Before the Weeknd takes the stage at Croke Park on Saturday night, for the Irish leg of his After Hours til Dawn tour, his Nespresso ad plays on the screen.
It’s probably in his contract, but, combined with the postapocalyptic cityscape onstage, its depressing cut-out buildings like burnt waffles, and a giant golden automaton that’s like a pervy reimagining of the Daft Punk icon, you start to wonder whether the ad is part of the whole dystopian Blade Runner aesthetic. (“Futuristic sex, give her Philip K Dick,” as he memorably sings.)
Luckily, the show is a real spectacle: 30 masked dancers in red, culty robes, fireworks, flame-throwers. Lasers shoot out of the huge rotating golden woman.
The first half of the set leans heavily on material from his albums Hurry Up Tomorrow and After Hours, with the Weeknd in a reflective mask and gloves.
Then comes the dramatic unmasking and a plunge into the amazing back catalogue, with nostalgic hits from Beauty Behind the Madness through Starboy. There’s a thrilling appearance from Playboi Carti: gobliny, manic and aggressive, almost the antithesis of the Weeknd, who is polished, cinematic, blissed-out. Their collaborations are among the evening’s highs.
