Justin Timberlake Mugs A Lot In New York City, And You Are There (Several Hours Later)

Following mucho viral-style hype (unless you somehow missed the ads blanketing this very Web site last week), last night was Justin Timberlake’s “FutureSex LoveShow” on HBO, which was taped at Madison Square Garden in August. We briefly thought about liveblogging it (i.e. about 20 minutes before the show started), but realized we had made the right decision in being lazy drunks when one Idolator turned to another and said “Wow, I’m kinda glad I didn’t bother trying to get tickets for this.”

Yes, sadly the LoveShow was just NotThatExciting, a neon-lit arena show headlined by possibly the biggest male pop singer on the planet at the moment, a manboy who hasn’t quite figured out how to command that stage without resorting occasionally to cheesy Mickey Mouse Club tricks, and a musician whose excitement at being able to show his multi-instrument dexterity sometimes sacrificed the immediacy of his best songs for “stretching out” on his keyboard with double the guitar solos. Still, for those of you who missed it, here’s Idolator’s post-JT wrap-up. (Is “postblogging” a word yet?)

- Obviously JT sprung for a very Vegas-y stage set in the round with a few dozen dancers, backup singers, costume changes (black sequined frocks, a kind of whorish J. Crew ensemble, and outright underpants for the dancers … Justin mainly stuck to the now trademarked sloppy untucked suit/sneakers combo in black/grey or grey/white), giant white sheets like world’s largest bed on which images were projected, possibly a gong.
- Justin, as usual, played the likable southern goof who’s aw-shucks happy to be famous and who’s eager to show that his indebtedness to black music is just how he was raised, a childhood absorbing Stevie, Prince, Al Green, etc. second-hand, rather than the post-boy band defensiveness to front like his roots weren’t paved over by the Orlando concrete.
- Also, he’s now understood by those who write magazine profiles as a crucial part of the revived Timabaland hitmaking machine,the young turk songwriter who’s replaced folks like Missy and Steve Garrett, brought in to work projects both small (Duran Duran) and big (Madge). Both of these things led to:
- Justin structuring the show as a modern day Prince-in-Vegas style big band showcase, where new arrangements were concocted to allow the leader to go nuts at a Rhodes or strum a white acoustic guitar and the rest of the ensemble to add casino band soul flourishes. While it would just be cruel to actually compare JT’s less-than-virtuoso skill set to Prince, his still-developing playing and arranging led to dog’s dinners like:
- The “1998 wine bar downtempo” remix of “My Love” that kicked the first third of the song off, which just proved how important Timbaland’s beats–also: T.I.–are to carrying that song’s cheeseball come-ons and will-o-the-wisp vocal melody. A brief live band rendition of the infamous rave-y riff was undone in the final moments by a wanky guitar solo. Throughout the show you got this kind of half-assed muso flashiness overcompensating where the original backing tracks would have done just fine.
- Justin did a shot of (I’m assuming) tequila with the band, thereby endearing him to me even further. (He grimaced pretty badly afterwards, though; man up, JT.) He also said the word “fuck,” and seemed quite pleased with his own naughtiness.
- He actually seemed quite pleased with himself throughout the show. Some of that is earned, of course, given his track record, and self-posession is key to pulling off a show of this size. But his mugging for the cameras got wearying halfway through, and his inability to ditch the boy band need to please led to incongruous toothy grins during even the serious songs.
- The vocals were mixed too low throughout, JT’s voice practically swallowed by the backup singers on the non-show-stopping numbers. The blank-voiced aesthetic of “SexyBack” isn’t necessarily a good look when trying to play to several thousand people. (Not counting the bazillion watching at home.)
- Timbaland showed up halfway through looking beefier than he has since he stopped eating so many baked stuffed potatoes and started pumping iron. He, too, was mixed far too low, just in case you really needed to hear that crucial beatboxing.
- A thought occurred halfway through a FutureSex album track: “JT’s non-hits are often … non-good.” “Senorita,” “Rock Your Body,” “Like I Love You”–all guaranteed to earn screams and singalongs and lobbed panties in almost any context. Otherwise don’t feel too guilty about that bathroom pit stop. This is a problem when you’re trying to fill up two hours plus.
- Another thought that occured during one of the “here’s where the band shows you what they can do” moments: I’m still pulling for this doof, despite his indulgences. Or maybe because of them. You don’t see Fatone or Chasez or Bass even trying to pull something like this off.