It takes precisely 20 seconds for the Weeknd’s sixth album to imply that it might also be his last. “All I have is my legacy … I’m all alone when it fades to black,” Abel Tesfaye sings over a lush bed of synthesisers that quickly takes on the influence of 80s boogie. It’s a line that feels very on brand. Hurry Up Tomorrow’s release has been promoted with billboards declaring “THE END IS NEAR”, social media posts in which Tesfaye has inferred the album is the final “beautiful chapter” in his story and interviews during which he’s suggested that a 2022 incident in which he lost his voice on stage was some kind of cosmic message: “You can end it now … when is the right time to leave if not at your peak?”

It is perhaps worth noting that the same was true of his last album more-or-less: 2022’s Dawn FM was rich with end-times imagery, mentions of the afterlife and arrived accompanied by interviews in which Tesfaye announced his desire to “remove the Weeknd from the world”. A cynic might suggest that implying he’s about to retire – or at least retire the Weeknd persona that he has inhabited for the last 13 years – now seems part of his release strategy. In fairness, it feels a lot more explicit this time around. One theory is that Tesfaye is more interested in pursuing a career in film, something viewers of The Idol, the abysmal drama series he co-wrote and starred in in 2023, might consider less of a career move than a terrible threat.

Still, it’s not a theory Hurry Up Tomorrow does much to dispel. It lasts as long as a movie – nearly 90 minutes – and it’s rich in samples from soundtracks: Giorgio Moroder’s score for Scarface, David Lynch’s Eraserhead. It also comes accompanied by a full-length feature film, once more co-written by and starring Tesfaye (Oh, good). In addition, while there are umpteen covers featuring different artwork, the version that has been punted out to streaming services looks remarkably like a movie poster. A close up of Tesfaye’s face, sweaty and grimacing, it’s both striking and mysterious: he could be on stage, in agony or in the throes of passion. Equally, he could just be suffering the after-effects of last night’s chicken phall.

Or he could have been reading Hurry Up Tomorrow’s lyrics, which are enough to bring anyone out in a sweaty grimace. There are moments when they slip into standard Weeknd mode, alternately predatory and injured – “She’s addicted to the rush … she trust me with her life” etc – but they are primarily concerned with telling you how awful it is being rich and famous. That’s a tough sell at the best of times, although, in recent years, the charts have played host to a number of pop albums that have painted a very convincing picture of 21st-century celebrity’s downside, Billie Eilish’s Happier Than Ever and Olivia Rodrigo’s Guts among them.

But a striking depiction of a panic attack on Baptized in Fear aside, Hurry Up Tomorrow really doesn’t boast their lyrical depth or nuance. You’re left feeling that Tesfaye deserves some kind of kudos just for singing a line as bad as “in this penthouse prison, I’m alone” with a straight face; likewise the song in which he admonishes a lover for complaining with a petulant little stamp of “you know it’s my opening night!” or Reflections Laughing’s wail: “I’m trapped inside a gilded cage.” Indeed, it is occasionally so on the nose you wonder if it might not be treating the subject with a certain degree of knowing camp, as when Enjoy the Show features a voicemail message inquiring about the star’s welfare, accompanied by a soundtrack of drinks being slurped, pills rattling, lungfuls of smoke being inhaled and suspicious sniffing.

Arch or sincere, it becomes fairly exhausting over the course of an hour and half. It would be more exhausting still if the music on Hurry Up Tomorrow wasn’t as great as it is. Tesfaye has described the album’s sound as “Frankenstein”, and you sometimes see what he means. São Paulo jumps from Brazilian funk to a punishing house pulse midway through, Given Up on Me stitches together a lot of jarring fragments into an entirely gripping whole: a slowed-down, Auto-Tuned sample of Nina Simone’s Wild Is the Wind; a sped up sliver of 70s soul; beatless, chopped-up piano chords. But even at its most straightforward, it’s marked out by brilliantly turned melodies and fantastic production touches: the George Harrison-esque guitar that runs throughout Reflections Laughing; the rubbery bassline of I Can’t Wait to Get There, the stew of sickly sounding electronics and lush 70s soul-inspired backing vocals on Big Sleep. It’s a peculiar sensation: an album that floors you at the same time as it’s driving you up the wall.

It goes all out for a blockbuster ending, courtesy of two big ballads. Without a Warning has a certain end-credits quality, but it concludes with the sound of an audience screaming and cheering, as if demanding an encore. They duly get one with the blockbusting title track, which has a sparkling melody, a vaguely Purple Rain-ish grandeur and really does sound like a leave-taking: “I’m ready for the end … I have no more fights left to win.” Off he goes, perhaps permanently, leaving behind an album that frequently presses great songs into the service of rotten lyrics. Suggesting that the Weeknd has run out of stuff to say but not impressive ways of saying itmanages to make you think his apparently imminent departure is a shame – and probably just as well.