Now I see other people in the other rooms and I’m like: What are they doing in my studio?” “This is where I’ve been for the last six months,” Abel says. Inside, Abel waited, sitting before an endless menu of dials and knobs, some earthy hardwoods on the walls, a subterranean spelunk-y vibe. Recording studios are always kind of like forward operating bases, if you know what those are-nestled right there among civilians, with extensive perimeter fencing and lots of security cameras. When I arrived, it was nightfall in the nondescript neighborhood of Bullshitsville L.A. At the Philips, he was a fearsome presence, towering over us on this black scaffolding, backlit in a military tunic and that signature battle-hair, belting out beautiful drug arias to (mostly) women of all ages, stalking the parapets as if he were starring in a moody German production of Macbeth.Ībel arranged to meet at Conway because it’s where he recorded the entirety of his fourth album, Starboy. It was the tour in support of Beauty Behind the Madness, which was, spiritually, the album of 2015, and it announced the arrival of The Weeknd as a bona fide pop sensation. The only other time I’ve seen Abel Tesfaye in person was when I went to a concert at the Philips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia, about a year ago. His face is pleasing and kind, but it’s almost…forgettable? Which isn’t what I expected. He could easily be a freshman in college. I’m going to say that he looks boyish, and you’re going to think, Yeah, gotcha: like Eddie Redmayne looks boyish or a young Hilary Swank. On a Monday night in early December, Abel is sitting on an Aeron chair in the Conway Recording Studios in Los Angeles. Just sitting there in his music studio dreaming up ways to make us look at him and dreaming up ways to disappear, all at the same time. It’s as if he were the Emily Dickinson of post–R. And on the other hand, The Weeknd was singing about the dirtiest, most vulnerable things, begging us to not only know the most intimate details of his most intimate moments, but to sing along with them. Okay, so on the one hand, Abel didn’t want people to even look at him. He was just this voice-a sweet, eunuch-y voice trained in the sacred arts of Michael Jacksonism-that had been completely disembodied from the human who possessed it. People didn’t even know if The Weeknd was a person or a group. When people first became aware of him, in 2011, after he released the three epic mixtapes that would become his first album, Trilogy, no one knew what he looked like or what his real name was (his real name is Abel Tesfaye, by the way).
So, for a long time, The Weeknd didn’t want anyone to even know who he was.