Justin Timberlake has built a career as a singer and an actor by being genuinely affable. It’s a rarer quality than it seems at first—many television personalities strive for affability but end up looking maniacally suggestible. Timberlake began at age ten, in Millington, Tennessee, singing Al Green songs at talent competitions, before becoming a cast member of the “New Mickey Mouse Club” TV show. Stepping into puberty, he was the front man of the boy band ’NSync, which redefined popular, selling twenty-eight million albums.

Since ’NSync’s demise, in 2002, Timberlake has released three solo albums, the most recent of which, “The 20/20 Experience,” came out last week. After releasing “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” in 2006, he went on to star in such well-crafted movies as “The Social Network,” where he was plausible without being compelling, and in terrible movies like “Friends with Benefits,” where only his likability could save him. His endless tour through late-night TV has served his personality and wide smile much better: two weeks ago, at thirty-two, Timberlake became a member of the Five-Timers Club, joining Alec Baldwin and Tom Hanks as one of only fourteen people to host “Saturday Night Live” five or more times. His visible intelligence and apparent humility make him a tonic on television.

Onstage, Timberlake can be a remarkable dancer and a pleasing singer firmly schooled in classic R. & B. If the initial arc of his career mimics that of anyone, it might be Frank Sinatra, whom he cites as a fashion influence: a teen-idol singer who moved into acting and produced a series of recordings that have endured. Timberlake could follow an easier version of that path, with a softer edge and fewer highballs. But can we be content with good nature and hard work when something more intense seems to lie beneath the surface? He never promised us a great transformation, and yet we’re still waiting for it.

Only a churl would deny Timberlake’s joy in performing. If you want evidence of his physical eloquence, watch the video for his début solo single, “Like I Love You,” from “Justified” (2002). In the clip, he approaches his love interest in a parking lot, dipping both shoulders as he boxes her in—without touching—against a yellow car. Then, in the parking lot and at a club, Timberlake and his backup dancers execute the synchronized movements that ’NSync relied on: a little bit Bob Fosse, a little bit “In Living Color.” At the end of the video, Timberlake improvises with the producer Pharrell Williams, and there’s a looseness in his movements that bespeaks an easy kineticism. In that transition, you can see him grow up: he may not be Michael Jackson, but he has some of his fluidity.

Eleven years later, “The 20/20 Experience” has little of that elasticity. Timberlake has reunited with the producer Timbaland, who was central to both “Justified” and the follow-up, “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” which felt, at the time, like a peak in commercial R. & B. It was unpredictable, brittle, sumptuous—digital in texture but embodying real physical tension. On the song “My Love,” over chattering synth flashes, mouth noises, and a quiet drumroll, he sings about writing both love notes and symphonies. Thanks to the shift from airy falsetto to harmonizing, and the slow but propulsive beat, he sounded as if he were singing from about four feet above the ground. On all his albums, Timberlake often moves to his falsetto voice, because it works, and also, possibly, because his open, untreated middle tone is pleasant but not exciting.

There is a mild retro feeling to much of “The 20/20 Experience,” but nothing so derivative that it ruins the good parts. Sinatra’s ghost reappears when Timberlake poses with some now somewhat familiar vintage mikes. We get it—he knows that he’s aging. So can he pull off an “It Was a Very Good Year” or a “Summer Wind”? These are the songs of an older man, but they hint at the kind of depth we might soon ask of Timberlake.

He does not lack attention to detail. The mood on “The 20/20 Experience” tends to reread classic soul, and it suggests that Timberlake has heard the recent works of Frank Ocean and Miguel, which also carefully revisit old soul. Most of the synthetic zap and sheen of “FutureSex/LoveSounds”—which is heavily indebted not only to Timbaland but also to his co-producer, Danja, now replaced by Jerome (J-Roc) Harmon—is gone. Since that album had its share of throwaways (“Sexy Ladies,” anyone?), that’s not necessarily bad.

But the album’s first single, “Suit & Tie,” is widely acknowledged to be a misstep. At more than five minutes, it’s a single knocked slowly past first base at best. In the video (and it is uncharacteristically helpful to the song), we learn that Timberlake is friends with Jay-Z, knows attractive women, and has an iPad. After almost a minute, the track brings in a clipped horn section and a fleet, rapid beat, a bit like Chicago Steppers music blended with Earth, Wind and Fire. The vocal harmonies, like those on many of Timberlake’s recordings, are creamy and dense enough to distract you from what’s little more than a plea to put on a suit. O.K., sure, Jay-Z shows up for a superfluous verse, throwing in the telling announcement that it’s “time for tuxedos for no reasons.”

Timberlake does a better retro impression with an orchestra, like the one that leads us into “Pusher Love Girl,” a warm number that moves between an explicit downbeat and a gentle eddy. Again, he uses horns and harmony vocals to back up his voice, taking us into its highest register. But this song is eight minutes long, so we find ourselves asking questions that we might have ignored in a three-minute version. We get it—“pusher love . . . be my drug . . . hook me up, cause all I want is you.” But “pusher love”? Not “love pusher”? Timberlake circles the notion for a while, at low temperature, tossing in some mild and glassy guitar licks. We never get his voice alone, without effects or harmony backing, the element that would draw us into the desperation of this individual. The sounds glide between silky and chunky, but the sum is slack. Compare this with “What Goes Around . . . /Comes Around,” from “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” at 7:28 a song that’s almost equally long. That track is built around a string section nearly as big as the one in “Pusher Love Girl,” as Timberlake laments a woman who left him and may end up regretting it. The strings move in and out of long legato waves and punchier pizzicato moments, pushing against a loud, digital shaker sound. Deftly, the song pivots into a darker second section as Timberlake’s lyrics grow slightly angrier and, in the background, Timbaland chants, “What goes around comes back around.” This is not three minutes stretched to eight but an emotional arc that needs seven and a half minutes.

Timberlake’s current choices are puzzling, because the album also showcases fantastic strengths. There’s the slow-dance vortex of “Don’t Hold the Wall”; and “Let the Groove Get In” is a locomotive of a track, powered by a synthetic kick drum and a sample of vocals and percussion from Burkina Faso. The horns are here, again, as are trailing, hovering harmonies. Timberlake’s arrangement of vocal harmonies, given its prominence in all three albums, could become his greatest contribution. He might eventually secure a talk show, or an infallible sitcom, or simply tour endlessly. I play “The 20/20 Experience” for the sheer pleasure of its detailed sound. But since Timberlake rarely wants his voice to stand front and center, he might use his skill set to bring his Cinemascope vision of vocal arranging to records that don’t have his name on the cover. As he says in the intro to an early single, “Like I Love You,” “It’s just Justin.” ♦

Justin Timberlake has built a career as a singer and an actor by being genuinely affable. It’s a rarer quality than it seems at first—many television personalities strive for affability but end up looking maniacally suggestible. Timberlake began at age ten, in Millington, Tennessee, singing Al Green songs at talent competitions, before becoming a cast member of the “New Mickey Mouse Club” TV show. Stepping into puberty, he was the front man of the boy band ’NSync, which redefined popular, selling twenty-eight million albums.

Since ’NSync’s demise, in 2002, Timberlake has released three solo albums, the most recent of which, “The 20/20 Experience,” came out last week. After releasing “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” in 2006, he went on to star in such well-crafted movies as “The Social Network,” where he was plausible without being compelling, and in terrible movies like “Friends with Benefits,” where only his likability could save him. His endless tour through late-night TV has served his personality and wide smile much better: two weeks ago, at thirty-two, Timberlake became a member of the Five-Timers Club, joining Alec Baldwin and Tom Hanks as one of only fourteen people to host “Saturday Night Live” five or more times. His visible intelligence and apparent humility make him a tonic on television.

Onstage, Timberlake can be a remarkable dancer and a pleasing singer firmly schooled in classic R. & B. If the initial arc of his career mimics that of anyone, it might be Frank Sinatra, whom he cites as a fashion influence: a teen-idol singer who moved into acting and produced a series of recordings that have endured. Timberlake could follow an easier version of that path, with a softer edge and fewer highballs. But can we be content with good nature and hard work when something more intense seems to lie beneath the surface? He never promised us a great transformation, and yet we’re still waiting for it.

Only a churl would deny Timberlake’s joy in performing. If you want evidence of his physical eloquence, watch the video for his début solo single, “Like I Love You,” from “Justified” (2002). In the clip, he approaches his love interest in a parking lot, dipping both shoulders as he boxes her in—without touching—against a yellow car. Then, in the parking lot and at a club, Timberlake and his backup dancers execute the synchronized movements that ’NSync relied on: a little bit Bob Fosse, a little bit “In Living Color.” At the end of the video, Timberlake improvises with the producer Pharrell Williams, and there’s a looseness in his movements that bespeaks an easy kineticism. In that transition, you can see him grow up: he may not be Michael Jackson, but he has some of his fluidity.

Eleven years later, “The 20/20 Experience” has little of that elasticity. Timberlake has reunited with the producer Timbaland, who was central to both “Justified” and the follow-up, “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” which felt, at the time, like a peak in commercial R. & B. It was unpredictable, brittle, sumptuous—digital in texture but embodying real physical tension. On the song “My Love,” over chattering synth flashes, mouth noises, and a quiet drumroll, he sings about writing both love notes and symphonies. Thanks to the shift from airy falsetto to harmonizing, and the slow but propulsive beat, he sounded as if he were singing from about four feet above the ground. On all his albums, Timberlake often moves to his falsetto voice, because it works, and also, possibly, because his open, untreated middle tone is pleasant but not exciting.

He does not lack attention to detail. The mood on “The 20/20 Experience” tends to reread classic soul, and it suggests that Timberlake has heard the recent works of Frank Ocean and Miguel, which also carefully revisit old soul. Most of the synthetic zap and sheen of “FutureSex/LoveSounds”—which is heavily indebted not only to Timbaland but also to his co-producer, Danja, now replaced by Jerome (J-Roc) Harmon—is gone. Since that album had its share of throwaways (“Sexy Ladies,” anyone?), that’s not necessarily bad.There is a mild retro feeling to much of “The 20/20 Experience,” but nothing so derivative that it ruins the good parts. Sinatra’s ghost reappears when Timberlake poses with some now somewhat familiar vintage mikes. We get it—he knows that he’s aging. So can he pull off an “It Was a Very Good Year” or a “Summer Wind”? These are the songs of an older man, but they hint at the kind of depth we might soon ask of Timberlake.

But the album’s first single, “Suit & Tie,” is widely acknowledged to be a misstep. At more than five minutes, it’s a single knocked slowly past first base at best. In the video (and it is uncharacteristically helpful to the song), we learn that Timberlake is friends with Jay-Z, knows attractive women, and has an iPad. After almost a minute, the track brings in a clipped horn section and a fleet, rapid beat, a bit like Chicago Steppers music blended with Earth, Wind and Fire. The vocal harmonies, like those on many of Timberlake’s recordings, are creamy and dense enough to distract you from what’s little more than a plea to put on a suit. O.K., sure, Jay-Z shows up for a superfluous verse, throwing in the telling announcement that it’s “time for tuxedos for no reasons.”

Timberlake does a better retro impression with an orchestra, like the one that leads us into “Pusher Love Girl,” a warm number that moves between an explicit downbeat and a gentle eddy. Again, he uses horns and harmony vocals to back up his voice, taking us into its highest register. But this song is eight minutes long, so we find ourselves asking questions that we might have ignored in a three-minute version. We get it—“pusher love . . . be my drug . . . hook me up, cause all I want is you.” But “pusher love”? Not “love pusher”? Timberlake circles the notion for a while, at low temperature, tossing in some mild and glassy guitar licks. We never get his voice alone, without effects or harmony backing, the element that would draw us into the desperation of this individual. The sounds glide between silky and chunky, but the sum is slack. Compare this with “What Goes Around . . . /Comes Around,” from “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” at 7:28 a song that’s almost equally long. That track is built around a string section nearly as big as the one in “Pusher Love Girl,” as Timberlake laments a woman who left him and may end up regretting it. The strings move in and out of long legato waves and punchier pizzicato moments, pushing against a loud, digital shaker sound. Deftly, the song pivots into a darker second section as Timberlake’s lyrics grow slightly angrier and, in the background, Timbaland chants, “What goes around comes back around.” This is not three minutes stretched to eight but an emotional arc that needs seven and a half minutes.