The offspring of folkies Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle, balladeer Rufus could more believably be the child of Harry Nilsson or Randy Newman. Dealing in what some call "classic American songwriting" (show-tune theatricality set to ragtimey touches, with soaring strings), this album is certainly like nothing else you'll hear this year. Rufus has all the tools: a peculiar, sometimes-stunning Tim Buckley-meets- Gordon Gano voice, tasteful production from Jon Brion (who's collaborated with Aimee Mann and Grant Lee Buffalo, to name two), lovely string arrangements from Brian Wilson crony Van Dyke Parks, impossibly cool hair, etc. So why doesn't this debut succeed on every level?
For one thing, it's *slow*. Schooled in opera and classical rather than pop, Wainwright has a thing for languid, long-lined melodies that range out like crop circles. You spent the entire album chasing them down and feel as if you've been had. Then there's that voice we spoke of earlier. On much of the album Rufus favors a pinched middle range that abandons its obvious gifts in favor of an indulgent vibrato on nearly every note. Such excesses make getting through even the first verse of "Danny Boy" a chore.
That said, there are still moments here that showcase a scary talent and range for a 23-year-old. The opening seconds of "Foolish Love" ("I don't want to hold you and feel so helpless/I don't want to smell you and lose my senses/and smile in slow motion with eyes in love") set the tone for a tune that perfectly coalesces Wainwright's eccentric way with a lyric and wide-screen melodies. The sumptuous "Baby" is chillingly great, and the Tom Waits-ish "Matinee Idol" stands out with its kitchen-sink carnival strut.
Rufus Wainwright is difficult enough to keep you frustrated and promising enough to keep you listening. It works like a charm as supper-club-style background music, but chafes upon up-close listening. When Wainwright's sophomore record hits the racks, here's hoping it's the other way around.
--Lane Hewitt