Rufus Wainwright is another musician I listen to because of my parents. This will be a common theme: my parents met and courted each other doing radio shows in college. My mom went on to create an online music magazine, prompting artists to send their CD’s and Demos hoping to be reviewed on her site. Every week we’d have twenty more to add to the piles in her office, eventually growing to several large boxes in the basement because the shelves and floor space in her office were stuffed to the brim.
I don’t
know how my mom discovered Rufus Wainwright, though it may have a lot to do
with his famously talented parents. Rufus is one of my family’s idols. We have
a homemade popsicle stick ornament of him that we hang on our Christmas tree
every year, though the printer paper with his image has watermarks and rips abound.
Rufus was the first famous person I ever met. At seven years old, my mom got us
tickets, and we met him before the show. I asked him what it was like to be famous[1],
and he said that it hurt his neck; a joke about how often he rolls his head
around while he plays the piano. I kept the ticket stubs from that night for
years, only throwing them away when a cat vomited onto them.
Every Rufus
album has a special place in my heart. I have a million memories rooted to his
music, to the point where it almost feels overwhelming to write about. I
remember the first time I ever got so mad I didn’t speak to someone for days
was because two friends made a joke about his name[2].
I remember when my sister and I spent a few weeks planning, shooting, and
editing a video contest he announced. It’s still on YouTube somewhere, a
minute-long clip of Perri and I frolicking around in the stream in our
backyard. We dedicated it to our cat who had recently died. We did not win.
Ultimately,
this album gets to some core Rufus Wainwright themes. These are the songs in
which he most openly speaks of his history with addiction, of his strange days
living in New York City. I love these songs because it’s before he added strings,
backup singers, costumes and, eventually, opera. Not that I don’t also love
those things, I am just a sucker for what I feel is the raw center of Rufus
Wainwright as an artist. I think he’d disagree with that assessment, but
luckily, he won’t read this.
[1]
Man, is this proof that I have always been obsessed with fame? Am I power hungry?
Is that who I am?
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