What I, along with the other three people who watched HBO’s The Idol can possibly agree on, is that despite its many, many flaws, the show’s soundtrack is a standout in The Weeknd’s discography.

Caught on the tails of our culture’s late-stage synthpop epidemic, its story of seedy Hollywood record deals and the price of fame is better communicated through the layers of a glossy, eerie synthesizer. The show’s sound was in part due to producer Mike Dean’s Midas touch, and another, The Weeknd’s understanding, and disgust, of fame.

That last part can be mere speculation, but as someone who finished The Idol, I now understand him on a more profound level, deeper into the crafted persona he’s tried years to pass off as authentic, but who’s to say.

Hurry Up Tomorrow gives a facelift to the concepts explored not only in the show but also throughout the artist’s discography: what is a legacy without love? And can the artist even love himself? The album exists in constant conversation with itself — lyrically coming full circle at many moments while exalting and elevating his sonic triumphs.

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It’s been rumoured that this is Abel Tesfaye’s last album as The Weeknd, and life after death is at the core of Hurry Up Tomorrow. Building on a somber choral arrangement, the LP’s opening track “Wake Me Up” descends into a layered retro pop rhythm, declaring “No afterlife, no other side / I’m all alone when it fades to black.”

The song further grapples with tension between himself and his fans with “Are you real, or are you an illusion / ‘Cause I fear your love’s my delusion,” playing out within a restless, crescendoing synth reminiscent of a more upbeat counterpart — 2021’s “Take My Breath.” Before reaching a satisfying resolution, the song crashes into the next track, “Cry For Me.”

Foot still on the gas pedal, the subsequent “São Paolo” is The Weeknd’s synthpop capabilities fully realized. An explosive electroclash of Brazilian funk and synth, which honors the heavy bass of earlier hits like “The Hills,” and Kiss Land deep cut “Belong to the World,” it’s a dance music odyssey.

While the depressing, apathetic stance toward manipulative women might get lost in Dean’s rich bass production, ironically, it remains sharp with the artist’s muddled singing — tying perfectly into the LP’s tension between an artist and his humanity.

The listener is forced to confront this with the haunting next track “Baptized In Fear,” a psychedelic, tiered take of Beauty Behind the Madness’ examination of depression.

The Weeknd questions his sanity as the project continues, bitterly remarking about how he wasn’t sure he’d make it past the age of 24 in a lyric from “Enjoy The Show.” But Hurry Up Tomorrow also begins to crawl sonically toward the midway point of Act I.

“Reflections” with Travis Scott and Florence Welch capitalizes on the tragedy of The Weeknd reintroduced with “Wake Me Up,” but it’s muddled, hushed production and lengthy voicemail interpolation from Chxrry22 drags down the weight of the song’s meaning.

Otherwise impactful lyrics such as “I’m trapped inside a gilded cage / A golden blade I’m sharpening,” are rendered somewhat cringeworthy. “I Can’t Wait To Get There” also attempts to tap into the softer R&B highlights of “Die For You” or the stuttered drums in “True Colors” from Starboy, but misses the mark with a sleepy bass similar to “Reflections.”

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We come back on course with the bubbly trap of “Timeless” — a viral hit laced with the same bravado that colored Beauty Behind The Madness. We’re even more back with the lush R&B production of “Niagara Falls,” but it reminds me too much of his classic “I’m A Virgin” track from American Dad so I can’t take it seriously.

Hurry Up Tomorrow tries to have fun, but reinforces its central theme of legacy by its conclusion. “Red Terror” imagines Tesfaye’s persona as a child he can hold, “Then moved to the city, eight months, we were pregnant / You came out so precious, in the snow, you would grow.”

Chest voice pained with emotion and searing against pounding retrowave, the song grows opaque. Suddenly, the artist’s voice is speaking from various directions at once, saying that “whatever we were to each other, that we are still / Call me by the old, familiar name.” But it all comes full circle on the LP’s title track.

Brilliantly contrasting to the chromatic Dawn FM funk of “Wake Me Up,” the gentle piano ballad sees the artist resign himself to the inevitability of death, begging again for his mother’s forgiveness and accepting that “it’s the end.”

It’s a bleak ending. And whether the album is simply the end of The Weeknd’s persona or the artist’s journey with music, it’s a haunting conclusion that lingers long after the LP ends.