The House Of Rufus...or...A Different Kind of Romance

“The Good the Bad and the Rufus,” he says as he explains his choice of backdrop and décor for his surprisingly well sold concert date at the Rhyman Auditorium in the country music capital of the world, Nashville, Tennessee. He is far from the usual honky-tonk cowboy that lines the streets of this town; but, then again, so is the crowd. His band numbers seven men dressed in vibrantly striped suit coats and pants. The crooner himself is the brightest of them all with rings on his fingers and bright silver shoes.

The crowd cheers loudly as he enters from the left and steps up to the microphone, belting away the first tune. Then he is off to the piano where his long fingers go to work on the second, third, and fourth, sometimes solo, sometimes flawlessly mixed with the bass, the banjo, the horn, the drums. The crowd is pumped up, ready to rock.

A ten minute break for costume changes. Something only a true queen could pull off, especially after the sudden energy he has created in the audience.

He reenters (fifteen minutes later) apparently direct from Austria in authentic lederhosen, remounts his piano stool and goes to work on tales of ended love, German gardens, and Paris streets. Then just as quickly he is off to the races again, a few Judy Garland tunes to satisfy the more astute members of the audience, something a little lighter, fancy free.

And then a surprise. He gathers the band on one side of the stage, himself on the other. “We are going to test the acoustics in here,” he says, and they abandon the microphones and start to play an old Irish tune amidst a sea of silence in the audience. And there is Rufus, electric free, belting out the tune under a spotlight, into the sky. It is a different kind of romance, one between the performer and his devoted audience. It is a tingle in the spine, a sense of wonderment that only comes from a live performance. Perhaps you’ve listened to the song a hundred times, it evokes a feeling, reminds you of a place, transports you to another time. Then you hear it live and your body suddenly chills. It is like magic.

He finishes his last few songs and the band leaves the stage one by one as they play through the final song. The crowd demands an encore, and Rufus returns adorning what appears to be nothing but a bathrobe. Laughter abounds and the energy in the room is at a new high.

And then another surprise. He sits in a chair in front of the audience, slips on a pair of heels and huge sparkly earrings (to the audience’s delight), drops his robe to reveal black stockings over well shaped legs, a black tuxedo top, and a pink blouse underneath. He puts on a black hat a goes to town singing “Come on, get happy!” A drag show in downtown Nashville, Tennessee. Welcome to America. Welcome to the House of Rufus Wainwright.

(In case you didn’t get it, I recently traveled to Nashville, where I attended a concert by the singer-songwriter, Rufus Wainwright. It was quite an experience.).