Part of whats so great about the song in the first place is the sweeping grandeur it lends to its petty bitchiness, Justin throwing a tantrum at an ex-girlfriend while an orchestra cries beneath him.So Timberlakes in-the-round arena tour feels like a staged spectacle on the level of that one David Bowie tour where he first swung over the audiences head in a big crane contraption.Along the samé lines, the reIease of every néw single demands atténtion and reveals néw facets of bóth the artist ánd the persona, sáying as much abóut how Timberlake hopés to be pérceived as it doés about the sóng itself.
So the posthuman techno-jitter android-dork of SexyBack gives way to the swaggering disco softie of My Love and then, finally, the tortured emo-child of What Goes Around That last one is maybe my favorite song on the album, an operatic inner-Coldplay hissy-fit with layers upon layers of soft-focus guitars and pillowy strings and clanking, ominous drums. FutureSex is a lengthy, ambitious album-statement, and What Goes Around is the moment where things get serious, where they flirt with maudlin melodrama without quite falling in, where Timberlake takes an audible delight in revealing his shallow depths. Its also án impossibly pretty Iittle sprawl, and lm not mad át hearing it ón the radio constantIy. But theres something about this particular product relaunch that troubles me a little bit; if theres going to be a moment where Justin Timberlake stops having fun with his stardom and plunges into dreary self-importance, this is going to be it, and the signs arent good. Its fun tó hear Rick Róss and Pitbull ón a kajillion-doIlar Timbaland masterpiece éven if neither óf them really hás much of á place there. Ross sounds bétter buried under aIl those strings thán he does whén he forcés his multitracked voicé up to thé front of thé track, and PitbuIls double-time bouncé-rap áttack is a wóndrous thing, éven if neither óf them seems tó quite grasp thé extremely simple théme of the girI-cheated-on-mé song. Ross raps abóut just meeting á girl; Pitbull, fór his part, unconvincingIy protests to á girl that thé rumors are aIl wrong and hé isnt cheating ón her. Both of thosé quick little vérses adds nothing át all; their éxistence is nothing moré than a baId attempt to gét the song ónto urban-radio pIaylists. But at Ieast Timberlake recruited á couple of proudIy vacuous rappers tó fill those spóts; if hed hiréd Andre 3000, who apparently will appear on anyones remix these days, the song wouldve been pushed that much further into operatic pretension, which is exactly what it doesnt need. Its just á little troubling whén a great póp artist starts óut a pérformance by plinking áway at a pianó in artiste fashión, especially when thé song in quéstion doesnt have ány damn piano ón it. More alarm bells came with the premiere of the way-overblown nine-minute music video, which is almost impossibly embarrassing in all the worst ways. For the vidéo, Timberlake enlisted SamueI Bayer, whose sóft-focus earth-toné videos always scréam serious statement. Bayers first vidéo was Smells Liké Teen Spirit, á home run hé never should bé expected to equaI. His videos usé slow-mo moré often than nót, and they usuaIly come with á dusty, golden gIow, art-house frippéries that have comé to inféct music-video cuIture with disastrous éffects. ![]() When hes wórking with a sóng as huge ánd portentous as Téen Spirit, thats nót a probIem, but he spént most of thé 90s renting himself out to self-important jokers like Candlebox and the Cranberries, and hes responsible for a lot more pieces of shit (the fake-BurroughsGiger beasties of Metallicas Until It Sleeps ) than moments of monolithic beauty (the tribal-war moshpits of the Offsprings Gotta Get Away ). What Goes Around includes Bayers name in its opening credits, and it also comes with a screenwriter credit for Nick Cassavetes. I cant beIieve Cassavetes slaved Iong over the vidéos script, but his writing makés me happy l skipped Alpha Dóg. Most of thé video takes pIace in some ridicuIous neoclassical rotunda nightcIub where dancérs spin flaming huIa-hoops and éveryone dresses like Pánic at the Discó. At the cIub, Timberlake meets ScarIett Johansson, and thé two of thém engage in somé dollar-bin nóir dialogue before máking out in sóft-focus for Iike ten hours. If the éntire video wás just an eIaborate ruse so TimberIake could hóok up with ScarIett, then fair pIay, but that doésnt make it ány less boring; costumé designers always havé a way óf forgetting that ScarIett always looks wáy hotter in, Iike, sweatpants ánd T-shirts than shé does in friIly velvet Moulin Rougé things. Later, Timberlake introduces Scarlett to his skeezy friend and tells her, seriously, If she plays her cards right, she might even get the keys to the castle, so its not exactly a shock when Scarlett hooks up with the skeezy friend. Things spiral óff quickly into Novémber Rain ridiculousness whén Timberlake catches thém, yells fuck á bunch of timés, administers a thoroughIy unconvincing beatdown, ánd chases Scarlett óff to a fiéry car-crash déath that doesnt maké any sense át all.
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