starboy_LEAD

There are no surprises on The Weeknd‘s third studio album Starboy. Everything is mapped out in plain English, a one dimensional plan than even the most casual fan can follow. He delves yet again into the nauseating world of money, drugs and women. At every turn he suppresses the opportunity to go deeper, into something dark and twisted. Instead he only hints at it, bringing into question his worth as a writer.

The production is just as pale as the lyrics. Even with big league hitters like Daft PunkJake One and Ali Shaheed Muhammad in the mix, his tastes all gravitate towards the same sound; minimal and spacious, the Usher formula that’s been beaten to death. With nothing but predictable beats at his back, he has no choice but to resort to the same Weeknd style. No daring moves or ingenuity to speak of.

Starboy

Galaxies collide, sending mountains of pop debris hurling into deep space. The beat is durable and aggressive, but indistinguishable from other similar sounds invading the Billboard. With only name recognition to go off of, the efforts dwindles down to what is ultimately a tame and mediocre collaboration. Fame and its bi-polar effects take center stage, and it unfolds in dull and colorless ways:

Starboy

Party Monster

His flare for the dramatic takes center stage, and he makes sure to savor every moment. There’s a dark cloud hanging over the beat and as soon as the first beat hits blood comes raining down in morbid doses. An oily stripper is his muse, and the details of their sordid relationship can be broken down into a few simple categories: bad mood lightening, cheap liquor and a mountain of regret:

Party Monster

False Alarm

A slither of new wave enters the fray and does nothing. Nymphomania and saucy activities of the like serve as the cornerstone, creating an atmosphere laced with erotic persuasions. All the free love, however, comes with a price; a reckoning that is within itself a living hell. In the end all the sappy crooning doesn’t amount to a damn thing, leading to yet another major box office dud:

False Alarm

Reminder

Tales of the glitterati unfolding over a grinding beat, the audible equivalent to Las Vegas. It’s a flight pattern that adheres to the dreaded triumvirate: women, drugs and money. With no other theme in mind all he can do is stylize it with his own touch. The excessive drugs use gives him tunnel vision. And while it can stand on its own as a hit, it doesn’t add anything of value to the album:

Reminder

Rockin’

With house serving as the sonic backdrop, he leaves the queasy romancing behind and opts for a more carefree approach. It’s in tune with his predictable and somewhat sleazy ways, but at least he’s being completely forthright. Pulsing rhythms with this sort of obnoxious tone helps manifest what has always been at the heart of his music; cheap thrills with little to no understanding of style:

Rockin'

Secrets

Embracing all things ’80s, and falling flat in the process. The easygoing beat bounces with a sunny disposition, but grinds up against the overall mood of the album. He’s being somewhat of a creep, lurching over a woman while listening to her mumble in her sleep. She’s expressing thoughts from the deepest part of her subconscious, and all he can come up with is a dull and mediocre hook:

Secrets

True Colors

Mr. Honesty is squirming because his honey bee isn’t being completely honest. Full disclosure is his intent and with nothing standing between him and her he’s ready to come forward with the truth. Her pensive attitude is sending mixed signals and he can’t believe that he’s getting clowned by a club bunny yet again. The beat is artless and predictable, which is probably why he got canned:

True Colors

Stargirl Interlude

Astro Boy sings a quick little interlude for his Star Girl. She’s showering him with praise, but already has one foot out the door. After leaving him in the dust, he’s left at the alter with a clueless look on his face; his mouth half open repeating the same vanilla hook over and over again:

Stargirl Interlude

Sidewalks

The come up song is a tired standard. He commissions King Kendrick who is at this point becoming an automatic go-to for credibility. But even he can’t enhance what is by and large a weak effort. The Weeknd’s rise is eclipsed by his over the top opulence and shameless consumerism. He’s flaunting his wealth at every turn, which makes his humble declarations seem frivolous and without merit:

Sidewalks

Six Feet Under

The rap world needs to rid itself of the phrase ‘get that paper.’ It’s bled over to common English and branded itself upon people’s minds. It’s became a default statement that captures nothing other than what it says; so overused that even the most rudimentary fan is in tune with it. The lack of creativity hums throughout, a boring tale of a woman who’ll stop at nothing for money:

Six Feet Under

Love to Lay

Debauchery comes back to haunt him in the end. Over a douchebag beat he whines and complains about being dogged out by someone who has a more refined pimp game than he does. Overall he seems to be taking it stride, serving as a voice of hope for the other lame ducks who can’t get their act together. He’s crying in his bedroom, which on the bright side is much better than crying at the free clinic:

Love to Lay

A Lonely Night

If he borrows any more from Michael Jackson he’ll be in Neverland Ranch with Bubbles talking about how much he loves the children. There’s a “Billie Jean” element, but the theme moves in a totally different direction. He’s apologizing for his behavior when he should be apologizing for his lackluster effort. It’s an objectionable song and proof that he is a bigger doofus than previously thought:

A Lonely Night

Attention

He’s bickering with his lady yet again, this time complaining about her constant need for attention. He busts out into song in response and hits a falsetto that makes the whole thing read like a poorly written comic book. The beat is spacious and minimal and doesn’t get in the way. But it also has no presence or personality, a composition that is instantly forgettable:

Attention

Ordinary Life

He’s being dark and mysterious, thinking that being damned somehow equates to artistry. It’s the old tortured soul routine, which is a transparent move even for him. All the bellyaching makes for a needlessly dramatic play that can be figured out within moments of the opening scene. The beat is touched with a very special type of gaudiness that makes it perfect for the sobfest that’s unfolding:

Ordinary Life

Nothing Without You

If he fist pumps any harder he’s going to dislocate his shoulder. it’s a frat boy jam, played in the background of the most pathetic kegger ever conceived. All the cliches are there and the need for great music is replaced with standards that any numskull could follow. He’s blindly writing her a heartfelt letter of appreciation. Meanwhile she’s in the other room texting her other boyfriend:

Nothing Without You

All I Know

Future returns to the party, this time with twice the amount of marbles in his mouth. He mumbles his way through what might be a sentence, and just when it can’t get any worse the Weeknd comes sailing in like Robin. He’s looking to profess his love and pledge his everlasting devotion, but it’s hard to take any of it seriously when Future is in the background fumbling around with his teeth:

All I Know

Die For You

More gentle sobbing, a song inspired by his recent split with his girlfriend. Like all friends who just broke up with their lady he’s being over emotional and sentimental to a throat slashing degree. It’s not totally unlike the Weeknd to get this down on himself, yet it’s a disappointment because every time he digs deep he comes up with the same garbage. A petty effort with no depth:

Die For You

I Feel it Coming

Don Johnson would be proud of this ’80s inspired jam. It’s like a pair of acid washed jeans or a Jean-Claude Van Damme mullet, a perfectly appropriate place for a corny goblin to get busy. He’s on his knees hoping for a chance to prove his worth. It makes sense that he would close the album with begging because he’s a soft cookie and all of his posturing has finally reached its breaking point:

I Feel it Coming