Justin Timberlake, NEC Arena, Birmingham<br></br>Blur, Astoria, London

Non-threatening boys: come and get 'em

Last time a white boy came dancing outta Memphis singing the black man's music to such profitable effect, the whole white/ black world was still in black & white. This generation's Tennessee escapee isn't going to change the world – the previous one already did it – but he might help change pop music for the better. For that alone, his existence will be justified.

Justin Timberlake shouts "Is there anyone out there who wants to be my girlfriend?" I was recently in a pub with three heterosexual women, two heterosexual men and one bisexual man. Only one of us thought Justin Timberlake was sexy, and that was me. A man with the self-confidence to have a little fun at his own expense and to not worry if he looks a little... well, a little gay (tonight he poses in a Bavarian hat, a red flat cap, and gets leathered up). What could be more attractive? Maybe my friends are a bad sample. I look around the NEC Arena at the faces screaming "YES!" to Justin's question, and suddenly all becomes clear. They all want to be his girlfriend. Justin could have stepped out of Non-Threatening Boys magazine, as read by Lisa Simpson ("How many of these guys are called Corey?" – Homer).

Nothing new in this, of course. Another year, another winsome pin-up. What makes this one special? Well, there's a twinkle in the eye, a likeability about Justin that you don't get with, say, Robbie Williams. A certain playfulness pervades the JT live show, which I strongly suspect of being lip-synched (he wears a radio mic around his face for the first three numbers, but grabs a chunky, hand-held microphone for his "Hello Birmingham" bit). It's a top quality teenpop spectacular, taking in a cool bouncing mic trick, some abseiling, a bitwhere he flies over our heads like an angel, human-beatboxing all the way (so he can do that "boom-tsch-boom" bit from the video), and a truly staggering stunt wherein he dances on a piano lid and, in a blast of pyros, vanishes completely. When the sound cuts out embarrassingly, you're with him, not against him. Mainly, though, it's because the music itself is so damn fine.

A year or so ago, The Neptunes told me their next project would blow my mind. "We can't tell you who it is yet, but I promise it'll completely change the way you think about this guy." When I found out that the identity of the mystery star was Justin Timberlake, I was bitterly disappointed. Over here in Britain, Justin was merely Mr Britney, and *NSync didn't mean a whole lot. Listening to JT's debut album, Justified, you learn more about The Neptunes than you do about the man himself, particularly their love of Prince. You can hear it in the lyrics to "Take It From Here", a devotional hymn to the wonders of womankind. You can hear it in the vertiginous whirl of strings and sudden stop... in the same song. Tonight, JT turns it into an elongated, teasing pause, straight out of "The Most Beautiful Girl In The World". His most devastating moment, though, is the emotional flipside of this love fest. "Cry Me A River" is truly sinister, a stalker's soliloquy. In the video, Justin stalks a Britney clone to her apartment, watches her shower, and leaves behind a video of the two of them: "The damage is done, so I guess I'll be leaving..." It's as epic a spite-song as Prince's "Eye Hate U", written in the knowledge that revenge, like gazpacho, is a dish best served cold. And he's so not over Britney. One of tonight's dancers is a Spears-alike in school gym kit. For much of the show, she dutifully tails his heels, in the way the real one never did.

"So many memories..." says Damon Albarn – somewhat wistfully – at the end of Blur's five-night residency at the Astoria. For me, too. I'd forgotten so much. "For Tomorrow" – the first sign, way back in the day, that they were more than opportunistic baggy/ shoegazing monkeys – couldn't sweeten me up more. This is the Blur I love(d). The knees-up-muvver-braahn nonsense always left me cold, and the sub-Radiohead art-rock experimentalism leaves me cold now. But the big, sweeping, symphonic stuff – "To The End", "The Universal", "End Of The Century", tonight's glorious finale "This Is A Low", and the gorgeous new single "Out Of Time" – always chime with my romantic streak. In these moments, when Damon really opens up and sings, he can be almost as emotionally affecting as the Super Furry Animals' Gruff Rhys. These are Blur's first UK shows without Graham Coxon, but with ex-Verve man Simon Tonge on guitar, who looks uncomfortable and stiff. Damon, however, in his too-tight blazer and too-short trews – the New Wave look of the Modern Life Is Rubbish era – looks in his element, except for the moment he trips over his own guitar strap. You'd never catch Alex James doing that. Despite the strong handicap of hanging around with gimps like Keith Allen and Damien Hirst, he's rarely anything other than effortlessly cool, playing double bass with a fag in his mouth like he was born to do it.

Damon's retro wardrobe is a hint that this is a retrospective set, not just a Think Tank showcase. There's the Plastic Ono shuffle of "Tender" (which could be summarised as "all we are saying is give me another chance, Justine"). There's the "woo-hoo" song about feeling heavy metal, and it's obvious successor, "Crazy Beat" (with its "I Wanna Be Your Dog" riff). There's "Popscene", in which Albarn belly-flops into the pit, and has his shirt ripped open, revealing a chest of Giggs-like hairiness. There's some unlistenable rubbish like "Top Man", "Trimm Trabb" and "We've Got A File On You", but there's also "Brothers And Sisters", a smart litany of drugs and their users, knowingly based on David Essex's "Rock On" ("Cocaine... is for murderers/ Codeine... for the jurors/ Caffeine... bad for all of us").

Suddenly, an old face. In a scruffy mac, Phil Daniels walks out. It's not for "Parklife" – Blur don't like to talk about that any more – but something unrecognisable (a secret track from the end of an album, I'm told). Nevertheless, his first word on the microphone is "Oi!" Old habits die hard.

s.price@independent.co.uk