Justin Timberlake, Arena, Sheffield

Arena, Sheffield

"This is my first show," announces Justin Timberlake, referring to his solo debut, although it is a long way from treading the boards of a smoky pub with an acoustic guitar.

There is an unfeasibly funky 12-piece band, no less then eight dancers and the drum kit is in what can only be described as a padded grotto. There are enormous video screens and enough explosions to suggest it is Timberlake, not Saddam, who has those elusive weapons of mass destruction. When the former *NSync singer and pal of David Beckham appears, he is shimmying down a fireman's pole.

Timberlake has paid his dues. He spent years in a boy band, put up with the stresses associated with going out with Britney Spears and, most recently, delivered the perfect pat of Kylie's bottom at the Brits that kick-started his solo career. Thus, he is technically a new artist but an old hand.

At a Timberlake concert, you struggle to hear the man sing as his lyrics are drowned out by tinnitus-inducing audiences. Although he has a fine, if slightly high voice (closer to early Stevie Wonder than Michael Jackson), the ballads beneath the mauling sound suspiciously like sick-bucket schmaltz.

Timberlake is much happier and much better doing the set's sizeable chunk of retro electro funk, complete with street-gang costumes. Rock Your Body echoes the stellar Arthur Baker and Jellybean Benitez productions, there are various nods to Prince and a surprise cover of Afrikaa Bambaataa's Planet Rock.

Timberlake exhibits unexpected and dazzling skills as a human beatbox: you could almost believe he had grown up on the streets of go-go era New York, if he wasn't 22 and from Memphis.

But the crowd aren't bothered about whether Timberlake has the right records. They just want Timberlake the phenomenon and he doesn't disappoint. He dances on the piano and performs a hilarious reverse snake-charmer trick when the mic disappears into the floor.

There are more loud bangs and flames and Timberlake disappears in a puff of smoke, the climax of a show that's much greater than the songs.

· At Manchester Arena (0870 190 8000) tonight and tomorrow, then touring.

Contributor

Dave Simpson

The GuardianTramp

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