
LEST WE FORGET
To Leonard Cohen, one time Columbia Records chief Walter Yetnikoff critiqued: “Look, Leonard, we know you’re great, but we don’t know if you’re any good.” Cohen would go on to redeem himself tenfold with some of the greatest albums of his career, but Yetnikoff’s words seem appropriate for that other Canadian songsmith Rufus Wainwright.
Perth Concert Hall resembled a tomb as a less-than-capacity audience patiently watched Wainwright parade onto stage clad in a rather overzealous frock, complete with a five-metre train. We were instructed not to applaud for the first half of the set as Wainwright worked through the movements of his latest album All Days Are Nights: Songs For Lulu – a lamentation on his beloved mother’s passing (hence the frock).
Accompanied only by a grand piano and some rather distracting visuals of the human eye, Wainwright indulged us in vignettes of his family life, and the lead-up to the death of his mother – sometimes moving, but more often gruelling. While dazzling with his musical aptitude and supreme vocal range, Wainwright again reinforced the greatest critique of his career: he’s an amazing musician, but a rather uninspiring songwriter.
When the funeral procession was done the audience was invited to breathe again, as the celebrated New York resident returned to tickle the ivories through some of his death-free and more flamboyant material – including Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk and Poses, plus his beloved acquisition Hallelujah (penned by the aforementioned Cohen).
A slightly voyeuristic look into the bleak human soul, it was a night with Rufus Wainwright none will forget – but probably for all the wrong reasons.
_JULIAN TOMPKIN