Memphis, Tennessee. It doesn’t get more legit than that, right? It’s a music mecca, a cradle and nest, a breeding ground for stars past and present. There’s the King, for one. No one can surpass hip-swivelling, soul-voiced Elvis. The legendary Aretha Franklin is another obvious (and fine) example. Johnny Cash moved to Memphis in his twenties and hit the big time. Is there something in the water of the Mississippi that makes musical icons like an old Detroit production line?
Randall is his middle name – Justin Randall Timberlake. Shit, I once knew that, way back when, along with myriad other useless facts. Prior to debuting on the scene with NSYNC, Timberlake was just another kid from Memphis (give or take an appearance on Star Search) until, of course, he was cast on The All-New Mickey Mouse Club in 1993 with a golden generation that included Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, JC Chasez (my favourite NSYNCer), Keri Russell (AKA Felicity), and a certain Ryan Gosling, thespian extraordinaire.
NSYNC were formed in 1995, became popular in 1998, competed with the Backstreet Boys, had an insanely successful sophomore album (No Strings Attached, 2.4 million copies sold in its first week) and made millions of pubescent girls the world over get in sync with their emerging hormones. Suffice to say, I was one of those teen girls. (I thought I was immune to the boy band phenomenon after BSB and 5ive left me lukewarm, but NSYNC totally enthralled me.)
Justin went solo in 2002 and became a star in his own right, helped in large part by the massive exposure that came with being the boyfriend of the biggest pop star in the world, one Britney Spears. Britney cheated on Justin with their mutual friend, Australian choreographer Wade Robson. The picture-perfect, all-American poptastic couple were no more. Cue megahit “Cry Me a River”.
You don’t have to say what you did / I already know / I found out from him / Now there’s just no chance / For you and me / There’ll never be / And don’t it make you sad about it.
Timberlake hadn’t visited Aussie shores in seven years, and I was tripping out over the fact I was 22 when I last saw him. (Aaaaand I now have Taylor Swift’s annoying “Twenty twoooo” in my head – fie on you, earworm, FIE I say!)
It’s some whacked out “blink and you’ll miss it” existential bullshit. Seven years is simultaneously a long time and not bloody long at all. I mean, only seven years prior to Justin’s 2007 concert, I was devouring No Strings Attached (had the CD on high rotation and knew all the lyrics within a few days of purchase), regularly surfing NSYNC websites, daydreaming about JC Chasez, and reading popular NSYNC fanfic. I laugh about it now, because perspective, but it’s easy as an adult to ridicule something that you “prioritised” as an adolescent because your hormones were a driving force. You cringe about it and laugh at it. But you understand it, also, because it wasn’t so long ago. (Plus, whatever, they had some sincerely great, catchy pop songs.)
NSYNC’s songs about love and lust were, of course, meant to beguile teenage girls and make them think the song was being sung to them, or at the very least make them wish it were so. That was the whole point and that’s what sold the records; that, and the appealing boys singing the songs and making sexy eyes at “you” from the TV, leaving you hot and bothered. I remember my first cousin, Dani, and I squealing over these NSYNC lyrics back in 1999:
I just wanna be, be with you / Girl, that’s all I want to do / Girl, you’re turning me on / You’re such a fine lady / And sugar, more and more / You’re driving me crazy.
It was a fantasy, we knew it, but we didn’t care; a fantasy where, if the famous object(s) of your affection just met you, they’d fall hook, line and sinker, and you’d live happily ever after in their overly earnest, romantic ballads (or the lustier up-tempo counterparts). They’re bound to meet a girl; might as well be you. “We’re pretty enough!” we used to say defiantly (and conceitedly).
I almost didn’t go to last Friday’s show at Etihad Stadium. I didn’t want to fork out more than a hundred bucks because, well, I’m a (circumstantial) cheapskate. But when I saw that tickets had become available in the general admission standing area for only 100 bucks, it was a no-brainer. I still have a soft spot for Timberlake, after all. Tickets – bought.
I have a laughably possessive “I knew him when” moment as I approach Etihad Stadium and nonchalantly size up the burgeoning crowds, some of whom are teens and only know Justin the solo star. I glance at people who look to be my generation and wonder how many have been following JT since the NSYNC days, or did they just jump on the bandwagon when he kicked off his solo career and became “cool” and “acceptable” to like?
My friend, Nina, and I weave in and out of clusters of people. We queue up and “brrr!” at the cold. Adolescent girls in front of us are wearing next to nothing even though it’s freakin’ freezing. We laugh in disbelief, roll our eyes, and wax geriatric about “back in our day” even though we’re 28 and 29, respectively, but dammit we have common sense and warm coats. (Plus, hey, we’re both from former Yugoslavia and, as such, our mothers indoctrinated us into believing that draughts alone will bring us harm. Wog chaos theory.)
How was the show, you ask?
It was nothing short of phenomenal. Exhilarating, too. Slick production values, a slew of hits. JT knew how to bring it all together like the consummate showman he is. The concert opened with “Pusher Love Girl”, a perfect showcase for both Timberlake’s tenor and the Tennessee Kids, his live orchestra who bring a rich fullness to the concert with their lush, brassy sound. Timberlake sang all of his hits and shone brightest on those, riffing off the captivated audience whose rapt shrieks and thunderous applause egged him on for two-and-a-half hours. Yes, you heard me…two-and-a-half hours.
He moved effortlessly across the stage, exuding charisma – Timberlake is, for lack of a better phrase, a smooth operator. This is a more mature, polished Justin, completely different to the grin-flashing hunk of yore with a head of trademark curls and washboard abs that, nonetheless, were shown only sporadically to the hormonally-charged NSYNC fans, certainly not in the supremely obnoxious, odious manner of his bieberish namesake. We all grow up and so, too, did Timberlake.
The first half of the concert was littered with a bunch of hits from Timberlake’s first two albums (Justified and FutureSex/LoveSounds) – “Rock Your Body”, “Like I Love You”, “My Love”, “Summer Love”, “LoveStoned” and “Cry Me a River”. After the break, Timberlake and the gang returned with more songs from his latest effort, The 20/20 Experience, old hit “Señorita” and a runway-like stage that rose from the main stage and kept rising, until finally it moved languidly over the transfixed audience who couldn’t grab their smartphones fast enough. (I should know – I was one of ’em.) Timberlake further flaunted his vocals (and his excellent guitar playing) with renditions of Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel”, Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” and a broken-down version of his own “What Goes Around Comes Around”.
On two occasions, Timberlake shouted “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!” and without missing a beat we (Pavlovian) replied, “Oi, oi, oi!” Timberlake laughed and said, “I LOVE this shit!”
By the time the encore rolled around with “SexyBack” and the anthemic pop masterpiece “Mirrors”, the stadium erupted and sang (roared, rather) in one voice, “musically worshipping” at the altar of Timberlake who, by that point, didn’t need to sing another note. We were doing the job for him and it was nothing short of spine-tingling. If we ever needed a living, breathing example of the “music unites” platitude, well, this was it. (There’s something I never thought I’d say about Justin.) During the spirited stadium-wide sing-along, I had a naïve thought (having gone through the Fmr Yugoslav war) that if only people were brought together in a stadium and sang a life-affirming song beloved by all, everything would be all right (world peace!) and we’d all be friends, forever and ever, amen. Ha!
The show ends, I leave the stadium, the 15-year-old inside me is still slightly peeved that NSYNC never toured Down Under. So I made do with seeing “just Justin”. It’s not a half bad consolation prize. Not bad at all. Just make sure I’m not 36 the next time you tour, Timberlake.
(Photo: J Vettorino/Flickr)
