The Weeknd’s Live Show Proves That You Can’t Teach Effortless Cool

Abel Tesfaye looks happy to be here. "I'm trying to put you in the worst mood", sings the artist better known as The Weeknd, introducing "Starboy". He's not lying. It's the tail end of his year-long Starboy: Legend of the Fall tour, the second of two packed shows at Melbourne's 16,000-capacity Rod Laver Arena. A-list hip-hop and R&B shows are still uncommon in Australia; only a few years ago, tours and festivals were plagued by cancellations. So most of the crowd comes dressed for the occasion, in full hypebeast gear, knowing full well they mightn’t get to flex at another event like this one for some time.

The supports are a odd sampling of current hip-hop. DJ PNDA remixes rap hits with an electronic drum kit, a novelty act with more talent than most. The Weeknd's fellow Canadian Nav raps and sings like Drake, but his uninspired presence makes Big Sean sound like Nas. Every genre's life cycle eventually leads to the normalisation of mediocrity. Trap and SoundCloud rap were a shock to mainstream hip-hop's system; now they've become the status quo. Rich teen YouTubers write diss tracks over $50 soundalike beats.

Similarly, Nav raps about the same things Drake and The Weeknd do — disillusionment with the trappings of fame — even though he’s not actually famous. Instead of expressing joy, sadness, or both at once – like "Starboy" – it just inspires apathy. Is Nav phoning it in, or is this the best he can do?

French Montana is his usual reliable self – he gives you exactly what you expect, no better, no worse. There's a reason he's better known for his guest verses; Chris Brown's "Loyal" gets the biggest reaction so far.

Thankfully, The Weeknd's music has more dimension than his openers. His stage is sparse, but for a giant triangular rig of lights above him. Like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, it's the embodiment of awe and terror, symbolising nothing in particular. His minimalist setup evokes just enough spectacle without distracting from the songs. Abel's voice, instantly recognisable, sounds even higher live. His face is almost always blank, but he's charismatic because he's so effortless. He's the rare artist who's become a sex symbol solely through his art – even before we knew what he looked like. "Party Monster" and "Reminder" are early, celebratory highlights from Starboy. The three-piece band – guitar, bass/synth, a mix of live and sampled drums – expands upon the studio versions perfectly. The songs still feel intimate, but go just big enough while maintaining their hip-hop feel. The crowd treats the only mixtape cuts – "The Morning", "Wicked Game" – with as much awe as his hits. The Weeknd's had a strange career arc. He emerged fully formed, at least in the studio, with 2011's House of Balloons. He became a cult star on his own terms, with no traditional radio exposure. Tesfaye's come a long way from his first high-profile performance at 2012's Coachella, where he came off like an introverted alt-rocker. Playing arenas never even seemed like a possibility. He skips over his official debut album, 2013's tentative Kiss Land, straight to his 2015 mainstream breakthrough Beauty Behind the Madness. He introduces "Angel" as "one of my favourite songs from that record", crooning earnestly over clean guitar. He sings "Earned It", another of his many second-person songs, directly to the swooning women in the crowd, hands conducting along with the song's orchestral stabs.

Then, "In the Night" – the first true anthem of the night, even if its lyrics are just as fatalist. Across four songs spanning five years, Abel restages his journey from druggy alt-R&B singer-songwriter to Michael Jackson arena-popstar. To the crowd, there's no difference. They know every word – and these are pop songs with unusually dense wordplay.

He still hasn't written a bigger song than "Can't Feel My Face", whose success informs most of Starboy. The disco-funk strut of his later material makes his music more, not less subversive. Like "Billie Jean", his stories are more disturbing because they're so danceable.

Abel seemingly ends the show with "I Feel It Coming", the most optimistic song of his career. "You've been scared of love, and what it did to you", he sings, "You don't have to run / I know what you've been through". Is he singing to a woman, or into a mirror? It's a symbolic reconciliation with himself. The future doesn't seem so terrifying after all.

The Weeknd's done the unthinkable, reliving Michael Jackson's musical arc in reverse – from paranoia to optimism. R&B isn't just a sonic vessel for his lyrics; Tesfaye's connected to 40 years of black music – from Marvin Gaye to disco, Prince to Usher. "I'm in the blue Mulsanne bumping New Edition", he sings in "Starboy". His lesser alt-R&B contemporaries – and most "internet music" darlings – feel completely divorced from anything pre-2010. But even during Trilogy, Abel was making a conscious choice to corrupt his angelic voice. Tesfaye's learned from Michael Jackson and Kanye's mistakes – he's a popstar who dates models, but he refuses to be part of the celebrity-industrial complex. He spends much of Starboy interrogating – though never complaining – about his fame; rarely unleashing his musical gifts without his dark obsessions, too. If Prince sang about the joy of sexual liberation, Abel sings about its existential terror – because sex is easier than opening yourself up to love. Rappers are the new rockstars; we live vicariously through them. The Weeknd isn't exactly a rapper, but he exists within hip-hop culture more than any singer before him. "All these R&B n****s be so lame", he disses in "Reminder" – so he isn't one himself? Anyone can learn to sing, but few have Tesfaye's vocal range. Your wildest dreams aren't half as debauched as his songs. You sing along with lyrics about cars you'll never own, and you love it.

The band walks offstage, but before you can say the word "encore", jump-scare synths blast through the speakers. The lights turn blood red. The Weeknd dives into one of his darkest songs, "The Hills": "When I'm fucked up, that's the real me". There's no happy ending – the darkness swallows him again.

Richard S. He is a pop producer and critic. You can tweet your grievances to @Richaod.