Woofus
When my friend asked if I wanted to come visit this past week and go to a Rufus Wainwright concert, I figured, it would be something amusing to do. It would be chance to hang out, but not much more.
I didn't consider myself a fan of RW. In fact I didn't know much of what Rufus was about. Aside from few Limewire downloads and knowledge of his assorted associations with movie soundtracks there was little to go on. I knew he was gay which was a plus. I heard he was addicted to meth at one point (or still) which was a minus ("Judgey Wudgey was a bear," as Stanford Blatch says). Other than that, total tabula rasa.
The venue was a sweltering hellhole of mixed-breed fans at this outdoor pavilion. We timed our arrival to miss the duo of opening acts. I sat myself down, and proceeded to sweat profusely in my long pants and long sleeved shirt. I was hoping for at least one song that I knew, followed by quick set, which would yield an even quicker exit for cooler environs. That didn't happen.
Rufus came out in a candy-striped seersucker suit, no shirt underneath (Rufus is hairy!) with ten (yes ten) broaches strewn across his jacket. Rufus is a big queen and I love that. I don't know what to make of him, which is good. He's complex. He's kind of bitter -- kind of cynical -- witty. He was very proud of those ten broaches. He shimmered in front of a brooch-studded American flag in the background. A nice visual.
He played a long set with a break - to be honest a lot of it sounded the same. Classical music played on the sound system during the interlude. A nice touch. Then he was back for more -- this time dressed in lederhosen, tall socks, and all. He's a good performer. Very dramatic. Very sad. He's got a good voice but melancholy pervades everything. It's no wonder he does tributes to Judy Garland. They are cut from the same cloth. His encore saw him in an oversized pure-white bathrobe. God only knows what he had on (or didn't have on) underneath - we left before the encore was done. Perhaps had we waited, we could have found out.
Morose as he is, he still camps it up. He just does it very somberly. Again, not expected. Self absorption seems to be a popular theme of his music: twisted artist and all with a nice dose of inadequacy and self-loathing. Good times.
So I'm still undecided but leaning towards liking him. He's got an apparently chaotic life (from what one reads on the web) but he's got considerable talent. It's hard for me to "like" performers that I don't identify with in some way and I don't know that I can identify here. Tortured artist has never been appealing to me. The "woe is me" crap is kind of annoying.
But I will overlook that for now.
I didn't consider myself a fan of RW. In fact I didn't know much of what Rufus was about. Aside from few Limewire downloads and knowledge of his assorted associations with movie soundtracks there was little to go on. I knew he was gay which was a plus. I heard he was addicted to meth at one point (or still) which was a minus ("Judgey Wudgey was a bear," as Stanford Blatch says). Other than that, total tabula rasa.
The venue was a sweltering hellhole of mixed-breed fans at this outdoor pavilion. We timed our arrival to miss the duo of opening acts. I sat myself down, and proceeded to sweat profusely in my long pants and long sleeved shirt. I was hoping for at least one song that I knew, followed by quick set, which would yield an even quicker exit for cooler environs. That didn't happen.
Rufus came out in a candy-striped seersucker suit, no shirt underneath (Rufus is hairy!) with ten (yes ten) broaches strewn across his jacket. Rufus is a big queen and I love that. I don't know what to make of him, which is good. He's complex. He's kind of bitter -- kind of cynical -- witty. He was very proud of those ten broaches. He shimmered in front of a brooch-studded American flag in the background. A nice visual.
He played a long set with a break - to be honest a lot of it sounded the same. Classical music played on the sound system during the interlude. A nice touch. Then he was back for more -- this time dressed in lederhosen, tall socks, and all. He's a good performer. Very dramatic. Very sad. He's got a good voice but melancholy pervades everything. It's no wonder he does tributes to Judy Garland. They are cut from the same cloth. His encore saw him in an oversized pure-white bathrobe. God only knows what he had on (or didn't have on) underneath - we left before the encore was done. Perhaps had we waited, we could have found out.
Morose as he is, he still camps it up. He just does it very somberly. Again, not expected. Self absorption seems to be a popular theme of his music: twisted artist and all with a nice dose of inadequacy and self-loathing. Good times.
So I'm still undecided but leaning towards liking him. He's got an apparently chaotic life (from what one reads on the web) but he's got considerable talent. It's hard for me to "like" performers that I don't identify with in some way and I don't know that I can identify here. Tortured artist has never been appealing to me. The "woe is me" crap is kind of annoying.
But I will overlook that for now.
posted by V o x V a l e O at 11:32 AM
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