"Nice Voice Not Enough"
Published in Berkshire Eagle, 4/28/09
By Jeremy D. Goodwin
GREAT BARRINGTON—Rufus Wainwright has a nice singing voice.
That’s not enough, however, to make a ninety-minute solo performance consistently interesting. Or even frequently interesting, for that matter.
Accompanying himself alternately on piano and acoustic guitar, Wainwright moped his way through a set of monochromatic weepers in front of a packed house at the Mahaiwe Center for the Performing Arts this weekend.
The night started on a high note, with a version of “Going to a Town” that drew applause for lines like “I’m so tired of homophobia” and “I’m so tired of America.” It was a pleasure to hear him read William Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 20” before playing his adaptation for voice and piano, though the song itself was not particularly memorable. “Katonah,” a creeping lament describing a drive along the Taconic Parkway for the funeral of Wainwright’s 19-year old cousin, was more successful. But in a set full of creeping laments, the effect of any one in particular was muted.
After a few tunes at the piano to open the show, it was a relief when he stepped out to ostensibly shake things up a bit in his transition to guitar. However, the effect did not enrich the material by heightening its intimacy, but instead dragged it to the level of bedroom demo recording.
The problem, plainly put, was that between the material, Wainwright’s voice, and his technique on the two instruments, there just wasn’t enough “there” there. Stripped of the context of a full band, the material did not show itself well. Wainwright proved he can achieve an effect as a pianist, but, as I heard it, the most clear-headed and fair analysis of his guitar playing is that it is not at a professional level. Once I started focusing on Wainwright’s methodically dull down strokes, they were all I could hear. They created for me an effect not unlike that of a dentist’s drill. When a third chord was occasionally introduced to a song, the added dynamics felt almost like a revelation.
Wainwright is at his best when flanked by strings and cloaked in show biz panache. His endlessly anguished baritone can be put to great effect, especially when shifting dynamics in the arrangement of a song wring from it a range of colors. But when it constantly soars above a drizzle of quiet and unaccomplished accompaniment, the effect is more of a tuneless drone.
Opening act (and aunt) Sloan Wainwright came out to lend vocals on a few songs, including the night’s finale, a faithful rendition of Jeff Buckley’s arrangement of the Leonard Cohen song “Hallelujah.” It couldn’t help but be gorgeous, but did nothing to enrich the power of the remarkable source material.
Both in performance and in interview, Wainwright seems a very likable fellow. He charmed the audience this night with his earnest, easily distracted affability, achieving a relationship that felt honest; his sweet dedication of “I’m Not Ready For Love” to his boyfriend was almost enough to transcend the song’s dirge-like whine. A more structured “songwriter’s round” format, with Wainwright put on the spot to discuss the origins of his songs before rendering solo versions, might suit him well.
There was something of a pleasantly charged environment in the room, between the packed house and the presence of some Wainwright friends. The connoisseurs on hand likely enjoyed the chance to share this material in an intimate setting, with Wainwright set loose to amble through his catalog, alone in the spotlight.
But the theme of the night was: second verse, same as the first.
GREAT BARRINGTON—Rufus Wainwright has a nice singing voice.
That’s not enough, however, to make a ninety-minute solo performance consistently interesting. Or even frequently interesting, for that matter.
Accompanying himself alternately on piano and acoustic guitar, Wainwright moped his way through a set of monochromatic weepers in front of a packed house at the Mahaiwe Center for the Performing Arts this weekend.
The night started on a high note, with a version of “Going to a Town” that drew applause for lines like “I’m so tired of homophobia” and “I’m so tired of America.” It was a pleasure to hear him read William Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 20” before playing his adaptation for voice and piano, though the song itself was not particularly memorable. “Katonah,” a creeping lament describing a drive along the Taconic Parkway for the funeral of Wainwright’s 19-year old cousin, was more successful. But in a set full of creeping laments, the effect of any one in particular was muted.
After a few tunes at the piano to open the show, it was a relief when he stepped out to ostensibly shake things up a bit in his transition to guitar. However, the effect did not enrich the material by heightening its intimacy, but instead dragged it to the level of bedroom demo recording.
The problem, plainly put, was that between the material, Wainwright’s voice, and his technique on the two instruments, there just wasn’t enough “there” there. Stripped of the context of a full band, the material did not show itself well. Wainwright proved he can achieve an effect as a pianist, but, as I heard it, the most clear-headed and fair analysis of his guitar playing is that it is not at a professional level. Once I started focusing on Wainwright’s methodically dull down strokes, they were all I could hear. They created for me an effect not unlike that of a dentist’s drill. When a third chord was occasionally introduced to a song, the added dynamics felt almost like a revelation.
Wainwright is at his best when flanked by strings and cloaked in show biz panache. His endlessly anguished baritone can be put to great effect, especially when shifting dynamics in the arrangement of a song wring from it a range of colors. But when it constantly soars above a drizzle of quiet and unaccomplished accompaniment, the effect is more of a tuneless drone.
Opening act (and aunt) Sloan Wainwright came out to lend vocals on a few songs, including the night’s finale, a faithful rendition of Jeff Buckley’s arrangement of the Leonard Cohen song “Hallelujah.” It couldn’t help but be gorgeous, but did nothing to enrich the power of the remarkable source material.
Both in performance and in interview, Wainwright seems a very likable fellow. He charmed the audience this night with his earnest, easily distracted affability, achieving a relationship that felt honest; his sweet dedication of “I’m Not Ready For Love” to his boyfriend was almost enough to transcend the song’s dirge-like whine. A more structured “songwriter’s round” format, with Wainwright put on the spot to discuss the origins of his songs before rendering solo versions, might suit him well.
There was something of a pleasantly charged environment in the room, between the packed house and the presence of some Wainwright friends. The connoisseurs on hand likely enjoyed the chance to share this material in an intimate setting, with Wainwright set loose to amble through his catalog, alone in the spotlight.
But the theme of the night was: second verse, same as the first.
