The Weeknd may be, by his own admission, almost over.
For six albums over the course of the last decade or so, Canadian singer-songwriter Abel Tesfaye has inhabited his dark and brooding alter ego, known as The Weeknd. In 2023, he suggested that this album, Hurry Up Tomorrow, would be his final outing with that stage name.
Indeed, the album does smack of finality, all 22 songs of it spanning nearly 90 minutes of dreamy and disconcerting synthesizer-fueled confessions and intro sections. It’s not an easy listen, musically or lyrically. But it is at times a mesmerizing one.
The Weeknd seems to have reached the end of the road, with many songs here focusing on death and a longing to step into that release. We hear harsh profanities at times, as well as some admissions of meaningless sex and despair over broken romances.
But as it progresses, The Weeknd’s focus gets unexpectedly spiritual, with several songs focusing explicitly on God’s grace, mercy and redemption, and The Weeknd’s desire to fully experience those things.
The overall result is a jarring journey, spanning the distance between suicidal ideation to the hope of finding peace with God.
Album opener “Wake Me Up” hints at where The Weeknd will arrive about 21 songs later. There’s a longing for deliverance from spiritual threats (“It feels like I’m dying/Wake me up, these demons/Keep creeping, don’t fear them.” And in a prayer-like moment, he sings, “I’m feeling like I’m paralyzed/Cleanse me with your fire/Open up my eyes.”
“Cry for Me” yearns, “I hope that I live life for a reason,” and admits the isolating emptiness of fame, a theme that turns up repeatedly on the album: “‘Cause the stage too a toll/Been faded on the floor/In this penthouse prison, I’m alone/ … Every time I hit the road, it takes a little piece of me.” “Drive” likewise recognizes “fame is a disease.”
Paralyzed and on the verge of drowning in a bathtub, The Weeknd sings, “Trying to remember everything that my preacher said/Tryna right my wrongs, my regrets filling up my head.” A bit later we hear, “I’ve been baptized in fear, my dear/I’ve been the chief of sin/Washing my soul within/ … Like Paul, I’m the chief of sin.”
“Open Hearts” admits the difficulty of being open to love: “Where do I start/ When I open my heart/It’s never easy falling in love again.” “Given Up on Me” contrasts The Weeknd’s selfishness (“I’ve been lying to your faces, yeah/I’ve been always wasted, it’s too late to save me”) with a desire for salvation (“Save me, save me, save me”) and confusion about why someone (God?) won’t just let him die (“Why won’t you let me sleep?/ … Why won’t you let me die?”). “Take Me Back to L.A.” laments having a numb soul (“Now I can’t even feel the breeze/ … Now I have nothing real left/I want my soul”).
“Big Sleep” seems to voice regret over squandered time (“Well, you used up your borrowed light/And you wasted your borrowed time”) before reciting a version of a common children’s prayer (“Now I lay me down to sleep/Pray the Lord my soul to keep/Angels watch me through the night/Wake me up with light”).
“Give Me Mercy” is so drenched in spiritual language it could practically be sung in a contemporary church service: “Every time I lost my way, I lost my faith in you/Fightin’ my temptations, put my body through abuse/Devil’s tricks with paradise/None of it is true, fighting for you light.” And then this confession and prayer: “Hope that you see me when I’m depleted/Give me mercy like you do and forgive me like you do.” Later, The Weeknd talks about trading sin for grace: “Ghost of my sins passing by/ … Give it all away just to feel your grace.”
“Red Terror” seems to be a message of hope and encouragement from The Weeknd’s mother from the other side of the grave: “Hush, my child, you’re mine/ … You’re still my child, don’t cry/Death is nothing at all, it does not count/I only slipped away into the next room.”
Album closer “Hurry Up Tomorrow” is likewise saturated with prayer, confession and a longing for heaven: “Wash me with your fire/Who else has to pay for my sins?/ … So I sing heaven after love/I want heaven when I die/I want to change/I want the pain no more.”
For all of that positivity, however, we have some significant content issues to deal with here. Five songs include harsh profanity, including f-words, s-words, “b–ch,” “d–n” “h—,” “p-ss” and the n-word.
Sexual references aren’t frequent, but when they show up, they’re harsh and in your face, including a reference to oral sex, a use of the f-word in a sexual context and some leering moments (“Tryna see you with your clothes off” in “Niagra Falls”). That song also includes a line that references getting high before having sex with someone.
Those issues certainly earn the album’s parental advisory for explicit content. But they’re arguably not the most problematic. Throughout “Hurry Up Tomorrow,” we get repeated references to death. The end seems very near in “Baptized in Fear,” where The Weeknd only narrowly avoids drowning in a bathtub: “I fell asleep in the tub, I was there with paralysis/ … Water fill my lungs, vision blurry/Heartbeat slower, heartbeat slower, heartbeat slower.”
In “Reflections Laughing,” we hear, “If you let me drown/I’ll die in your arms again.” Likewise, “The Abyss” is possibly a man’s thoughts after jumping off a high place but before he hits the ground (“I don’t like the view/From halfway down/Just promise me that it won’t be slow/Will I feel the impact of the ground?”
And “Without a Warning” likewise laments the vain emptiness of fame and perhaps hints at suicide: “I don’t suppose tomorrow’s coming.” And the song’s most problematic track, “Timeless,” includes profanity, drug references and this line encouraging someone (it’s not exactly clear who) to take his or her life: “If I was you, I would just cut up my wrist.”
It’s safe to say that, in the words of Taylor Swift, The Weeknd has “a lot going on at the moment.” Confessional prayers for mercy smack up against harsh profanity and, more darkly, allusions to death and suicide.
Some of those spiritual moments are, frankly, quite remarkable. Somewhere along the line, it seems as though Abel Tesfaye has had an experience of Christian theology of sin, grace and redemption that goes deeper than we normally see in popular music. Those moments here were a pleasant surprise.
That said, I can’t help but wonder that, when people listen to this album, which of its messages will be stronger: the spiritually redemptive ones, or the darker musings about death and suicide. For someone in a vulnerable place, it wouldn’t be hard for me to see how this album could tragically open an inviting door to self-harm instead of pulling someone away from those choices and giving him or her hope.
I’m reasonably sure that Tesfaye—and perhaps some in-the-know superfans, too—might balk at that suggestion, saying that I’ve missed the point of the dramatic persona he’s created and what he’s trying to accomplish through this character. But in a world where adolescent rates of anxiety, depression and suicidal ideation are currently at historic highs, I’m not sure every vulnerable listener is going understand that artistic intent—even if there are some strong redemptive moments woven into the lyrics as well.
When an artist says, “If I was you, I would just cut up my wrist,” he needs to acknowledge that some unstable listeners might just take him up on that suggestion.
After serving as an associate editor at NavPress’ Discipleship Journal and consulting editor for Current Thoughts and Trends, Adam now oversees the editing and publishing of Plugged In’s reviews as the site’s director. He and his wife, Jennifer, have three children. In their free time, the Holzes enjoy playing games, a variety of musical instruments, swimming and … watching movies.
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