Poses (Bonus Tracks)

by

Rufus Wainwright

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I remember hearing much buzz around Rufus upon the release of his self-titled first album. Ever mindful that there is also much buzz around swarms of killer bees and felonious haircuts, I stayed away. Hearing Rufus himself would have to wait until I stumbled upon "Complainte de la Butte" off the "Moulin Rouge!" soundtrack... not his song, but a distinct improvement over any interpretation I had heard previously. "Hosanna in the highest," thought I, "the buzzards actually got something right!"

What to do? As I wallowed in willful blindness, this guy cut three (four if one adds the unreleased "Want Two" to the tally) albums, and I soon realized I was not in Kansas anymore. Since I lack the requisite footwear to click my heels three times and hope for the best, I bought all three albums and hoped for the best. "Poses" was first in queue. I wish I could ascribe musicologically cosmic motives to my choice. Alas and alack, I applied the far more banal "what's the first song called?" test. Then, as now, "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" seemed to me a more appealing prospect than "Foolish Love," if for no other reason than that I enjoy the former and have seen my share of the latter.

Fortunately, "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" happens to be a strikingly original and genially self-effacing paean to overindulgence. This theme is captured both in the lyrics and the music, which deviates from "spare" in virtually every respect. Rufus keeps this "singing shall set me free" lens focused squarely on himself throughout the album, including a brilliant exercise in double-entendre by covering his father's "One Man Guy." He seems completely at ease ignoring the precepts by which commercial music is ordained as such, though his radio-friendly "California" dispels any doubt that this tendency is a function of choice rather than necessity. His greatest achievement on this album (and I soon found on others) is promulgating an effective species of songwriting bereft of slavish reliance to melodic symmetry, harmonically conclusive phrases, and uncluttered instrumental textures. His genious is not in eschewing these practices but rather in supplementing them with musical devices all his own.

One minor gripe is that Rufus's pronunciation seems at times needlessly mannered. I too lived in Montreal over an extended period, yet his categorical refusal to sustain a note over the long vowel sound "ee" still perplexes me (or should I say "may"). Recently, a learned friend of mine explained that this phenomenon is known as "diphthong" problem in formal singing parlance. I'm reluctant to even mention a "diphthong problem" because it sounds like a case for a urologist. A quick skim of the liner notes confirms that a urologist is one thing this boy most definitely does not need. But I digress.

Rufus Wainwright communicates the plight of the forlorn and the foolish through decidedly non-formulaic musical language. His lyrics frankly address his homosexuality. In an ideal world, these characteristics would be virtues, or at least non-issues, rather than liabilities. Since we're saddled with the world we live in now, I doubt that Rufus Wainwright will soundly connect with the majority of the listening public. The goal of universal appeal seems as dubious as it is quixotic, especially since Earth does not want for people exhibiting deplorable tastes in all matters aesthetic (to wit, boy-bands, Capri pants and White House denizens). There are far too many variables of the nature versus nurture variety to predict exactly who will enjoy this music. Rufus counts among his fans the the old and young, the enlightened and the daft, the boys and the girls (who may like boys, girls, neither or both). In short, it's pretty damned confusing. If you find yourself among the chosen few who latch onto the Rufus train, this album's got smoking wheels, and will lead you to a lovelier place.

I have to say I'm puzzled a bit by Rufus Wainwright. I don't think there's any question that his songs are refreshingly honest and different enough to be quite charming. And as a very long-time fan of the work of both his mother and father, I was predisposed to liking him. And I want to. But I can't. I can't get past his voice. I read another review here (I think of his debut album) that said his voice is nearly identical to his father's, but believe me it's not. Or at least it's not when he chooses to use his voice the way he does.

Rufus seems to have fallen into what seems to be a trend of the past 10-12 years or so, of males singing with what sounds for all the world like a much too-relaxed, non-enunciating delivery that makes all his vowels sound identical. Imagine a voice where every vowel sounds like "hunh," complete with the nasality that collection of letters implies. Not only is it virtually impossible to understand a lot of his lyrics, the sound is just plain irritating. His parents' songs (especially his father's) would never have succeeded if you couldn't understand the words.

This seemed to begin with Hootie and the Blowfish, and besides Rufus's contribution, John Mayer seems to be a big proponent of this kind of delivery, too, though in their cases, it seems to be a deliberate slack-jawed, mush-mouth quality (I admit, I haven't heard Mayer's recordings, only his recent Austin City Limits performance). Why do they do this?

Just last night I attended one of this summer's Rufus/Ben Folds/Guster tour concerts, and the difference between Rufus and the others, in terms of legibility, was like night and day.

Rufus Wainwright may have all the musical talent in the world, but I can't listen to more than 5 minutes of that voice.