Show Review

Rufus Wainwright’s voice is almost palpable. His random vocal musings, when stretched out to their full extent, border on the corporeal. In short—and as was immediately apparent at this sold-out show at The Fillmore—this man can sing.

Flanked by a four-piece band and two back-up singers who remained silent for the first song, Wainwright started his show with a song in French. Despite the lack of lyrical comprehension on my part, the song introduced Wainwright’s music to me effectively—I knew immediately the type of unique style I would be hearing all night. He took his time between stanzas, as if the words were coming to him as he went. From this slow, Gallic lament he moved right into several upbeat songs, and his stage presence began to unfold.

If I had to describe his music in comparison terms—which is a stretch—it would be a meld of Ryan Adams’ smart, experiential anthems and Barry Mannilow’s (yep, Barry Mannilow) diaphragmatic gifts. With songs like “Harvester of Hearts” and “Pretty Things,” Wainwright continuously set the crowd to rapt attention, whether they knew the song or not. “Vibrate” was my personal favorite of the evening, an operatic confessional about a cell phone set to vibrate mode for the expected call of a certain someone. The words of his songs all seemed to be observational, and his singing gave each of them a power that they wouldn’t have had with anyone else.

He jumped from piano to guitar effortlessly, showing that he was more than just a vocal talent. The tunes he played ranged from melancholy and heady to quirky and agreeable, the latter being in minority, but welcome. Surprisingly, despite the introspection he exudes in his music, he is a relatively effervescent personality. His personality almost seemed detached from his work, as if the person in the music was very different from the person looking in on it. He was peppy and animated, and told anecdotes throughout about the origins of his songs and the nights he spent before writing them. One story in particular was about a song he had written after a three-day crystal meth binge in San Francisco. He denounced his behavior, but told the story with a pride in his own often-misguided-but-always-real experience.

There were several tunes from his latest release, Want One, which were all met with roaring appreciation. The fans of Wainwright appear to be a crowd apart; a legion that have likely seen more than a handful of his shows over his career. Many of them seemed to know each other; it was almost as if this were a yearly reunion of the Rufus Nation. The crowd was diverse, too, which is a tribute to not only the substance, but also the accessibility of his music.

Wainwright did his share of name-dropping throughout, which for a man of his talent seemed unnecessary. He spoke at one point in the evening of the ring that was given to him by Elton John, which I later discovered he had mentioned at the show the night before at the Fillmore. He also talked about a wild night of partying with Joaquin Phoenix. His apparent need to show off and validate his place in show business was odd and distracting. My overall impression was that he was his own biggest fan, even though the place was packed with those that had paid to see him play.

Rufus Wainwright is impressive, if only for the power of his voice. If you can bear the pomp of someone who knows just how talented he is, you might be as impressed as I was.