By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World Rufus Wainwright "Rufus Wainwright" (DreamWorks) It's been a season of rock 'n' roll legacies in the music biz. We've seen albums from Chris Stills, son of Stephen; Emma Townshend, daughter of Pete; and Sean Lennon, son of John — and none of them have been very striking. Enter Rufus Wainwright, son of folkies Kate McGarrigle and the also cumbersomely named Loudon Wainwright III. He looks hip enough — leather jackets, bushy hair, knife-blade sideburns — but he's crafted a debut that won't seem hip right away. Wainwright, you see, is so freakin' talented, he will have to slip into his destiny as the Gen-X Cole Porter or Kurt Weill slowly. Those comparisons are not tossed in here merely as reference points for the reader. Wainwright is writing standards on that level of charm and genius. His songs have been described as retro (or, my favorite, “popera''), but that's simply because the young generation responding to Wainwright's timeless laments and musical sighs only know of standards from the perspective of their parents. But these days it's the mainstream to buck tradition, so Wainwright's return to the traditional conventions of 20th century classic songwriting may turn out to be the hippest thing around. Like his father, the younger Wainwright writes form very personal experiences, but unlike Loudon, Rufus phrases his lovelorn laments and cheery ruminations in an omniscient voice. It's just as easy to place yourself in the center of the moseying “Foolish Love'' as it is his own reminiscing on boarding school days in the jaunty “Millbrook.'' His “Danny Boy'' is a rolling original, though like many of the songs it restrains Wainwright's delicious, reedy tenor into one constraining octave. String arrangements throughout are courtesy of Van Dyke Parks — a definite kindred spirit — while Jim Keltner provides drums and Jon Brion produces. This debut is an intelligent cabaret — with all the sly wit of Porter and the high-though-furrowed brow of Weill. Several notches above the cleverness of Ben Folds, Wainwright could be the closest thing my generation has come to an original, classic entertainer. Comments are closed.
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Thomas Conner
These online "clips" reproduce a self-selection of my journalism (music etc) during the last 20+ years. It's a lotta stuff, but it only scratches the surface. I do not currently possess the time or resources to digitize the whole body of work. These posts are simply a bunch of pretty great days at the office. Archives
September 2024
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