The Weeknd just released a new EP and it’s phenomenal. I’ve always been a big fan of his work. He’s like if Bruno Mars had bipolar disorder and was always on ecstasy.
Even after going pop with Starboy, The Weeknd has continued to calmly balance soulful and dark. One defining characteristic throughout his catalog, though, is the hypersexual yet depressing nature of his music—usually at the same time. Songs like “Ordinary Life” and “Love To Lay” glorify that life of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, while simultaneously dwelling on the emptiness and insecurity that accompanies it. In “The Hills,” he mourns a fading sexual affair with a mixture of enthusiasm and paralyzing guilt.
Unlike any of his contemporaries, The Weeknd is able to mix profound sadness with aggressive sexual content. Basically, the people listening to his songs need tissues for two reasons.
One minute he's bragging about rolling in a sea of snatches, and the next he's crying about how it doesn’t make him happy. If you look up “ungrateful, spoiled son of a bitch” in the dictionary, there’s a picture of The Weeknd. Actually, that’s not true. It’s a picture of Eric Trump, but he’s holding up a giant sign that read “This should have been a picture of The Weeknd.”
A line that perfectly highlights the booze-soaked, double-edged intensity of The Weeknd’s mission statement is a bittersweet quote near the end of “Party Monster.” He desperately croons, “Tell me lies, ooh girl tell me lies / Say you’re mine, I'm yours for the night.” It's the type of line that makes you bob your head like a coked-up Tony Montana until you realize how truly heartbreaking it is. It’s glamorous yet sad at the same time. Like watching Floyd Mayweather write checks for 10 million dollars but then realizing he can’t read them.
“Call Out My Name” also perfectly encapsulates the sonic cocktail of sex and heartache. It’s the type of song you listen to while you cry about your ex but you also have 11 Brazzers tabs open in Chrome. And don’t you dare comment “What’s Brazzers?” you lying sons of bitches.
So I'm proposing a new law. From now on, it should be illegal to have sex without listening to The Weeknd.
I know, that probably sounds like a joke, and you probably have some questions and concerns, but I can explain.
Your titanium walls of toxic masculinity are probably screaming, “Drew, this is weird. You’re a straight man talking about the sexual intensity of a male musician.” Grow up. This goes much deeper than your insecure homophobia.
This is about saving society.
Ya see, The Weeknd is kind of a superhero. Think of him as a member of X-Men. But instead of his power being metal claws, it’s playing music that turns women on like a light switch on a lava lamp. His voice makes women wetter than Aquaman. Also, if you’re thinking, “Drew, that’s an inconsistent reference. Aquaman is in the Justice League, not the X-Men,” you’re a nerd and I'm gonna shove you into a locker.
A man with the talent to woo women from inside a recording booth must use his powers for good, which is why it’s vital that we weaponize his songs into a form of mandatory couples therapy. It’s impossible to be unhappy in a relationship if “Can’t Feel My Face” is blasting from a nearby laptop every time you’re in bed with a significant other.
We’re going to use The Weeknd’s music to save all our failing relationships. Every couple will be happy, and happier couples mean a happier population overall. Which means less crime. There’s a direct correlation between failed relationships and criminal behavior, according to a statistic I just made up.
Once this law is put into effect, society as we know it will slowly snowball into a progressive utopia. How will we enforce this law? I have no idea yet. Don’t like it? Have another march. But this needs to be done.