Timberlake brings SexyBack; haters bring SexyBacklash
In defence of Justin Timberlake, (still) a pop genius despite the ‘order of the season’ Calum Marsh
At the very end of the late Jonathan Demme’s magnificent 2016 live concert documentary Justin Timberlake + the Tennessee Kids, as the credits roll, Mr. Timberlake is glimpsed consulting with a pair of stage managers on the floor of the MGM Grand sometime before the evening’s show, leagues of engineers and carpenters working hectically behind them. He’s informing them of a new cue that needs to be updated in the sound banks. “It already got downloaded,” one of the managers explains. “It’s all good.” Timberlake is stunned. “See what I mean?” he hollers, beaming. “You ask for something, and it’s already done.” He begins to bow in awe of his impeccable crew. A stagehand grins: “Better than getting your ass chewed out!” Everyone erupts in laughter as Timberlake, delighted, walks around giddily shaking hands.
A year ago, I’d have said this anecdote was proof that Timberlake is impossible to dislike. But now such a claim seems foolish. This is the season of Man of the Woods, Timberlake’s fifth studio album, and the order of the season, evidently, is to excoriate the decorated pop star with a ruthlessness usually reserved for has-been matinée idols and talentless one-hit wonders. It’s not enough for the commentariat to judge Man of the Woods an artistic blunder – one failure among an otherwise fairly unimpeachable catalogue. The re- cord’s arrival has occasioned no less than a universal overnight reassessment of Timberlake’s entire history. “Man of the Woods is a misstep large enough to merit relitigating Justin Timberlake’s status as a pop superstar,” Jamieson Cox wrote in a caustic review for Pitchfork earlier this month. “How much of his career should we chalk up to fortune, privilege and an essential malleability?”
Cox is a fine critic, and his appraisal of the album, where it addresses the music on its merits, seems fair. But this impulse to “chalk up” Timberlake to outside factors – to wrest success away from him and assign it instead to circumstance or entitlement – is frankly bewildering. Nor is Cox alone in the instinct. Practically every column inch dedicated to Timberlake in the immediate wake of Man of the Woods has been concerned expressly with what the musician does or does not deserve: one mediocre album, and suddenly Timberlake is the embodiment of mediocrity, happening unqualified upon critical and commercial triumph undeserved. The press needs a narrative – some story, either provided or invented, to frame and contextualize an album and its otherwise amorphous collection of songs. The narrative seized upon for Man of the Woods is catastrophe.
It seems a matter of bad timing, partly. Timberlake has returned to prominence amid a climate not particularly amenable to what he appears to represent – a paragon of privilege, coasting with ease on the strength of advantages afforded to him by race, gender and sexual orientation. (He was welcomed back to the Super Bowl halftime show this year despite a gaffe whose infamy banished co- star Janet Jackson to oblivion; he’s championed grassroots social- media campaigns and entertainment-industry calls-to-arms despite working, just last year, in a Woody Allen movie. These decisions haven’t helped his image.) Timberlake does benefit from privilege. All white men do, a truth he could stand to acknowledge. But if we are keen now to dismantle the reputations of stars unworthy of them, Timberlake is not an ideal target. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Timberlake has earned his place.
At this point, to paraphrase Martin Amis on Thomas Harris, Timberlake’s early albums cry out for reinspection, and they effortlessly withstand it. On these records, Timberlake has created what mainstream pop stars almost never seem capable of, coherent albums with the shape and momentum of a statement, as opposed to merely haphazard stockpiles of hit singles buttressed by dispensable filler. These albums feel unmistakably authored: they are the clear, creative visions of an artist in full command of the means to realize them. It’s funny, actually – so ubiquitous were “My Love” and “SexyBack” as chart-toppers that it’s amazing how inextricable they sound now from the overall flow of FutureSex/LoveSounds, a dazzling, self-contained masterpiece that demands to be enjoyed from start to finish in one sitting. How could anyone listen to this and conclude Timberlake simply lucked into a few fluke hits?
Of course, the homogenous aesthetic that makes FutureSex such a pleasingly uniform opus has a great deal to do with the powers of its innovative producer, Timbaland. But it’s unfair to suggest – as the fiercest critics of Man of the Woods continue to do – that Timberlake only chanced upon the record’s brilliance by deferring to his producer, or, worse, exploiting him. Timberlake and Timbaland devised the FutureSex sound as collaborators; Timberlake, not insignificantly, is credited as co-producer. He’s never been the kind of pop star to commission the work of others passively, or farm out songwriting duties to hitmakers as he waits around the studio for promising singles to fall in his lap. He takes not only an active role in his music but the primary role in its writing, recording, producing and performing – and that includes the responsibility of seeking out gifted peers whose ideas accord with his own.
Timberlake’s eagerness to solicit help from talented collaborators does not diminish his influence over his music or his responsibility for how it turns out. Indeed, his willingness to work with others no less than his taste in colleagues should be considered assets – features of his brilliance rather than flaws in his artistry. This virtue reached its apotheosis with his third album, 2013’s The 20/20 Experience. It was here that Timberlake expanded his sound to include the contributions of a sprawling backing band, The Tennessee Kids – two-dozen virtuoso dancers, singers and musicians (including guitarists, keyboardists, drummers and a full suite of brass players) who performed across the album and supported Timberlake on the two-year, 134-night, five-continent 20/20 Experience World Tour between 2013 and 2015, later immortalized in Demme’s feature film. It would prove the most fruitful collaboration of Timberlake’s career.
With The Tennessee Kids at his side, Timberlake seemed wildly fortified, bolstered by the support of people you could tell believed completely in what he was doing, and gave him everything they had to help. This effect and Timberlake’s gratitude for it are in evidence throughout Justin Timberlake + the Tennessee Kids. The film is a 90- minute testament to Timberlake’s genius – exquisite as so many of his albums are, it’s plainly as a live performer that he excels most, electrifying the stage in a staggering feat of sustained charisma and jaw-droppingly elaborate choreography. What’s more, it is a document of generosity and affection: the love and care flowing from Timberlake to his band and audience and back again are obvious in every frame. He works hard; he brings out the best in people; people bring out the best in him. What more could we ask of our finest artists? If you want undeniable proof that Timberlake deserves his success, watch this film.
Which brings us back, finally, to Man of the Woods. ( We’ll skip past The 20/ 20 Experience Part Two, a collection of b-sides thrust into official albumdom by contractual obligation, which lacks by nature the scope and cogency of its engrossing counterpart.) The new record sounds, to the ears of this devoted Timberlake admirer, like a decidedly meagre effort – not the disaster it’s been characterized as in less forgiving quarters, perhaps, but certainly not the equal of Justified or FutureSex/ LoveSounds. Much of the blame has been (too conveniently) assigned to the album’s prevailing theme: marital bliss, shared by Timberlake and longtime wife Jessica Biel, as multiple songs take pains to insist. Where Justified found Timberlake relishing the demise of a relationship (“Cry Me a River” is still one of the best breakup songs ever recorded), and FutureSex found him lusting broadly (with sexy results), on Man of the Woods he’s just … serene. Is that why it sounds rather dull?
It may be true that happiness “writes write” on the page – that is, contentment isn’t a strong basis for compelling art. But it’s not that Man of the Woods seems blunted by equanimity, not exactly. (In fact, the strongest songs on the album are those that most fully embrace his role as husband and father: both “The Hard Stuff ” and “Young Man” are rich with earnest sentiment and the wisdom of a maturing man.) The problem seems more that Timberlake – perhaps too gratified, too comfortable – has eased off the restless creative energy and adventurousness that made his earlier albums such exhilarating works of mastered charm and omnivorous sonic experimentation. The album fails not as an expression of Timberlake’s satisfaction in life, but as evidence of his satisfaction with music. It lacks the spark of a truly new sound.
Still, is this such a sin? The tradition Timberlake has entered, justly, is that of Michael Jackson (to whom Demme’s film is dedicated) and Prince (to whom he made a muchdiscussed tribute at the Super Bowl). Jackson and Prince are the twin male luminaries of pop: gods among men, unequivocally. And even Jackson and Prince released mediocre albums – failures of creative imagination that scarcely damaged their reputations or diminished the full force of their best music. What we ought to keep in mind, sensibly, is that they can’t all be Off the Wall or Sign o’ the Times – they can’t all be FutureSex/ LoveSounds or The 20/ 20 Experience. If we conclude, nonetheless, that Man of the Woods demands some kind of stock-taking reevaluation, we should comfortably know the answer to the question. How much of Timberlake’s career should we chalk up to fortune, privilege and an essential malleability? Where it counts, very little.