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With Justin Timberlake set to perform at Eurovision this year, we’re saying “Nah.” Because he’s far too good. That’s not what Eurovision is.
Let me tell you what’s wrong with Justin Timberlake at Eurovision.
Justin, let me tell you what Eurovision is about. It’s about bearded women, Scandinavian fruit loops and above all, complete and absolute shit.
Not your futuristic sex and/or sounds of love.
The thrill of Eurovision is to the chance to see some weirdness. Be it the brand new dope-fresh Bulgarian fad of breakdancing, the continent’s utter devotion to mid-’90s techno-synth, a band of Russian gypsy mothers cutting a club banger, or the two identical twins from Eire with an identical lack of talent (see Jedward).
You hold out for that one moment of the evening that defies definition.
The beauty of Eurovision is also the mystery. We don’t know all the details. The songs make no sense and the voting is influenced by the dissolution of the Soviet Union. We don’t know why. We just guess.
Innocence is beautiful.
Eurovision is a place where JT doesn’t fit. Because the man can sing, and we understand it. Timberlake (and the 15-year-old skater-punk version of me is threatening to – horizontally – cut his wrists if I type this next bit…) is good music.
I’m a Eurovision traditionalist. The fact that we’re eligible is the reason why I will not vote for us. Rules, either written or unspoken, are rules. Eurovision isn’t about unearthing talent on an international stage (save for that Swedish mob), it’s about laughing at those who would never make the cut, outside that sole hedonistic evening where anything goes, the party rolls on, to the pale morning light of obscurity, via a top 15 dance mix on the Luxembourg charts.
Which is how it bloody well should be. I feel for the artists. How can Yvan from a one-goat-backwater ‘burg in Moldova, who had no formal training, heal his heartbroken and fiscally wounded country, when they’re all gawping at Justin Timberlake? What of poor Yvan’s dub mix of a song his mother taught him?
What, I ask of you, JT? What of Yvan?
I’ll allow Timberlake at Eurovision, but only if he’s prepared to play by the rules.
Step 1) cut a hole in the passport.
To be eligible, he needs to exit Hollywood, renounce his citizenship and start a new land.
The Republic of Timbertonia.
Then, Justin, as you pick up that accordion to thrash out the folk songs of your humble country, songs about walking on the beach, our toes in the sand. Or the countryside, sitting on the grass laying side by side. Then and only then, you will get my love.
Maybe all this is a vast overstatement; it’s just Justin.
But Justin, it’s just Eurovision.