Justin Timberlake, Earls Court, London

Scream for pop's great redeemer

Not so very long ago, Justin Timberlake was best known for being Mr Britney Spears and one-fifth of the boy band NSync. Today, he has a best-selling solo album and two hit singles under his belt, plus an A-list Hollywood girlfriend (Cameron Diaz): it can't be denied that Timberlake's time has come.

Outside the arena, you can buy satin knickers embossed with the initials "JT"; inside, the stage is still in darkness, but the Timberladies are already waving banners that suggest the speed at which those knickers would come off, were they to get their hands on their idol.

As if to underline Timberlake's plans for global domination, this tour is brought to us under the inauspicious sponsorship of Ronald McDonald. Everywhere you look are the famous golden arches, and it almost comes as a relief to find the boy Timberlake not smacking his lips and brandishing a half-eaten Big Breakfast Bun. In fact, he bounds on to the stage to a cocktail-jazz intro and slides saucily down a fireman's pole. At first glimpse, he's an unlikely heart-throb. Sure, he likes to work out, and his designer stubble would make George Michael proud, but what about the cartoonishly thick brow and that pasty complexion? Paint a couple of pimples on his chin and he'd look perfectly at home stacking shelves at Sainsbury's.

Yet from the second the crowd catch sight of him, kitted out in sweatshirt, trainers and baggy trousers, their screaming rarely lets up, and it doesn't take long to see why. It's as if a mad scientist turned marketing executive has cherry-picked the greatest pop talent of the past 20 years and siphoned it into one perfectly toned body. Timberlake's singing is a bit Stevie Wonder, a bit Prince and a bit Bee Gees, but his dancing is pure Michael Jackson.

"Is there anyone out there who wants to be my girlfriend?" he asks a little smugly, further raising the temperature. For our host, you realise, this is effortless. If he simply stood there and recited the complete works of Dostoevsky, the crowd would be with him all the way.

As for the music, it moves between the outrageously cool and the merely mediocre. The syncopated subtleties of songs such as "Rock Your Body", afforded their edginess by the production duo The Neptunes, are ill served by the arena experience. When the sound system doesn't turn the words to sludge, the crowd drown them out with their yelling. That doesn't stop Timberlake giving it his all in "Cry Me a River", reducing the whole auditorium - security workers included - to mawkish puddles. "Senorita", in which he slides sensuously around the stage before doing a Gene Kelly-meets-Elvis dance routine on top of a baby grand, is quite astonishing.

Elsewhere, ballads such as "Still on My Brain" are pure cheese and suggest a singer still at home with boy-band schmaltz. Even on his more catchy numbers, Timberlake's lyrics aren't up to much, usually revolving around his ill-fated quest for love (yeah, right). When he is hoisted into the air on a hydraulic platform and dangled tantalisingly over his fans, you wonder if we're heading for a reverse-action Renee and Renato moment. In fact, he does a dazzling turn as a human beatbox; even a McDonald's-endorsed ex-boy-band Britney-ex can have a little street cool.

In some respects, this is an arena show by numbers. There are the inevitable costume changes (in which one Daz-fresh sweatshirt is exchanged for another), the fireworks, the cloying expressions of gratitude, the expertly orchestrated choreography. But then you realise that this is no ordinary show and this is no ordinary singer. Not only has Timberlake made some of the catchiest, most thrilling records of the past year; he has single-handedly made pop music great again. For that alone we should bow down and be thankful.

Touring to 18 December and 9-26 January