sleek ‘Prisoner’, Michael Jackson trappings included, to older, trap inspired numbers like ‘Or Nah’.
Lights soak the stage, illuminating the tales of dark sensuality. The faded, brooding bass on his rendition of Beyonce’s ‘Drunk in Love’ a particular highlight. It’s a potent mix of his new pop and old underground sensibilities, appreciated by the crowd, only too happy to sing the sultry chorus.
But for all the theatrics of his commercial identity – the Ariana Grande duet ‘Love Me Harder’ and 50 Shades soundtrack ‘Earned It’ given extra gusto by the live drum beat and - there is still plenty of time afforded to pleasing long-time fans. ‘Crew Love’ makes an appearance, minus Drake, as does an extended version of ‘Glass Table’ - haunting in its trippy layers of sparsity and disorientating crescendos.
You still get the sense this all engrossing sound is what Tesfaye relates to most closely . For all that smash single ‘Can’t Feel My Face’, is a beautiful cocaine inspired slice of pop, dance-steps included, the man is only ready for the night to end once he’s got everyone on their feet, actively engaged in his true sound rather than distant pop. ‘The Hills’ gets restarted upon his request, “I didn’t comes to London for a seated show, let’s do this properly”.
And yet even then he’s not finished. Ignoring curfew calls, he is drawn back by chants for one more song. “Turn off all the lights, this one’s for the fans” he commands, performing ‘Wicked Games’ near acapella to a sea of mobile phones and lighters. Whatever his identity, Tesfaye still lives for these little moments of beauty. Is the man happy? Is he satisfied? No, of course not, his lyrics are disturbingly dark. But there’s no doubt stardom is his for as long as he can bear it. Go tell your friends about it.
