The Life Of The Weeknd
Explore the courses of life in The Weeknd, aka Abel's storyline, from being poor in the suburbs to one of the most important male figures in our generation.
My Biography
Now let's ask the question: Who is The Weeknd?
Who is the man behind the voice that drips with pain, pleasure, and secrets?
Where did he come from—this shadowy figure who arrived without a name, without a face, just sound?
Why does his music feel like a dream you can’t quite wake up from… or a memory you were never meant to have?
He calls himself The Weeknd, but who he really is—that’s still unfolding.
Through whispered falsettos and cinematic worlds, he draws you closer… only to disappear again into the dark.
Some say he’s a storyteller. Others say he’s a ghost.
Maybe the truth is somewhere in between.
TRILOGY
Before the world knew his name, there were whispers in the dark. In 2011, three mixtapes—House of Balloons, Thursday, and Echoes of Silence—appeared online like transmissions from a lost soul. No interviews. No face. Just haunting vocals, drug-laced narratives, and a sound that felt like R&B dipped in shadow.
In 2012, these three chapters were stitched together and reborn as Trilogy—a cinematic, 30-track descent into lust, loneliness, addiction, and heartbreak. It's not just an album. It's a world. Cold. Alluring. Addictive.
This is where it all began.
Where the mystery of The Weeknd first took shape.
Where the night never ends.
KISS LAND
He left the city, but the darkness followed. Kiss Land is not a place—it’s a distorted dream, a surreal map of fame’s disorienting corridors. Foreign lands. Empty hotel rooms. Neon lights flickering over paranoia and pleasure. It's The Weeknd lost in translation, seeking intimacy in unfamiliar faces, searching for meaning in mirrored walls. Beneath the synths and cinematic soundscapes lies a man unprepared for the world he once desired. This isn’t love. This is Kiss Land—a place you enter, but never truly escape.
Beauty Behind The Madness
The world finally looked his way—but what did they see? Beauty Behind the Madness is a masquerade, a glamorous spiral of heartbreak and hedonism. With chart-topping anthems and broken whispers, The Weeknd invites you to the spotlight, only to show you how cold it really is. Fame glistens on the surface, but beneath lies a growing void. The lines between obsession and love, addiction and desire, begin to blur. This isn’t a happy ending—it’s a beautiful breakdown in real time.
STARBOY
Something had to die for something new to live. Starboy is rebirth through destruction—a sleek, furious declaration that the old Weeknd is gone. Over pulsing synths and chrome-plated beats, he sharpens his voice like a blade, cutting through the noise of celebrity, temptation, and betrayal. There’s a fire in every track, a smirk behind every lyric. But beneath the swagger, there’s still a flicker of the ghost he used to be. Starboy isn’t just a persona—it’s armor.
MY DEAR MELANCHOLY,
The lights dim. The noise fades. What remains is a whisper. My Dear Melancholy, is a confession sealed in silence—a letter written in the language of regret. It’s The Weeknd at his most raw, stripped of illusion and spectacle. The songs bleed like fresh wounds, soaked in longing, bitterness, and the ache of something lost. There’s no façade here—just emotion in its purest, coldest form. It doesn’t beg for forgiveness. It simply exists, like a scar.
After Hours
He puts on the red suit, but the mask slips. After Hours is a descent disguised as a performance—a dazzling blur of lights, blood, and unreality. What begins with heartbreak quickly unravels into madness, set against a backdrop of synthetic dreams and sleepless nights. Each track is a mirror, each mirror a fracture. It’s not just his most cinematic album—it’s his most unhinged. Lost in Las Vegas. Trapped in his own reflection. This is The Weeknd spiraling in 4K.
dawn
FM
There is no heaven. Only a frequency. Dawn FM begins where death waits, wrapped in a pastel glow and broadcast through the static. Guided by a ghostly voice on the radio, The Weeknd moves toward the light—but the journey is anything but pure. Funk grooves and existential musings collide in a liminal space between life and what comes after. It’s not redemption. It’s not damnation. It’s something stranger. A beautiful, unsettling farewell... until the next transmission.
HURRY UP TOMORROW
Something is coming—but it refuses to arrive. Hurry Up Tomorrow exists in whispers, in fragments, in flickers of what could be. The future bleeds into the present like a slow sunrise over a broken skyline. Is it salvation? Is it farewell? Or is it just another illusion dressed in light? The Weeknd stands at the edge of something final—scarred, wiser, still haunted. The voice is familiar, but the world is not. If After Hours was the fall, and Dawn FM the in-between... Hurry Up Tomorrowmight be the last transmission before silence.