Justin Timberlake is my archenemy. I hate everything he stands for.
Never met the guy, but I despise him. And I don’t just go around hating
stuff. It takes a lot to elicit that type of emotional reaction from
me. I can safely say that I hate Burger King fries, and maybe the word “mauve,” but that’s about it. I don’t even hate Bono1! I think Muse
singer/guitarist Matthew Bellamy hit the nail on the head when he
suggested that superstars should be sucked into a super-massive black
hole (at least that was my interpretation of his lyrics). I mean, come on, it may be an irrational hatred but it’s not just me. Dudes are required
to despise boy bands as if every time a DJ reaches for an N’Sync album
the price of a 30-rack of PBR jumps a buck. It’s just the way it is!
You may be wondering: “how can you hate a Mouseketeer?” To that I suggest that The Mickey Mouse Club CEO Stewie Griffin is pumping out superhuman brain numbing pop icons2 to enslave the human race one teenage girl at a time. I digress.
Conspiracy theories aside, I had an experience last night that turned my understanding of the universe inside out. Channel surfing like a pro, I paused on a vivid high-definition video clip of 40,000 girls shrieking as though they had been shanked in the middle-school lunch line. This made my stomach turn in a way that only the realization that the majority of them were women could trump. I was shocked! These were women in their 20s and 30s screaming as if their lives depended on how much glass they could break in a 2 mile radius. I started to resume surfing for re-runs of Scrubs when the flashing stage lights came to life… I was hooked. If it weren’t for my severe undiagnosed ADD, I would have been able to watch Scrubs or Everybody Loves Raymond or something and reality as I knew it would still be intact. Alas, black immediately turned to white, day to night, and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was written and performed by William Hung and Cher3. Once I dropped the controller I found myself gawking at the magical blinking box unable to divide my attention to anything but occasionally allowing myself to blink and breathe.
I watched Justin Timberlake for 2 hours. No… that doesn’t do it justice.
I was mesmerized by Justin Timberlake. Willingly. Sober.
…and I ENJOYED IT.
You can imagine my confusion as I sat there grinning from ear to ear completely enthralled by the image of a dude that embodies everything that I abhor about the music industry and pop culture. My subconscious was furious… “One guy, good looking, good voice, has some personality, wrote a few catchy songs. A few bazillion dollars later and he is a star! THEN, once the few catchy tunes he wrote have been JACKHAMMERED into your brain by every radio station in America 47 times a day for 6 months, another crew the size of Napoleon’s army is hired to create a live experience that has never used so many lights, so many subwoofers, so many fog machines, or such complex stage design to create a live show that rivets people like ME! I’VE LOST THE BATTLE! THEY GOT ME! This is worse than the time I got peer pressured into joining Facebook.4”
Despite my subconscious rant, I was legitimately enjoying this! The production was incredible, the performance was staggering, the musicianship was inspiring, and (worst of all) I had to work to come up with sarcastic comments to bash him, and sarcasm is my forte. I found myself sitting on the couch uttering things like:
- “Wow, he has 40,000 people wrapped around his finger…”
- “Damn, that guitarist NAILED that solo!”
- “That is the tightest rhythm section since James Jamerson and Benny Benjamin.”
- “This light show is better than a Floyd concert! I didn’t think that was possible.”
- “Those dancers are hot as hell. How does he pay attention to what he’s doing?”
- “…JT can actually play an instrument?”
As soon as the credits rolled I sat up, dumbfounded, desperately seeking an outlet for my confusion. I needed to process this immediately. I sprinted to my computer and hopped on the almighty iChat to relive my experience with some people who might be able to figure out what’s wrong with me. Responses ranged from:
- “Dude, did you catch the gay out there in Colorado?” to
- “I had the same experience once with Ricky Martin. I was overtired and
stoned out of my mind. I was just enthralled with how cool he was, and
how I never realized it.”
This was of little help.
Maybe I don’t hate him. After watching this show I actually kinda respect the guy; he doesn’t appear as one-dimensional as I wanted to believe that he was, and he actually shows some serious talent. Those of you who have read Chuck Klosterman will understand what I mean when I say that JT has gone from being my archenemy to being my nemesis in a mere 2 hours. Klosterman describes the difference: “You kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him. You will always have drinks with your nemesis. However, you would never choose to have a cocktail with your archenemy, unless you were attempting to spike the gin with arsenic.5” Maybe JT can be erased from his throne atop Burger King fries and the word “mauve."
Let me get this straight. I don’t like Justin Timberlake. I don’t like his songs, I don’t like his image, and I don’t particularly like his audience. As much as I want to hate him, I guess I respect him… and I think I just wish I had written the McDonalds theme song.
1 Just to clarify, I really, really, really, really dislike him.
2 Britney Spears was a prototype. She obviously had some bugs to work out. She’s in a Disney Death-Bot maintenance facility inside the Tower of Terror. You laugh…
3 For those of you that care, in this alternate reality John was replaced by William Hung on guitar and vocals, Paul turned into Cher on rhythm guitar/keys and vocals, George took the form of Richard On from O.A.R. (imho the worst lead guitarist ever to make money with the instrument—he couldn’t even get a job as a street performer in the NYC subway system), and Ringo Starr just kinda stayed the same. He didn’t deserve to be a Beatle back then anyway. Just picture William Hung singing “With a Little Help From My Friends.” That should have been enough to bring me back to consciousness, right?!
4 I’ll bet the inventor of Facebook was on The Mickey Mouse Club, too.
5 Chuck Klosterman IV (p.225-230)