The Weeknd, Denied

Abel Tesfaye, aka the Weeknd, at the Cedar Park Center, 9.23.13 (by Gary Miller)

I left the Cedar Park Center Monday night believing the Weeknd – an Internet oddity turned Billboard bestseller – is social engineering at its slyest. That’s the most logical explanation for the discrepancy between his bedroom lonerism on 2011’s mixtape trilogy and the bombastic zeal and provocation of Abel Tesfaye in person.

On “tape,” the Weeknd creates escapist fantasies, modern noir&b that tackles drugs, pain, and fame through a codeine fog with an uncanny intimacy. You’re left with the impression this Canadian kid would be lonely at the top, be it a strip club or wherever else he landed. And there was genuine mystery to those mixtapes – House of Balloons, Thursday, and Echoes of Silence – released on Tumblr and powered through word-of-mouth social media and a ringing endorsement from Drake.

On stage, however, surrounded by nine LED screens and powered by a near-industrial threepiece backing band, Tesfaye owned the spotlight in a manner not seen locally since Kanye West’s Glow in the Dark tour. The arena setting proved less about his current drawing power (at least in this market) and more about his ambition. He worked the room like a Vegas lifer: calling out to the crowd regularly, shadow-boxing Michael Jackson, and powering through at least 20 tracks, including notable cameos (Drake’s “Crew Love,” Wiz Khalifa’s “Remember You”), in over 75 minutes.

At times, it was brilliant, especially in the more confessional ballads like “The Morning,” encore dagger “Wicked Games,” and “What You Need,” which proved capable of living up to his own hyperbole. Unfortunately, the spotlight had a nasty side effect: It highlighted the blatant sexism and misogyny lurking in the shadows of his music.

“I want to make you cum three times,” he remarked at one point, addressing a crowd that looked like it was there for back-to-school night. “Can I make you cum four times?”

The escapist fantasies gave way to a NSFW reality. There was no mystery, no subtlety, nothing left to the imagination. During “Kiss Land,” the title track to his recent major-label debut, Asian porn rolled in the background, the clips jumping between oral sex and rim jobs. It made Miley Cyrus’ controversial Video Music Awards performance look like mere child’s play.

The show ended with the last in a series of fetishized Asian commercials, one that encouraged patrons to call an Ontario-area phone number for a stereotypical happy ending.

I tried: “Call denied.”