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The maelstrom of hype was palpable in the hours leading up to the event, as a lineup of ticket-holders and ticketless hopefuls stretched down College Street outside the Mod Club. Throughout the day, the price of scalped tickets, originally $20, climbed to levels normally reserved for U2 arena shows: $100. $120. $150. $200 鈥� ten times the face value. Nuts.

Once inside, rumours of celebrity attendees spread: Lil Wayne. Diddy. Justin Bieber. One person definitely there was Drake, whose grinning presence at a VIP balcony caused a stir and a frenzy of camera phones that prefigured The Weeknd’s performance.

Finally, he emerged, in a camouflage jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and a Kramer-esque hairstyle. It was the first time most had ever seen him in person. At his first word 鈥� 鈥淭oronto鈥� 鈥� the fashionable crowd that did not appear easy to impress went into conniptions. Flanked by a tight three-member band consisting of a bassist, keyboardist/backup singer, and a drummer, The Weeknd mostly let the music speak for itself, as Tesfaye launched into 鈥淗igh For This鈥� from House of Balloons.

鈥淭he Morning,鈥� 鈥淐oming Down鈥� (for which he played the keyboard, ending the song by clunking out a few discordant notes), 鈥淲hat You Need,鈥� 鈥淭he Party & The After Party,鈥� 鈥淩olling Stone鈥� and 鈥淲icked Games鈥� followed. Tesfaye sang with remarkable fidelity to his on-record voice, intoning in falsetto and working his way throughout his short catalogue of dark anthems with an easy charisma. The show climaxed with a protracted electric guitar solo that went on for about a minute too long 鈥� a minor complaint.

The Weeknd is becoming known for bringing a dangerous, sexual edge to soul music, as D’Angelo, Sade and Prince once did. The fact that he could do this live without sacrificing any of his carefully constructed mystique is impressive.