Live Review: The Weeknd, French Montana, Nav

Brisbane Entertainment Centre is already pretty packed-out by the time Nav hits the stage and the Toronto-based rapper makes the most of the moment.

Being one of the chosen few on the XO label roster guarantees a certain level of infamy at such an event, but he's not content to just rest on these laurels. He does his best to work the room and a brilliantly curated visual display gives his set a distinct tone. By the time the self-produced beats of his closer, Myself, ring out, most seem to have warmed to his efforts. And really, you'd have to be a bit dead inside to not at least get a slight fuzzy feeling from seeing Ecco The Dolphin splash about in all his 16-bit glory while Nav raps, "Driving solo, I'm just swervin' through my ends".

A brief montage video rolls out Coke Boys' story before Moroccan-born, South Bronx-raised rapper French Montana takes the stage. The video has a powerful, hype-like effect; it's a dramatic little prelude that makes it feel like we're about to witness a piece of history, as if something special is about to happen. From the moment Montana and his small crew hit the stage, however, nothing even comes within the vicinity of special. His live show seems little more than an extended lesson in how to be underwhelming; Montana's voice rarely sounds dynamic or distinct, his visuals look like a video-effects demo and his DJ seems hell-bent against the idea of letting a fluid beat ride for any satisfactory length of time. Ain't Worried Bout Nothin, Pop That, No Shopping, the disappointments keep rolling out, song after song. Surprisingly, most of the crowd respond with delight, however. It seems the bar has been set pretty low for the YouTube generation, but such critiques are probably by the by for anyone whose preferred view of a live concert is via the cam on a smartphone, so it's probably best to just sit back, relax and enjoy the pretty spectacle of so many teeny lights wavering through the air.

When the intervening DJ drops Jay-Z & Kanye West's Niggas In Paris, the room goes bonkers. A heated sense of excitement permeates the room during these final few moments before the main act. This is The Weeknd's (aka Abel Tesfaye) first-ever visit Down Under and the audience is absolutely dripping with anticipation. Will his live show hit the mark? Will Starboy deliver on the legend?

The production centrepiece, a triangular lighting rig, lowers to the stage and a dramatic interlude erupts in a storm of light. As the impressive rig reaches for the sky, the opening bars of Starboy roll out and The Weeknd struts onto the stage, delivering his first lines of the evening with impeccable precision and style. It's an impressive entry and the audience responds ecstatically. For someone whose first syllables of the night profess, "I'm trying to put you in the worst mood," he's sure going a counter-intuitive way about it, but it's this explicit embrace of contradiction that has made this generation of stars so appealing. This is the legacy Kanye built and tonight The Weeknd seems intent on exercising his inheritance with ever-impressive form.

The Weeknd's three-piece band work wonders in providing that live edge and the visual elements draw one deeper into the world of each song. The glowing, LED triangle hangs suspended mid-air while the giant backing projections play off it, mimicking its shadow and asymmetry. Starboy's opening run of visuals subtly play off the dark undertones and broader implications of the celebrity condition. The glitter of the stage is bedazzling, but a focused glimpse beyond all the flashing lights up front reveals a manic stream of horrific images intercut with a shadowy figure drawing a gun to their own temple. It almost seems too good not to be saved for a climactic ending, but positioning this statement right at the front reinforces its internal logic and explicitly hammers home the point with frightening intensity. 

Party Monster impressively follows, before Reminder and Six Feet Under begin to wane ever so slightly. It's early days, though. No doubt, a few more albums in, and The Weeknd will have a solid enough body of work to draw out a set of startling consistency. He quickly pulls things back up to the level with Sidewalks and an explosive cut of Drake collab Crew Love.

Between Nav joining them onstage for Some Way and a few older joints, Tell Your Friends is the next moment that really shines. The set hits another minor lull, which is wound down by an interlude that sees The Weeknd and the band depart, handing the stage back over to French Montana for a very forgettable rendition of his hit Unforgettable. This works in wonderful contrast, however, making The Weeknd's return all the more impressive. Now he completely knocks it out of the park with an epic main-set finale of Secrets, Can't Feel My Face and I Feel It Coming.

But his departure is extremely short-lived and within moments The Weeknd's giving it his all for an encore of The Hills. It's the most fierce-sounding and penetrating song of the entire set, and hits home with devastating intensity. As mesmerising flames oscillate over screens behind him, The Weeknd exposes himself for the final time of the night and gives us one last glimpse into the paradox of this facade, repeatedly confessing, "When I'm fucked up, that's the real me/When I'm fucked up, that's the real me".