“…Your legs, there’s something wrong with them, right?”
Izaya gave a composed smile as he answered Kazuhisa’s question.
“It’s just difficult to stand or to walk around. Relatively speaking, the symptoms are rather stubborn. If I can handle the intense pain it brings like crossing my legs like this I can manage.”
“Was it from an accident?”
He thought it was a bit rude to ask such a thing without restraint, but this was the man who suddenly summoned him to this place. It seems the man thought a little bit of rudeness was alright [in this case].
“Something like that. An accident…Well if you can call picking a fight with and getting attacked by an enormous monster an accident, then I guess it’s an accident.”
marsh king’s daughter - eisley. rec’d by anon. “has a rly nice quirky fantasy feel bc its about a girl trying to run away with the marsh princess”
summer in the city - regina spektor. rec’d by @keats-and-yeats. a little nsfw. “my favourite line is “and i tap on their shoulders, and they turn around smiling but there’s no recognition in there eyes”, i loved this song when i was 12 but somehow didn’t realise it was gay, then while i was discovering that I like girls i also realised my old favourite song is about loving a woman and so it means a lot to me.”
Tesfaye seemed a bit nervous - not surprising for an artist who initially kept his name a secret, and even now banned cameras from the show. Though finally front and centre, he wore a camouflage jacket and remained strikingly still as if to be as unobtrusive as possible. Still, he confidently opened with High for This, causing the lit-fuse crowd to go off. At times he seemed taken aback by the reception, standing there, mike in both hands, staring out as the crowd sang his words back to him. It was an emotional night, and that came through in his voice, whether weaving through slow jams like The Party and the After Party or (relatively) upbeat romps like House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls.
During Wicked Games, the show’s epic peak, arms raising unironic lighters filled the air as his emotion-ravaged voice crooned “Bring your love baby/I can bring my shame/Bring the drugs baby/I can bring my pain” amidst a roiling rhythm and grinding guitar. The sing-alongs turned his abject loneliness into a communal catharsis. But the edge remained, be it the unrelenting dirtiness of Loft Music or the encore cut The Birds (Part 1) which used martial drums and strobe lights to amplify the implied threat: “Don’t make me make you fall in love.”
On new song Rolling Stone, Tesfaye sings “Baby I got you/Until you’re used to my face/And my mystery fades” which could’ve been his career epitaph if he’d faltered here. Until now, the Weeknd has existed as almost a figment of our collective imaginations, his ascent fuelled by anonymity, his communications coming via Twitter and Tumblr, his music existing only as web-distributed ones and zeroes. He could’ve dissipated like a dotcom bubble. But by bringing his aching digi-laments out of the Internet’s shadows and onto the stage, Tesfaye triumphantly proved that the Weeknd has no end in sight.