Welcome to Worldofjustin.com, the largest online source for Justin Timberlake fans. WoJ has been online since 2003 and is home to more than 100,000 media files.The site is updated daily to give fans the full experience. Through news, video and photo graphy we live out each day of his life.

07-09 Buffalo, NY - First Niagara Center
07-10 manhatten, NY - hammerstein ballroom
07-12 Charlotte, NC - Time Warner Cable Arena
07-14 Baltimore, MD - Baltimore Arena
07-16 Albany, NY - Times Union Center
07-18 Uncasville, CT - Mohegan Sun
07-19 Boston, MA - TD Garden
07-22 Ottawa, Ontario - Canadian Tire Centre
07-25-26 Montreal, Quebec - Bell Centre
07-28 Detroit, MI - The Palace of Auburn Hills
07-30 Kansas City, MO - Sprint Center
08-03 New Orleans, LA - New Orleans Arena
08-05 San Antonio, TX - AT&T Center
08-08 Las Vegas, NV - MGM Grand Garden Arena
08-11 San Jose, CA - SAP Center
11-20 Portland, OR - MODA Center
11-22 Oakland, CA - Oracle Arena
11-24 Los Angeles, CA - The Forum
11-28 Las Vegas, NV - MGM Grand Garden Arena
12-01 Houston, TX - Toyota Center
12-03 Dallas, TX - American Airlines Center
12-05 Oklahoma City, OK - Chesapeake Energy Arena
12-08 Chicago, IL - United Center
12-10 Toronto, Ontario - Air Canada Centre
12-13 Uncasville, CT - Mohegan Sun
12-14 Brooklyn, NY - Barclays Center
12-17 Philadelphia, PA - Wells Fargo Center
12-19 Nashville, TN - Bridgestone Arena
12-20 Atlanta, GA - Gwinnett Center


Check out Justin's hottest videos over at Worldofjustintv.com.... but here's a quick preview

Check out some of the latest things Justin has been working on.

Runner Runner
Release : 2014
check out screen captures
Purchase on iTunes - Download



Nsync Essentials
Release : July 29, 2014
Peak Chart Position : --
Purchase on iTunes - Download



love never felt so good
Release : May 13, 2014
Peak Chart Position : #20
Purchase on iTunes - Download



not a bad thing
Release : 2/24/2014
Peak Chart Position : #8
Purchase on iTunes - Download



The 20/20 Experience 2 of 2
Release : 9/30/2013
Peak Chart Position :
Purchase on iTunes - Download





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Buckeye Nation’s  basketball team has just ascended to the top of the NCAA  coaches’ poll. But that’s not why, on a cold night in  Columbus, Ohio, seemingly every undergrad in the city is  shitfaced. It’s not just another Monday evening, just another  happy hour at the Distillery over on High Street. The kegs are  whirring with particular purpose tonight. FutureSex/LoveShow  is in town.

Justin. Fucking. Timberlake. Here. At  Ohio State.

The Benetton-like tableau of black  kids, white kids, goths, sluts, outcasts, and douchebags  outside the Value City Arena has been waiting for four hours  in the cold to worship at Timberlake’s sneakered feet. All  those little girls who first felt stone strike flint in their  panties while listening to the G-rated cooing of early ’N Sync  are legal now. And they’re wasted. Boobs served up on  underwire platters. Hair moussed, sprayed, and lacquered.  Fists wrapped around cans of Bud Light, they’re gyrating  against the metal crowd barrier like it’s a stripper’s pole.  Inhaling alcohol, exuding sex, they pile in on top of one  another for tonight’s “in the round” performance

Later, when Timberlake’s robo-sexual  call to arms—“futuresex . . . lovesound . . . futuresex . . .  lovesound”—begins to quake through the speakers in quickening  repetition, the earsplitting, high-pitched shrieking is  expected. The thick, raspy baritone harmonizing with it is  not.

Guys are howling for Timberlake with  the same animal intensity as their pop-loving sisters. Frat  boys in backward ball caps. Gay men in their tightest-fitting  tees. White-belted hipsters with mohawks. And an aging hood  rat who looks like he got lost on the way to a Van Halen show.  With plastic cups of beer hoisted in the air, they bellow in  unison:

“Jaaaaayyyy-Teeeeee!”

As the house lights go dark,  Timberlake—looking sharp in a tailored slate-gray suit, skinny  black tie, and ivory tennis shoes—rises slowly from beneath  the stage on a platform. Ringed by pimped-out backup singers  and bathed in the red light of a rotating, million-dollar  spotlight, he takes the microphone stand in one hand.

As three-story swaths of hanging  curtain lift, Justin Timberlake lets out a single,  high-pitched “Whoo,” and 15,000 people lose their minds.

“I’m having a moment. . . . I’m  having a moment. . . . I’m having a moment.”

Sitting at attention on a leather  sofa in a dressing room backstage at the Value City Arena,  Justin Timberlake bites into his pre-performance  peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwich (there was no  strawberry. Did nobody read the tour rider?). He test-drives  the phrase that’s been reverberating in the media for the past  year, during which time the now 26-year-old performer was the  linchpin of the Grammy Awards ceremony; held his own opposite  Christina Ricci and Samuel L. Jackson in the indie movie Black Snake Moan; nurtured his fledgling clothing line,  William Rast; and launched the chart-busting FutureSex/LoveSounds  album (along with a much-watched video in which he  tongue-wrestles Scarlett Johansson): Justin Timberlake is  having a moment. He rolls the words over on his tongue, trying  to find the syntax to help him understand the phrase. “I don’t  know what it means. I really don’t,” he says, crunching into a  Fritos Flavor Twist.

This weary-eyed  pop star is more endearing than the flashy homeboy he projects  to the public. In person, he’s more boyish, even with thick  stubble. His voice is even reedier than you’d think, almost  pubescent. He really is a kid from Tennessee who can go from  mama’s boy to lova-lova man in 60 seconds flat. No wonder  then, as he sits in the greenroom of this stadium, eating his  PB&J, he’s not convinced of his status as the pope of pop  culture.

The Timberlake caravan arrived here  at 5:30 this morning from Buffalo, New York. J.T. fit in a  little shut-eye, a little NPR (“This American Life” is a  favorite), and a little quality time with his two boxers,  Buckley and Brennan, before getting back to work.

“It’s a bitch. Way more intense than  anything I’ve done before,” Timberlake says, sipping a cream  soda he got from a nearby catering spread of sandwich-making  materials, chips, soft drinks, and an unmarked brown liquor.  On the coffee table in front of him is an assortment of  antacids, aspirin, and Beano. For gas. You know, just in case.

Timberlake has been blinking in the  glare of stage lights since he was 11. But he’s never done  anything like this. Over the next two and a half hours, he’ll  sing, pop-and-lock like a break-dancer on ’ludes, play the  keytar, strum a white guitar, dry-hump some backup dancers,  trade rhymes with Timbaland (a collaborator on FutureSex),  and down a shot of Patrón to show solidarity with the  fucked-up crowd. He will do this 21 more times over the next  six weeks. Then it’s on to Europe.

Bringing sexy back is hard work.

“Last tour, we were doing four  concerts a week, but I wasn’t singing as much,” he says. “The  show wasn’t as long, it wasn’t as involved, and I didn’t have  as much responsibility vocally.”

All the red-eyed road-tripping  through middle-of-nowhere America may tucker Timberlake out  and upset his tummy, but it has its advantages. The people who  make a living covering his sex life have been working almost  as hard as he has lately; his “tour bubble” is a relative safe  haven. The end of Timberlake’s nearly four-year relationship  with Cameron Diaz is still selling copies of Us Weekly  and People. His handlers have been frantically applying  a just friends rubber stamp to sightings of Timberlake with  Jessica Biel and Scarlett Johansson. And then there’s Britney.

Five years after they broke up and  their careers took opposite paths, Timberlake and Spears, our  Kmart-ified version of Charles and Diana, are still shackled  together in the public eye. Yesterday she shaved her head.  Tomorrow she’ll go to rehab. Again. Never mind K-Fed. Everyone  wants to know what Justin thinks.

Justin,  predictably, has basically no comment. For someone so eager to  repel the stereotype of the media-coached pop star (“All of a  sudden you’re Mr. ‘SexyBack,’ and before that you were Mr.  ‘Cry Me a River.’ I knew I had to take a break when they said  the new King of Pop,” he says), Timberlake shuts down with  astonishing, practiced speed when asked about tabloid reports.  He responds to inquiries about his personal life (are those  run-ins with Cameron awkward?) with an attack on the gossip  magazines that scrutinize it.

“I despise what they do,” he says,  leaning forward, in response to the Britney Question. There’s  a flush of red in his cheeks, but he stays meticulously  on-point. “They create soap operas out of people’s lives. We  had our thing, and it’s over. They edit that stuff like MTV  edits reality shows. It’s a spin game, and I choose not to  take part in it.”

Timberlake’s skill at appearing to  feel much but say little has served him well. It’s not just  his voice and hips and five-o’clock shadow that have  transformed the one-dimensional ex-boy-bander into a  legitimate five-tool stud. He may say he doesn’t grasp the  concept of “having a moment,” but he clearly knows how to  stoke the flames of one. Rule No. 1: Don’t make an ass of  yourself—at least not when the cameras are rolling. “I would  never say anything bad about anyone,” he says, winding down.  His eyes scan the floor uncomfortably. Then he issues the safe  statement: “I love a lot of those people.”

A person as large as Tiny,  Timberlake’s man-mountain of a bodyguard, could get away with  wearing this much pink. Shirt, tie, pocket handkerchief. When  he tells the assembled catering crew, security guards, and  ushers watching sound check to “clear the bowl,” there is an  immediate mass exodus.

Timberlake makes his way to the stage  for a quick run-through with his band, working out bits of  “What Goes Around . . . ,” “Damn Girl,” even Coldplay’s “The  Scientist,” for an empty arena. Then he has one final bit of  business: a few grip-and-grins with tour sponsors from Dell  and awkward group shots with local contest winners.

“Somebody has to pay for this tour,”  he says over his shoulder. He dives in—pumping flesh, posing  for photos, feigning being pinched in the ass by  hyperventilating fans, accepting personalized Ohio State  football jerseys that will end up slung in a corner of the  management office—before heading back to the greenroom.

Timberlake is not a kiss-ass. Selling  more than 13 million records has earned him a lot of rope, and  he knows that. He relishes battles with his label, Jive, about  single-release choices (“SexyBack” was his call. The label, he  says, was “scared shitless”), dictates tour demands (no more  than four shows a week), and claims he generally doesn’t give  a shit what anyone else thinks.

“I tried so hard  to be an R&B artist [on his first solo album, Justified]  and it was the pop album of the year, and I was like, ‘Fuck.  That’s the last thing I wanted,’” Timberlake says, taking a  swig from another can of cream soda. “But I was like, ‘So  everyone considers me a pop artist? Well, fuck it. I’m going  to do whatever I want to do.’”

But moonwalking the line between  manchild and hipster mascot is tough. On one hand, Timberlake  beams when he recalls a recent article in the New York  Times about punk fans who unexpectedly love him. On the  other, he says he resents feeling like he owes indie rockers  an apology for his candy-pop past. The internal battle is most  evident when he talks about this year’s Grammys. Weeks in  advance of the telecast, he was asked to be the star of “My  Grammy Moment,” a cheesy, American Idol rip-off bit in  which the winner of a contest got to perform onstage with him.  Before the idea was fleshed out, Timberlake agreed. As the  potentially disastrous plan hurtled to fruition, he ached to  back out. He couldn’t. “Because I’m the nice guy who follows  through on the things he commits to,” he says, a mock smile  locked into place. “But I don’t know if I’ll be going through  that sort of thing again. I feel like the Grammys used me for  ratings. And look at it—they were up 18 percent.”

Roughly five years after bubblegum  pop’s Vaseline-lensed heyday, the boy “most likely to” is  trash-talking the Grammys. He has survived the boy-band  apocalypse and become a man.

“I could give you a bunch of  analogies about why I’m still around that would sound like  hippie self-help bullshit,” he says, popping a throat lozenge.  “‘I saw an opportunity and I took it?’ Fuck you. Sure, there’s  a lot of luck involved. But on some level I have to believe in  my ability. And I’m not apologizing to anyone. I worked  fucking hard to get here.” Timberlake is done chatting. In 30  minutes, he’ll have a group prayer with his backing band and  dancers. Then he’ll be whisked underneath the stage to wait  for the madness to begin.

Outside the dimly lit serenity of his  dressing room, the gears are grinding furiously toward  showtime. Opening act Pink, fresh off her 45-minute set of  you-go-girl-isms, tears down the backstage hallway in a  fuchsia bathrobe. “Great crowd tonight,” she yells to her  handler. “I think they were all drunk.”

Nope. Sorry, Pink. They’re hammered. All in the name of J.T.

It’s the most understated song of the  night, and for the purist, the set closer, “(Another Song) All  Over Again”—a slow-building, “gimme one more chance, baby”  weeper—is the clear highlight. No solos, no costumes, no  gyrating come-ons, just “Jaaaaayyyy-Teeeeee” underlining his  “moment” by trumping style with substance. This is how  Timberlake made it to the other side of the ’N Sync era: with  his voice. Not the falsetto Jackson-lite of his hits, but the  strong, wide-ranging blue-eyed Memphis soul burning in his  gut. As the closing notes of “Another Song” give way to the  Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony,” Timberlake, gray T-shirt  soaked through with sweat, takes a four-corner bow with his  backing band and dancers. The mass exodus of horny, happy  drunks begins, everyone walking, stumbling—and, in some cases,  being carried—from the arena. All except for the two frat boys  who insist on staying behind to yell—again—for Timberlake to  sing “Dick in a Box.” As for Timberlake, he’ll get a quick  shower and a ride back to the hotel. Then a few hours of sleep  before an early-morning wake-up call. As his fleet of souped-up  tour buses—each furnished with a flat-screen TV, leather  seats, bunks, and a nicely stocked bar—weaves through traffic,  Tiny relaxes for the first time all day. His night of crowd  control included, among other things, breaking up a tag-team  match that involved eight women, a gay man, and lots of beer.  Nothing a gentle choke hold and a few choice words couldn’t  soothe. “I’ve never seen that many girls so drunk,” he says,  relaxing his ample frame into the couch. “Those girls can  drink.” At 1:30 in the morning, the lobby of the Westin Hotel  is empty, but Timberlake’s two bodyguards head through the  glass doors first just to make sure. Coast sufficiently clear,  Timberlake—hoodie pulled tight over his head, hands in his  pockets—emerges from the bus and slowly walks toward the  elevator. At first, nobody sees the twentysomething female  hidden behind a marble pillar. “Ma’am,” Tiny says curtly,  shaking his head deliberately for emphasis. She tries to  defend herself: “But I’m a guest of the—” “Ma’am,” Tiny  repeats, more sternly this time. “Not tonight, ma’am. You can  take the next one.” Timberlake, exhausted, appears not to  notice the minor ruckus. And with a polite nod, he vanishes  behind the gold elevator doors. Hopefully he’s got something a  little more potent than cream soda waiting for him upstairs.