What does Man of the Woods teach us about modern masculinity?

It’s no secret at this stage that Justin Timberlake’s new album is pretty lousy. Trading in the squeaky-clean R&B of 2013’s The 20/20 Experience, Timberlake presents Man of the Woods, promoted as a contemporary spin on the music of the southern United States, or “modern Americana with 808s”. If it sounds like a mess from that description, that’s because it is; Man of the Woods is hopelessly muddled and self-indulgent, with an uncharismatic Timberlake doing his thing, no matter how tasteless, over some of the Neptunes’ and Timbaland’s most obnoxious production in years. Outside of some loose lyrical gestures towards naturalistic imagery and doing the do-si-do (yes, really), Timberlake’s woodsy inspiration for the project is primarily manifested in the fact that it has guitars on it sometimes and Chris Stapleton is there; for the most part, the album is heavy on 808s and light on Americana.

Why push this back-to-the-wilderness narrative in the first place?

That’s not to say the album fails because Timberlake doesn’t deliver on the concept – the concept is inherently terrible – but it’s interesting to consider his reasons for such a shift in image in the current pop landscape. While there is very little on Man of the Woods that captures the kind of bucolic aesthetic that Timberlake is half-heartedly aiming for, it’s still the direction in which the album was marketed, from the title and cover to the promotional visuals of Timberlake doing rustic things like kneeling in a field and gallivanting around the great outdoors like an insufferable cryptid. Why, then, push this back-to-the-wilderness narrative in the first place?

We can maybe approach an answer by considering who got it right. It’s been just over ten years since the label release of For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver, AKA Justin Vernon. The story behind the album is almost as revered as the music: disenchanted with his life, Vernon exiled himself to his dad’s cabin in Wisconsin to write songs and hunt his own food, returning three months later with the album that would invigorate his career. It’s a satisfying fable, a man depriving himself of urban comforts to live in solitude and emerging from his hibernation with a folk opus. That’s not to say the material itself is directly related to the experience, or really about nature at all, but discussion of For Emma, whether among critics or fans, rarely occurs without reference to the narrative behind it.

Such an image is perhaps especially attractive in contemporary society because it signifies a special relationship with the endangered organic world

Clearly, then, the tale lends the music some of its allure, seemingly indicating qualities of commitment and endurance on Vernon’s part. It partakes in a symbolic legacy notably exemplified by Henry David Thoreau, the 19^th century essayist and philosopher who famously retreated to a self-constructed cabin in Massachusetts with the intention of living simply and self-sufficiently, hoping to gain insights into the workings of society and prove that such an isolation was sustainable. Never mind that Thoreau may in reality have been far from independent during this time; it’s the ideal that he was striving towards that is significant when considering the fantasy of rural self-sufficiency, and how it has evolved into the foundation for a kind of alternative masculinity. Thoreau’s project, reincarnated in Vernon’s sabbatical in Wisconsin, implies a version of manhood in which the role of hunter-gatherer or provider intersects with the notion of the solitary male genius; the figure in question lives off the land, proving his grit, while maintaining (or even acquiring) a level of artistic sensitivity and insight. Such an image is perhaps especially attractive in contemporary society because it signifies a special relationship with the endangered organic world, as well as virtues of independence, authenticity and individuality that feel increasingly rare in the digital age. As it becomes harder and harder to unplug, so to speak, the idea of actually doing so takes on increasing significance and moral value.

It’s hard to say how much of this Timberlake and his team were actively taking into account while concocting his latest LP, but at this point the tropes in question are so embedded into the cultural landscape that it’s somewhat beside the point. Consciously or not, he seemed for a second to be trying to capitalise on a narrative that might have yielded a more positive reception a decade ago, back when acts like Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes and Mumford and Sons first materialised to woo us with tuneful accounts of their feelings. It might also have helped if the album had been any good, or at least kept JT’s terminal swagger at bay long enough to achieve the kind of sincerity he’s aspiring to; as it is, his latest does not feel much more personal than anything else in his catalogue. “Hater’s gonna say it’s fake” he chants across “Filthy”, the techno-funk disaster that sets Man of the Woods in motion. The haters, unfortunately, would be right.