A few things first: There's not a lot here about Britney--some, but not much--because (1) Justin Timberlake's short, singular life has given him sharp instincts about some things (and less sharp ones about others), (2) pushing him to talk about her seemed both excruciatingly lame and a tactical mistake, and (3) their relationship seems the kind of thing that's more titillating the less you hear the two parties speak about it, because when they do speak, it doesn't feel like the collision of two glittery supernovas in hot pants, it feels like you're hearing about a largely cliché-ridden romance between two 21-year-olds who've been dating since they were in high school. More on all this later.

    Instead, this: Justin Timberlake is an alien. A special kind of alien, sort of like E.T. (he's cute and you want to root for him) combined with Natasha Henstridge in Species (blond, lethal in the wrong doses). But, of course, he isn't from outer space. He's from Memphis, by way of Orlando. And he's not the spawn of some planet full of comely, falsetto, slinky-dancing white people. He's very much all ours.

    Of course, this is true of most  really big celebrities, the ones who go by just one name, especially the ones who get famous around puberty. We give birth to them, nurture them, and desperately cling to them, all while we target them for destruction. In the process, however, we methodically turn them into beings utterly removed from us and our world, creatures seemingly possessed of marvelous attributes and powers, yet often flummoxed, even felled, by our earthly ways. Aliens. Some are good, and some are evil; some try to live among us while others run and hide, and still others look upon us as little more than food, or worse, specimens to probe, perhaps anally.

    That doesn't appear to be Justin's thing, though. He'd rather sing. And dance. Both of which he does surprisingly well. (Surprising, at least, if you, like me, are not familiar with much of his work as a member of 'N Sync.) Moreover, he seems to understand, if not entirely consciously, some vital things about what could be called the DNA of pop music, i.e., that which relates to the rather monumental achievement of selling 30 million or so records by the time you're old enough to drink. Now his first solo record is out. It's called Justified, and the best parts of it sound a bit like Michael Jackson's Off the Wall. It is, according to Justin, the realization of a dream he's had since he was a little boy, say, around 1987.

    But isn't all this beside the point? I submit that the kicks Justin really offers are those only aliens provide. People love aliens, they thrill to them, especially those of us always looking for ways to feel less small and more connected, which is to say most of us. Aliens brighten our days and light up our nights. They don't, however, always bring out our best. We tend to poke and prod them, usually with twisted glee. Or we get scared, and mean. Remember the G-men in those natty white early-eighties anti-alien suits chasing E.T. around north of L.A.? Sure, when you were sitting in the theater it was easy to call them the bad guys, but who's to say how any of us would react to a space-amphibianish thing in a housedress next door (let alone one who makes a record that sounds sort of like Michael Jackson)? No one ever said the human brain wasn't pretty small, relatively.

    How else to explain the kind of reaction Justin elicits? And not just from young girls. Until recently, I knew next to nothing about him, and cared even less. He registered only as a teen heartthrob, a member of a boy band I knew was preternaturally successful, and, of course, as Britney's fella. But when this article was proposed, my reaction was immediate and genuine: delight. Nothing ironic about it. I soon discovered others felt the same way. I'd mention him to people, half-expecting them to be dismissive or disparaging, and their interest would inevitably be sincerely piqued. And I'm talking about too-cool-for-their-own-good hipster fucks here--my friends--whose reactions ranged from a subtle "Sweet!" to a definitive "Awesome!" Justin, it seemed, was too something (too much of an alien?) to be too cool for. Awesome, indeed.

    We first hung out at Game 4 of last year's NBA finals, Nets vs. Lakers, in New Jersey, accompanied by Justin's bodyguard, a gigantic black man who has been with him since his early 'N Sync days. If Justin could be anyone in the world, he'd have a tough time choosing between himself and Kobe Bryant. While drinking beers in seats behind the basket--Justin apparently didn't want courtside tickets, unlike Jay-Z and Snoop Dogg--he struggled to find the words to describe his admiration: "Kobe is...he's...he's just the man," he said. "The way he moves, how he produces, his effort, his style..."

    It seemed a blueprint for the way he'd like others to talk about him, and at the same time made clear that he thought of Kobe as a kind of colleague, a fellow member of the Young, Very Rich, Famous, and Talented Club. Like Kobe (another alien), Justin oozes visceral physical charisma. This is true of many extremely famous people, but Justin wears it better than others. He isn't quick to use it as either a shield or a sword. He is polite in a distinctly Southern, well-raised way. (He is the doting son of a comfortable Memphis family.) He is also, not surprisingly, more than a little cocky, gliding through most situations like the popular kid in high school. But he is also acutely nonthreatening, and this, combined with the gilded assuredness, soft good looks, and Southern manners, is the source of his charm.

    Like many of America's 21-year-olds, he identifies culturally with the hip-hop universe, a realm that includes not just rap but R&B, soul, sports--particularly basketball--urban fashion, and a certain sensibility and sense of humor. Some of this can be traced to Memphis, where he lived until moving to Orlando at age 14 to become a full-time member of 'N Sync. Memphis has a long, storied history of black music (Stax Records, Beale Street blues, Al Green), not to mention that it's the hometown of another cute white boy with rhythm, el jefe of the aliens, Elvis Aron Presley. As a member of an all-white boy band that appeals predominantly to young white girls, however, Justin clearly learned there are limits to the ways in which he can, or should be, perceived. Hence, he varies his hip-hop tenor according to his audience. Which is not to say he's somehow fronting, just that he's not stupid.

    Being with him at the game was a crash course in the kind of frenetic, pop-star fame he has lived with since he was 14, circa 1995, when 'N Sync first began to be groomed for success. It is a physical, slightly overwhelming reality, like a raging microclimate that hovers above him. He needs that bodyguard. And while he's as recognizable and well known as anyone alive, he doesn't--unlike Jack Nicholson, or even Snoop--intimidate people enough for them to stay cool, or even barely in control, around him. Girls squeal, sure, but so do their parents, while drunk guys, often in suits, yell out dirty comments about Britney. When it's not nasty, it's embarrassing.

    At the game, though, he was very much the pro, paying no heed to the catcalls, and remaining gracious about most everything else. He was also sharp about the pantomime of going on forced dates with writers: Be accomodating and polite, but don't talk about anything actually interesting. This makes him smarter than most interviewees, who often succumb to the vanity of being listened to intently. Then again, even when he does open up, his take on things tends to be...broad. That is, thoughtful, but straightforward and largely unsurprising--much like a good pop song (and most nonalien 21-year-olds). At one point I mentioned having just broken up with someone. He said he had, too. I told him where my ex was from, and he said, "Mine's from Louisiana." As I considered replying with either "Oh, really?" or "Ever sleep with her?" he added, "Dude, you have no idea how much it sucks to have to hear people you don't even know constantly yelling stuff out about your ex-girlfriend when you're just trying to forget about it."

    After the Lakers crushed, as we waited for Justin's driver, a girl, seventeenish, gingerly approached him. "Can I have your autograph?" she asked.

    "Can I get your number?" he responded, without missing a beat.

    The girl was in the process of swallowing her tongue when Justin offered a warm grin. "Nah, I'm just playing with you," he gently kidded her. They both laughed, and she walked off, autograph in hand, glowing.

    "Dude," I said. "You should do that more often."

    "Yeah," he said, "freaking people out a little is always fun."

    As we rode back to the city, I hinted that I wanted to go out on the town with him. He politely dissed me and went out with a few of the celebrating Lakers. Like I said, about some things he's pretty smart. For an alien.

    A few months later, I met him at a studio in Hollywood to hear his new album. By then, I'd decided I liked Justin, that he was a sincere, well-meaning person, and not responsible for any sort of cultural apocalypse. Blaming 'N Sync or Britney for making the music they make is like blaming the Beatles for "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" or Madonna for "Like a Virgin." As with presidents, we get the pop we deserve.

    Moreover, Justin's 'N Sync past contributes to why people seem to be rooting for his solo success. It's as if in order to make us all feel better about the fact that the years 1997 to 2002 will go down in music history as the half-decade of lousy teen pop, someone from that time needs to go on and have some kind of relevant career. If that doesn't happen, we're even dumber than we look. And that Lance Bass guy is having enough trouble trying to be a space tourist.

    Still, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to actually like Justin's new record. But I was going to walk into a studio where I'd have to listen to it in front of him, and be asked what I thought, and have to either lie or tell him and his "people" I didn't like it, and probably lie, and be left pondering just how lame that was.

    But I liked it. Most of it. Mostly. It was on when I walked in, and at first I thought it was some old Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder that I'd never heard. Granted, I'm always thinking music I hear in studios sounds great, because it does, since it's coming out of gazillion-dollar speakers. Justified is certainly derivative, and has an awful title, but if you're going to make a pop record, you can do a lot worse than sounding like Off the Wall. I especially like "Cry Me a River," a gothy R&B track produced by Timbaland. Nine of the album's thirteen tracks were produced by either Timbaland or Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo, a.k.a. the Neptunes, again proving good taste if not quite sole proprietorship. Basically, it sounds like being at a high-school talent show and watching some white kid get up and sing "Working Day and Night," and turning to a friend to say: "You have to admit, he does sound a lot like Michael Jackson, and he is a really good dancer."

    At the studio, we talked a little about music, but things were somewhat stilted because MTV was there filming a special about the making of Justin's record. Not that he wasn't his usual self: polite, sincere, unsurprising. Some highlights: "I made the best record I could....I just want people to give it a chance, but I really don't know what they are going to say....Songwriting is a lost art....The record is really a culmination of my love of hip-hop, of soul, R&B...."

    He did address the Michael Jackson issue: "Off the Wall is probably my favorite record of all time. I think you can hear in M.J.'s voice that he was so eager, so ready to show the world he wasn't just in the Jackson Five, and I'm eager to show people I'm not just in 'N Sync." He continued: "With 'N Sync, you have to write and arrange in a certain way; it's like the Beach Boys, everything is about five parts, about harmony, so when you get to the chorus you have to be right there...."

    His cell phone went off. His ring plays the cancan.

The next night Justin and I met for dinner at a restaurant in Los Angeles called P.F. Chang's, which is in the Beverly Center.
A lot of my friends thought this was funny because the Beverly Center is a mall, and P.F. Chang's is like a more upscale version of Chili's, with Chinese food. We sat in the back with Trace, Justin's childhood friend from Memphis who travels everywhere with him, and across from a table seating his bodyguard and Silas White, Brian McKnight's manager, whom Justin hired as the production coordinator for his solo record.

    I didn't really get much from Justin over dinner, probably because I spent a good amount of time trying to explain to him why I thought he was an alien. At one point he replied, "Well, I have gone through some interesting moments, but I've come to the point where I realize there's pretty much nothing you can do about how people react to you. I try to believe that people mostly mean well."

    I told him E.T. believed that too.

    He said he though perceptions of him were changing. "I think people think there's an artist inside of me, but they don't know exactly what it is yet." Pause. "You know, I co-wrote a lot of songs on Pop and Celebrity [sic], and that's like going to school." This, it occurred to me, is probably very true.

    I mentioned the guy trying to go up in the space shuttle. He said he hopes it happens for him, that he'll be jealous if it does. Then he told me he likes Spain a lot. "I want to spend some real time there," he said. "I want to be able to be there and walk down the street and say hi to somebody I met while I was there. I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that, but it's fun to think about."

    I told him that made him sound like an alien.

    Somehow this led to Britney's movie debut. Remember Crossroads? He does: "I told Britney I thought she did a good job," he said, "but someone over there didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the material." He paused. "But she's been built that way. That whole thing over there is a machine. She's sold where she needs to be sold so that the machine keeps rolling. Really, it's...it's a fucking...it's a soap-opera-slash-horror-movie. Dude, if you want a fucking article, go interview everybody who works for her. Because I think some people are assholes. I think some people are out for themselves."

    I asked him if he thought she has a clue.

    "Dude, if she had a clue, she wouldn't have made that movie, don't you think?" Then he added: "I mean, everybody knows that what she should have made was Pretty in Pink." He is, of course, correct.

    A few nights before the MTV Video Music Awards in late August, I watched Justin rehearse for his live performance of "Like I Love You," the first song and video from the record, which was being trumpeted by the network as if it were a bar mitzvah or coming-out party. He rehearsed with his dancers, a troupe so exquisitely multicultural as to make Benetton ads seem like 1960s L.L. Bean catalogs. It seemed everything was poised for MTV to once again pull Justin into its hairy bosom and begin its inexorable slouch toward Bethlehem.

    But at the awards things got a little...pear-shaped. Justin was the last act, before G N' R, on a show that was mostly boring. He was introduced by Brandy, who said something about nights/moments to remember, and how we should all attempt to prepare to experience one of those nights/moments, or else. Then Justin walked on stage wearing black leather pants, a red T-shirt, a black long-sleeved shirt, a black Sinatra-style hat, and two black gloves.

    I think it was the gloves that did it. Maybe the hat. He probably could have gotten away with one or the other, but not both. The outfit combined with the song and dance moves--the latter two also being extremely reminiscent of Michael Jackson--was simply too much. Then there was the fact that Jackson himself had actually been on the show earlier, collecting some kind of award or birthday present or something (presented by none other than Britney Spears). It was at best a coincidence gone too weird by half. The impression of those in attendance was perhaps best summarized by a guy sitting next to me: "I don't get it. Was he trying to imitate Michael Jackson? Is he too young to remember?"

    Alas...aliens. They make these kinds of mistakes. Just when you think they've got it all figured out and are set to live happy, normal lives among us, they go and do some weird thing that sparks an angry mob. But how were they supposed to know what we'd think? They were just trying to please us, interpreting the information we'd given them, experiencing life on this planet as best as they can.

    None of which is to say things are in any way dire for Justin. Hardly. Not yet, at least. His friends--say, Timbaland, Puffy, and the Neptunes--don't need to wrap him in a blanket, stuff him in a bike basket, and race him to his spaceship. Justified is poised to sell millions. He will hang out with more rappers and NBA stars, and word is he's now dating Alyssa Milano. He seems to want to embrace us, to teach us things about himself, and about ourselves, and I, for one, believe that if we can manage to control our delight and our fear, there is every reason to think, or at least hope, that one day he will, that one day Justin Timberlake will offer us something, probably something thoughtful, straightforward, not surprising, but very pure, maybe in a video, before disappearing into the night sky forever.

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