“It’s crazy how all these people are here for one guy,” said my concert companion as we passed the entry doors of Allegiant Stadium on the night of Saturday, July 5.
Yeah, it’s crazy. But what’s really crazy is that it’s not even surprising. When you’re Abel Tesfaye, better known as The Weeknd, a modern-day crooner of global heartbreak, the R&B-slick messiah of millennial despair, it’s not hard to summon massive crowds.
Devoted, black-clad fans in leather cuts and red accents mimicked the color palette of his latest cinematic dream of an album. The uniform abides by The Weeknd’s aesthetic gospel. On this night, the congregation came dressed to pay homage to the artist and his work.
For over a decade, Tesfaye has crafted his musical allure behind both literal and metaphorical masks, from the anonymity of his early mixtapes to the nose-bandaged face of his After Hours era. Now, with rumors that this tour marks the end of The Weeknd persona entirely, every performance feels weighted with finality.
It was significant after what went down over a week before. The Weeknd cancelled his Fourth of July show at Allegiant Stadium last minute due to production issues, sending fans into a fury. But when showtime finally came, they welcomed their idol at full, stadium-shaking volume.
It all unfolded like a pure dystopian opera. The stage sprawled like a chrome-drenched hellscape. A looming, futuristic statue by Japanese artist Hajime Sorayama presided over the crowd, shifting eerily like the hands of a clock. The stage was cross-shaped, of course, fitting the theme of prophet-led synthpop doom.
Cue the pyrotechnics. Cue “The Hills.” Cue “São Paulo.” Cue blasts of controlled fireworks and blazes that scorched the air. Amid all that, The Weeknd’s voice still sounded immaculate, like a sonic scalpel. At times he waved his arms like a maestro, offering moments for the choir of more than 60,000 voices to rise and carry the tune.
The Grammy-award winning star had a thing or two to say about his relationship with Vegas.
“After Hours wouldn’t exist without Vegas,” he told the crowd. The response was an ear-rattling eruption of cheering, a verbal confirmation that the love was mutual.
In the set, more than 40 songs touched each chapter of the artist’s discography of six studio albums. The setlist traced his dark beginnings, the glittering middle and the brand-new bruises from his latest release Hurry Up Tomorow.
If this is truly the final act for The Weeknd persona, as the internet has rumored, it's a hell of a way to go. Whether or not he ditches the mask for good, one thing is certain: Vegas will always welcome him back in any form.
