In the name of transparency, I'm going to make my biases perfectly clear. I've had little to no experience with what the kids are calling 'rhythm and blues'. The sickly smooth auto-tuned vocals, that mind-numbing drum machine and synth repetition, the overused clubbing vibe... I can't exactly pinpoint what it is exactly, but it's there, and it takes all my self control to prevent a 'nam flashback whenever Chris Brown or Usher pop up on the radio. Although these artists are hardly representative of the genre, the damage has been done, and I've had little hope for reparations. Until now.
Enter Abel Tesfaye, aka The Weeknd. Virtually emerging from the ether in the back half of 2010, the Toronto-based R&B singer quickly garnered the attention of a broad and diverse audience. All it took was a few plugs from Drake, a likably strange name/album art combo and an intangible sense of mystery surrounding the project to turn up the hype-meter. The music was also pretty great. While it walks the tightrope of atmosphere versus songwriting with commendable skill, often it teeters towards the former, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.
The album's strongest allure lays in its manipulation of feelings, it's ability to transport the listener to other locations, experience others emotions. These places and people are instantly familiar with those who've experienced the urban nightlife, but taken to extremes few dare to tread. It drags you through the seedy underbelly of the city, has you gazing through bleary eyes at the streaked lights through the window of a taxi. It's the glamour of penthouse apartments mixed with lines of coke and meaningless sex. Elevating a smorgasbord of vices to an art form, it feels so sinister and dirty you'll need a shower after listening. Abel Tesfaye really sells it with his often malicious, at times vulnerable vocals, alternating between taking pleasure from debasing himself — and others — and feeling regrettably shitty about it. One moment he may sound incredibly distant, untouchable behind a drug induced haze; words sounding like they came from the bottom of a well, echoing and distorted. Other times he'll soberly utter a simple phrase with crystal clarity. Fragmented glimpses of scenes tumble through your mind with the same stilted rhythm of his singing/rapping.
Stripping away the ambiance of the record, there's still plenty to enjoy about the music on offer. The production is dense and complex, with more nooks and crannies than your average prostitute. It's got the traditional nine-car genre pileup, with influences ranging from dubstep to indie rock. Beach House and Siouxie samples may surprise some listeners, but they somehow perfectly match the nocturnal mood rather than feeling jarring or alien. Memorable moments come thick and fast, making it impossible to catch all of them in the first couple of listens. The gunshot in The Party & The After Party, the barely audible whispers in Coming Down, the warped underwater distortion inLoft Music — it's these details which prolong the record's lifespan when the ominous atmosphere starts becoming stale. One of the more diverse and enjoyable pieces which shows this is the ambitious Glass Table Girls. Consisting mostly of a fracturedHappy House by Siouxie & the Banshees, Tesfaye swiftly makes it his own, with scary-as-hell vocals, sound effects like a plummeting 8-bit spaceship and a thrilling transition into something else entirely. It still sends chills up my spine when he sings in a menacing voice "I'm a nice dude, with some nice dreams, and we could turn this to a nightmare, Elm Street".
There's much to enjoy here, whatever your taste. Many have admired it for its unification of the underground and mainstream, with both sides of the musical divide being satisfied. Even with the frequently crooned "guuurls" and the lyrics about "sexin' up bitches and pluggin' niggas", pale white boys can listen to it in their isolation chambers just as well as your neighbour can blare it out at his post football game hootenanny. But really, though, all these discussions about taste and it's supposed crossover appeal cheapen the music. What House Of Ballons does do is tap into a perhaps universal urge to let it all go, the temptation to stop acting prim and proper for once. Some may empathise with it, or others that control this urge daily may just see it just as an acceptable release. It's popping drugs like bubble wrap. Sex like scratching an itch. The pursuit of pleasure above anything else. Nihilistic, fractured and haunting. Waking up at 6:45 am with a pounding head, seeing near lifeless bodies sprawled on couches and floors, knowing there's no future in this, that it's destructive and toxic, and smiling.
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