By Alexander Szeptycki

This album is a remarkably mature effort. The Weeknd reflects on his long career while expanding on his earlier accomplishments.

On his Dawn FM album cover, Abel Tesfaye is artificially aged: hair and skin prosthetics add decades of life to his face. This dramatic flair is nothing new for Tesfaye, who as The Weeknd has long injected artistic performance into his own public persona. But this is not just a marketing choice: the visual transformation perfectly underscores the concept central to his new album. This is a remarkably thoughtful effort, a mature project that sees Tesfaye reflecting on his success, his music, and the emotional runoff of the lifestyle his music has so brilliantly captured.

This record refines The Weeknd’s work on the preceding After Hours album — he’s pulling from the same vast catalog of samples and musical reference points, streamlining his vibey, narcotic-laced club sound into self-contained pop songs. He’s flanked in production by an unlikely pair: Y2k top 40 extraordinaire Max Martin and experimental electronic composer Oneohtrix Point Never. The duo works well in tandem, managing to infuse a flair for hitmaking into an esoteric soundscape.

“Gasoline” immerses us in the world of Dawn FM. Moody synths pulse against blunt, robotic drum patterns. When The Weeknd begins to sing, he supplies a disaffected lilt with a digital edge. He wraps us in a familiar druggie narrative: “It’s 5AM, I’m high again/And you can see that I’m in pain.” He breaks into the hook’s ear-catching falsetto, but it is only to wonder if he’ll finally “die in peace.” In response, he mutters “it don’t mean much to me.” The track’s stark soundscape is the harrowing introduction to this album.

This tune sets up a breathless flow to the first leg of the album. We seamlessly transition between a dizzying series of earworms. ”How Do I Make You Love Me?” emphasizes the performer’s skillful exploitation of vocal contrast. The haunted crooning (asserted in the first track) serves as a dynamic counter to his more established voice, which tends toward the light and airy. He swings between these registers — from line to line — on the chorus, “How do I make you love me/How do i make you fall for me?” The underlining synth line easily drives the tune forward: it is pure pleasurable gloss.

The album then flows into “Take My Breath,” an extended take on the lead single. This version is a considerable improvement — the extended dance interludes give the song a satisfying slow burn. Two hypnotic passages ramp into Tesfaye’s marvelously whooped chorus. “Make it last forever, babe/do it now or never, babe,” he pleads, the trance darkened by desperation. This is a representative example of Dawn FM’s musical depth — production and vocals mesh together beautifully.

The smooth flow between the album’s songs underscores the recording’s concept. Dawn FM presents itself as an hour of easy listening on the titular radio station, pop programming for somebody’s lonely, postapocalyptic afterlife. Comedian Jim Carrey plays host, riffing on advertisements and engaging in some eerie, meditative monologues. “Out of Time” closes on one of these talks; Carrey implores the listener to stay tuned to the station “before you’re completely engulfed by that little light you see in the distance.” This notion of finality has been echoed throughout the album. The Weeknd seems to be at the end of this time — an aged man? — looking back.

Dawn FM revolves around exhaustion. Drugged-out late nights stretch into aching early mornings; relationships are blinded by the haze of parties and too many strobe lights. But on this album Tesfaye has been sobered up. On “Sacrifice” he sings, “I sacrificed/Your love for more of the night,” his voice echoing against over glitzy synth bursts. The verse clashes — effectively and theatrically — with a steady but distorted guitar riff. What might have been a precise track is given a nice fuzzy edge. This track moves seamlessly into “Quincy’s Tale,” a spoken word reflection (from elder statesman Quincy Jones) about how he came from a broken family, and how this trauma led him into destructive relationships. It’s hard not to see Jones and Tesfaye as kindred spirits: veterans of pop music’s limelight.

“Here We Go…Again” celebrates The Weeknd’s pop achievements, until the chorus drags back his melancholia. “I told myself I’d never fall/But here we are again,” he sings. Tyler the Creator’s brief guest verse sows additional discord; he shies away from a romantic commitment, rapping “we don’t know how it’s gonna be/Forever is too long to me.”

In fact, the relationships sung about in Dawn FM drip with fatalism. They are predestined to fail. “Best Friends” makes expert use of the kinetic swagger of its synth hook — the song seems to almost bounce along. “You don’t wanna have sex as friends no more…you’re my best friend now,” he observes. This is an account of a relationship that is bound to end sooner rather than later.

In the service of its cohesive vision, Dawn FM stints on powerful singles. There isn’t a song here that demands attention (think “Blinding Lights” from his last effort). But this is an acceptable trade-off for an album whose compelling emotional drama has been impeccably produced and curated. “Is There Someone Else” flips an upbeat melody into a lullaby. “Starry Eyes” might not hold up on its own, but in the context of the album’s vision this nebulous love ballad earns its place. “I Heard You’re Married” may be the only true misfire. Lil Wayne’s rasping voice strikes an odd balance with the soft pop chords. The song never really recovers.

Overall, Dawn FM is something special. Abel Tesfaye dives deep into his savvy songwriting chops, placing personal reflections into haunting mixes that reflect the lucidity of an artist who has become aware of time’s passing.

Alex Szeptycki is a writer from Charlottesville, VA. He recently graduated from Stanford University, majoring in American Studies with a focus in contemporary art and pop culture. He’s currently working as a freelance writer at the Arts Fuse while navigating post-grad life in a pandemic.