Justin Timberlake’s latest effort, “Everything I Thought It Was,” isn’t as bad as you might expect — but that’s only assuming you make it through the first song.

Overall, the album is fine. It’s underwhelming, sure, and far too long (no one is listening to Timberlake’s music for more than an hour straight unless it’s “FutureSex/LoveSounds”), but thankfully it’s not a “Man of the Woods”-level fiasco.

That album’s release in 2018 coincided with an all-time low for Timberlake’s reputation: a mass reckoning with his complicit role in “Nipplegate” and Janet Jackson’s ensuing exile from Hollywood. In 2021, he received another wave of backlash for his past treatment of Britney Spears, which many fans perceived as sexist. (He apologized to both women.)

In the years since, Timberlake has been moving with flagrant intention, toying with our nostalgia for his heyday. He asked to collaborate with R&B’s new darling Coco Jones when her song “ICU” was going viral. He recently returned to his happy place on “Saturday Night Live.” He even reunited *NSYNC for the new “Trolls” soundtrack — then enlisted his former boy band for a feature on the very album we’re here to discuss.

As isolated incidents, these seem like typical pop star decisions. Put together, they reveal Timberlake’s objective. He really wants us to like him again.

This is the only explanation I can fathom for the existence of “Memphis,” the opening track on “Everything I Thought It Was.”

To put it kindly, Timberlake kicks off his would-be comeback album with a bid for sympathy, an attempt to humanize the man behind the publicity tour.

To put it more honestly, “Memphis” tempted me to turn off the album within its first few minutes. The song is shockingly charmless, tone-deaf, and careless — and I’m saying all that as a noted “Cry Me a River” defender.

Timberlake begins by telling us that he’s surrounded by luxuries like fancy cars and expensive liquor. By his own admission, it’s the stuff of dreams. But — plot twist! — he’s still unhappy.

“They said, ‘Everywhere you go, they gonna know your name / Who cares if you get lonely long as you’re famous?'” he sings.

First of all, read the room. I have no doubt that fame is a lonely, isolating experience. I’m sure it’s frustrating to feel beloved and misunderstood all at once. But now is certainly not the time for a song that boils down to, “I have money and Grammys, feel bad for me.” Wealth inequality is rampant. Plenty of older people can’t even retire. Studies show that most Americans feel downtrodden and extraordinarily lonely. The difference is that most of us don’t have piles of cash to cry into.

The song doesn’t get better. In the chorus, Timberlake complains about having “too much on [his] plate.” (And whose fault is that? Nobody begged him to release a new album.)

But the song’s worst offense is the outro, which Timberlake raps with all the charisma of a G-Eazy impersonator. This can’t be the same man who once brought sexy back.

Let’s break it down: He utters the phrase “too much kitten, ass and titties” with devastating sincerity. He laments, “I lost my voice like a pastor,” in the middle of a song that millions of people will hear. He invokes a cliché truism, which inadvertently recalls a quote from the “Twilight” series: “They say, ‘Life’s a bitch and then you die.'”

After more than four minutes of self-absorption, Timberlake inexplicably ends the song with a shoutout to his wife, Jessica Biel, and their two sons, Silas and Phineas.

“If I don’t wake up in Heaven, then it was one hell of a ride,” he raps. If I were in Timberlake’s position, I’m not sure I’d be so comfortable tempting fate.