I know, I promised you a full-length review of Release the Stars, but I've gotta be honest: It takes me a little time to "get into" CDs. In a way, for me, listening to a new album is like swimming in a pool. I can't just dive right in. I have to dip one toe in at a time. So, needless to say, one car ride on the way home from work ain't gonna cut it. So, with that being said, I've decided, instead, to write an ode to Rufus Wainwright...
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I was first introduced to his music when I began interning at The Omaha Pulp in September of 2003. I was working on the events calendar when my Editor-In-Chief, Leslie, put Rufus Wainwright's "Want One" CD into her player. It was unlike any kind of music I'd heard before: a unique hybrid of rock, cabaret and a little bit of opera. I was like, who the hell is this?! She informed me of who it was and that she had a massive crush on him--whether he's gay or not.
Within a day, I purchased my own copy of "Want One." And the rest, as they say, is history.
"Want One" is, without a doubt, one of my all-time favorite CDs. I remember playing it in my old apartment, in a haze of pot smoke, playing it and replaying it...over and over. I think, at one point, my ex-roomie Sharon started to get a little annoyed with that (the constant musical loop...not the pot. Ah, good times, Sharbear. Good times!) Anyway, the more I listened, the more I craved more Rufus. It wasn't long before I went out and bought his other album, Poses, as well as his self-titled debut CD.
I'm not going to delve into each CD individually. Not in this entry anyway. No, the main purpose of this blog entry is to explain what it is about Rufus Wainwright's music that compels me to play it in my car, at work, and even while I sleep.
Two words: The longing.
In each and every one of his songs, there's a sense of longing, a hunger for those intangible somethings we all desire: Love, acceptance, self-discovery. There's really a sort of underlying current of melancholy to his songs, a sadness--even in his more upbeat songs like "14th Street," "The Greek Song" and "11:11." And while I long for all three of those things that I listed above, what I indentify the most with, within his songs is that longing for a love that transcends mere flesh and bone.
It's that longing, that desire in his music that keeps me listening. No matter how fucked up you may be, the truth is everyone wants to be loved. Even if it's not in a romantic sense. Everyone wants to have someone there to comfort them, provide solace from the many harsh realities that this cruel world has to offer. It's human nature.
That's what his music is all about.
The way I go on about him, sometimes, I'm sure that one could make the argument that I have some sort of crush on him. In a way, that's not entirely inaccurate.
Music--to me, anyway--transcends gender. When it comes to music, whether you're straight, gay, bi, etc., all bets are off. Music can loosen up even the most stoic of souls, melt the hearts of the cynical and, yeah, by god, make a straight man or woman forget--even if it's just for a moment--about their masculinity or femininity, their sexuality identity and cause them to fall in love with a musician who somehow managed to burrow inside of them; an artist that managed to navigate around the rocky and, yeah, sometimes corroded terrain of their soul with just the precise lyrics and musical notes.
I don't know how the new CD is going to be. I don't know if it will be his best or worst. What I do know, however, is that Rufus Wainwright--with his cheeky lyrics, poignant, heartbreaking melodies and scratchy, rough-around-the-edges voice--is, indeed, a Gay Messiah.
But he may just be the Messiah of music as well.
And let us say Amen.
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