Entry to Osea Island is granted by the tide. For two hours after 8am and then again at 9pm the muddied shallows gently withdraw to reveal a tapered twisting path bedded by gravel and weeds.
A little tentative, our coach driver noses out onto the path, and then beats a rapid retreat. “Oh God,” he laughs, with a grin that suggests he has a time-altering re-do button concealed under the dashboard. It’s a path not made for motors wider than a few feet and yet here we are in a cumbersome coach teetering and jerking through every sharp turn, silently wishing that the whole thing does not lop side.
There are about two hundred of us, Iabel staff, artists and press spread across five or six coaches. Why are we here? Well The Weeknd is here. Not yet but he’s coming. His only UK performance of 2015 will be reserved for media types and two hundred competition winners on a private island shielded by the Essex countryside. That’s not for a few hours at least (he’s arriving by helicopter) and so until then we have free reign over the few square miles.
Osea itself is a floral oasis navigated by a string of dirt roads. South London rapper Fekky is racing around the thin tracks in his heavy set Porsche like it was a Go kart track. The rest of us get around by foot or if you’re lucky one of the dozen rickety bikes parked outside side one of the cottages.
The day begins with introductions; firm handshakes, glowing smiles and voiced business cards. As we creep towards the afternoon the free alcohol takes hold and the atmosphere relaxes. The event has been styled as a private retreat for the media types: a coach here, a coach back, an open bar and free food all accounted for by Island Records, The Weeknd’s UK label base. There’s no Wi-Fi and mobile reception is fleeting. It means we’re unwillingly regressed to an age before social media, unable to Google every new face you come across.
It’s a refreshing if unexpected turn and stems the tiresome straight-faced networking usually rampant at industry events. I find myself in a rounder’s team with an electronic production duo and a handful of artist management personnel. Later in the afternoon I unknowingly talk SoundCloud streams and Radio 1 playlists with Tough Love over jerk chicken and rice and beans.
Midway through the afternoon the live music starts. Alex, who I sat next to on the coach, introduces singer/songwriter Kiko Bun. After, he thanks all who have made the day a success and ribs Island managing director Darcus; who is sat crossed leg in the front row. “I heard he sacrificed a day’s wages to pay for all of this!” he grins. After Kiko Bun its folk-pop band Flyte who step forward to close the afternoon. They’re a four-piece from London fronted by Will; a wiry vocalist who looks no older than twenty. He’s baby faced and wears a childish grin. “None of you have real jobs!” he laughs. “Look at you all, it’s a Tuesday!”
In the evening the energy is different. Word spreads that The Weeknd has landed somewhere on the island, though nobody knows exactly where. We’re lead along one of the gravel paths to a cramped venue with low ceilings and panelled wooden floor, reminiscent of a school sports hall; only with a bar serving beer at the far end. An expensive haul of performance equipment has been jammed in at one end: drums, keyboard, stage lights shoved and then a steel barricade to separate the crowd.
There is more commotion than before and a slight buzz in the air. Managers and A&R’s tunnelling back forth, burly security guards checking wristbands and more tenders pouring gin behind the bar. Tying things together is a tangible excitement that soaks the air; the industry’s most gifted recluse will be breaking his solitude for one night and we’re all here to witness it.
Opener Jack Garret has just left the stage and it’s announced that there will be a ten minute intermission. I find myself in a packed makeshift smoking area, chatting at length with a lady who works in the labels marketing department. She’s from Essex, too. Dagenham Essex not Private Island and retreat Essex. We're locked in conversation about Disclosure, a group she works. Though my awareness of the duo is limited, we’ve both had enough gin and tonic’s to natter away like old school friends. They have a new album in the works, one that allegedly trumps their back catalogue and she’s excited. "You need to hear it; they’ve topped the last one. It’s so good but…" She pauses. A gentle yet piercing croon is drifting from the hall and enveloping the smoking area. He’s here.
The Weeknd is notoriously low key and an island retreat isn’t enough for him to break mould. There's a rush to the door and the hall floods with four hundred eager fans shedding any sense of modesty so that they can catch a glimpse. He’s midway through Glass Table Girls when I make it inside. Rumours of a new bald look floating through social media turn out to be a hoax; he still carries every inch of a shaggy thick afro that shivers back and forth as he sings into the standing mic. He’s gone casual with his clothes, a red t shirt and a black bomber jacket. The atmosphere feels electric and the cramped settings have a cocoon effect, only serving to amplify the energy in the room.
“I haven’t done a venue like this in a very long time,” he whispers. “And I fucking love it.” After all of the success, stadium tours and festivals, its basement venues like this where he got his start that still pique his interest. An impending tide means that time is pressed and so the stretch of his most popular songs goes on: 'The Morning', 'Or Nah', 'Often' and a sombre sounding cover of 'Drunk In Love'.
He has a woozy piercing drawl that has drawn comparisons to one Michael Jackson. If accurate it’s only in tone, his stanzas, gloomy tales of relationships gone wrong and on-tour flings are often raunchy affairs, almost unfitting of his angelic voice.
With his helicopter fuelled and ready to head off, he treats us to a closing, previously unheard track most likely plucked from upcoming LP 'Beauty Behind the Madness'. It’s downbeat and sensitive as we have come to expect from the Canadian but heavy yet melodic in a nature only he has been able to capture. When finished he thanks his band and then darts away, gone as stealthily as he had arrived. Harmonised chants of ‘One More!’ begin to spread through the room, but only half-heartedly. Most know the chances of an encore from Abel are rare but why not try? It may be a while before we see him again.
– – –
Words: Aniefiok Ekpoudom (@AniefiokEkp)
