Rufus Wainright
In a hilarious moment that failed to make any of MTV’s twentieth birthday clip shows, Beavis and Butthead pondered the moniker of the English group James. “His parents said he couldn’t use their name because he sucks,” Butthead theorized. With his moody mix of mumbles and wails, Rufus Wainright recalls James’ singer Tim Booth, but he was apparently deemed worthy of retaining his esteemed surname. (He’s the son of one of songwriting’s royal couples, Loudon Wainright III and Kate McGarrigle). He doesn’t shy away from acknowledging his bloodline, either — Poses contains a knowing cover of his father’s “One Man Guy.” Yet by releasing an album that ended up on scores of year-end best-of lists in 1998, he’s established himself as a singular talent, one whose sophomore disc will be compared to his own previous output, not his parents’ work.
Despite hosting dozens of musicians, Poses sounds stripped down next to Wainright’s self-titled debut, which decorated its compositions with Van Dyke Parks’ lavish arrangements. Such symphonic touches went well with Wainright‘s earnest romantic serenades, but on Poses he pens complex character studies. On “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” Wainright teams a Broadway-musical-caliber melody with an intricately constructed arrangement that fades in and out in time with the song’s lyrical nuances. Opening as a charming ode to vices, the song becomes more disturbing as Wainright’s protagonist alludes to other “deadly” addictions that “we won’t mention,” then describes himself in a wavering voice as “a little bit tower of Pisa.” It’s by far the album’s strongest track, a fact he acknowledges by reprising it in its entirety (adorned by a few superficial changes) superfluously at Poses‘ end.
“Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk”‘s catchiness helps to conceal Wainright’s shallow vocal range, but on other songs, especially the title track, his voice hovers hyperactively in a confined space like a hummingbird trapped in a tiny box. The tunes work on an individual basis because he designed them to fit his world-weary whine, but an album’s worth of Wainright singing within the same narrow bounds becomes a claustrophobic listening experience.
However, like his near-neighbor on the record shelves Tom Waits, Wainright can write lines that lure in lyric lovers who would otherwise be scared away by the voice. His breezy sketch of “California” flirts with cliché, then becomes equal parts odd (my new grandma Bea Arthur) and profound (Life is the longest death in California). Similarly, on “Shadows” Wainright sheds new light on the familiar unhappy celebrity’s lament I could be a great star/Still, I’m far from happy. “Shadows” succeeds because of Wainright’s desperate delivery and because of its appropriate backdrop — a funky drumbeat that abandons the song during the verse, leaving lonely clarinet accents and piano chords. But although it’s relentlessly above-average, Poses still can’t be considered a classic — or even a shoo-in for this year’s best-of honors — because only “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” transcends eminent listenability to become unforgettable.
