I Am Obsessed and Uncomfortable with Justin Timberlake

Outside, the Tuscan sun was finally beginning to poke through the

clouds. From a certain angle, the Leaning Tower of Pisa could be seen beyond

the restaurant’s quaint backyard flower garden. Good friends and better pizzas

surrounded me on all sides.

 

It was the day after my twenty-first birthday, the sixth day of spring break,

and my last day in Italy…and I could not take my eyes off the TV.

The TV tucked into the corner of this Pisa pizzeria, you see, was playing the

music video for Justin Timberlake’s recent single, “Suit and Tie.”

Ever since my younger sister’s impulse buying spree on our shared iTunes

account found this song a place on my SB2K13 playlist, it had been positively

following me around Europe.

 

On my first, one-hour flight alone, I listened to it four times. Just when I

thought I had surely escaped it by retreating into the old-fashioned world of the

Florentine leather markets, one of the vendors had the song blasting from his booth.

By this point, I was fairly sure that, if I were to injure myself somehow, not blood but

the liquefied melodies of JT would burst forth from my wounds.

But why do Mr. Timberlake and his music enthrall me so? What is it that’s so

fascinating about a man who sings like a woman?

 

After all, I was never particularly fond of him during the N*SYNC days.

In the first instance of a trend that has continued for years to define my taste in

men, my favorite member of N*SYNC was the one who turned out to be gay. Justin

Timberlake had weird hair. Justin Timberlake wore denim suits. Justin Timberlake

was not cool.

 

From the first days of Justin’s solo career, though, I was hooked. My fondest

memories of junior high are those that involve blasting “Senorita” with my friends

as we traversed the Latino neighborhoods of our hometown, feeling equal parts

culturally relevant and deeply offensive. And many a before-school student council meeting in high school was missed as I took ten-minute pauses in my morning routine to watch the full video for “What

Goes Around Comes Around” on Vh1 Jump Start.

 

Now, with “Suit and Tie” and “Mirrors,” JT had come to be the soundtrack

of not only my spring break Eurotrip, it seemed, but of my very soul.

At the end of spring break, I decided that my 2-plus-hour train ride back from

Paris to my spring-semester home in the ND London Program was the perfect time

to dissect my inexplicable love for the one-time Mousketeer.

 

My first observation was obvious: we sing in the same octave! The vocal

range in which Justin’s music rests is so unnaturally high that I can sing along

without straining my own soprano voice and without (at least in the delusional

world where I live) even sounding that stupid! The show choir diva in me has a

natural desire to sing along with every song on the radio, and JT makes it possible

for me to sing along even when the artist does not share my gender.

 

Listening and re-listening to “Suit and Tie,” though, I soon realized something

else. I can sing along with Justin’s falsetto, but I CAN’T SAY THOSE WORDS!!!

 

Awakened to the actual content of the lyrics JT was crooning, my responses

went something like this:

“Wait, does he mean what I think he means on that one?”

“How is this song on the radio?!”

“iTunes really doesn’t list this as explicit?”

“Is he – oh – oh, he did. He used the word ‘daddy’ sexually. I am so

uncomfortable with that.”

 

And that is when I realized why I am so fascinated by Justin Timberlake:

he makes me really, really uncomfortable. He draws me in with those hook-y

instrumentals, and the octave he sings in makes me want to sing along – but my

Catholic guilt tells me I shouldn’t.

Ultimately, what good is pop music anyway if you don’t feel like you’re

violating du Lac just by listening to it?

 

It must be said, then: I love Justin Timberlake. I know all the words to

“Sexyback,” and the discovery of an all-JT 8tracks playlist ranks easily among

the happiest moments of my Spotify-less time in the UK. But, Mr. Timberlake, be

warned. If you ever speak your lyrics to me in person, I will be reporting you to

ResLife.

 

But let’s all just be grateful he no longer looks like this: