The Weeknd: Hurry up tomorrow Album Review

Hurry up tomorrow showing its versatility swinging between the grim, muddy sound image that defined his first Trilogy And the shining disco-flushed pop that has bent his last couple of releases. He fills the album with surprises: We both get the glorious slim “Reflections Laughing” with Travis Scott’s downturned vocals that repeat itself through the void, and the neonbuz as Justice crashes into “Wake Me Up.” But the album achieves real drama when Entropy kicks in: When Lana Del Rey’s vocal ricochet and reverberate at the end of “The Abyss” when the frictive context “until we are skin and bones”, it is in variety when “São Paulo ”spins out in a panic attack in the dance floor. Hurry up tomorrow Always seems like it’s about to hover out of your grip. Vertigo is the tension.

In 84 minutes, the album is undeniably bloated, but it is partially charged because transitions slide then smoothly from one track to the next. Credit Oneohtrix points never – which returns from his work on the 2022s Dawn FM And the 2020s After hours—And Mike Dean – who returns from his work on 2023’s flummoxing music to HBOs Idolet-like co-producers to improve and sharpen every second of synth and drum programming. Their touch along with a carrier of other A-list manufacturers and songwriters make the entire album ready for an IMAX theater. No wonder Tesfaye plays the lead role in a function length thriller coming out in May tied to the album, also called called Hurry up tomorrow.

While what happens in the expanded universe is reserving to see, the album itself is most successful when he steps away from litigation, how awful it is to be famous. He feels himself a culprit and reminds himself that he is 34 now, old enough to lose his tolerance and worry that drugs are spreading his heart – probably, allegedly, to have crispy bones that he claims the magnificent “without a warning.” “I should have been sober, but I can’t afford to be boring,” he sings – a surprising clear assessment from the man who once sang: “When I’m fucked, it’s the real me.” This self -awareness shines through the “enjoy the show”, the album’s emotional centerpiece. “I just want to die when I’m on my fuckin top,” Coos. He studies himself at a distance: His face inflated in KL. 3, which fine -tunes “like a middle -aged child star,” and when the future comes in to Gurgle, “I can’t feel my face anymore,” the recall of all recalls both men sounds anxious. The track is a spiritual successor to “tell your friends” Beauty behind madness– On both songs, The Weeknd collapses down to how little he can offer anyone else. He is an anecdote for the group chat, a fleeting sight, a haggard -reflection that gleams one of Glass table.

That’s the clarity that leads The Weeknd into his last act: Sorry. “I hope my confession is enough,” he prays on the closing track as a power-ballad piano line builds under the Ham-but song slides clean into the opening seconds of “High for this”, the first track of House of Balloonsthe opening chapter for his first Trilogy. All the mechanical repentance, all the detailed ways he has promised to move on, means nothing when the cycle starts up again. The Weeknd has always presented annihilation as a kind of benediction, self -destruction as the most legible impulse. An object in motion remains in motion; One “Party monster“Stays at the party; A man who constructed an entire album about a slow drive through the shelf asks for heaven and then wins exactly where he started: the deadly in the damp dark, waiting for another night to begin.

The Weeknd: Hurry up tomorrow