It was a cold evening on Sunday, April 8. Taking shelter in an egg-shaped performance venue aptly called The Egg, the Albany audience chatted away in anticipation of a night of music. The lights dimmed, the crowd quieted and Rufus Wainwright, blue-sequined sleeves drooping from his arms, swooped onto stage in a flurry of sparkles and skinny jeans.
He took to the grand piano and began “Grey Gardens” from his “Poses” album. The original recording of “Grey Gardens” features a sample of Little Edie Beale remarking, “It’s very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present.” While this was not included in the live performance, the song still set the largely retrospective tone for the evening. It harkened back to a younger Rufus, eager to prove his capabilities as a pop artist with “Poses” following the release of his less successful debut album.
He hardly gave the audience enough time to applaud before he began the opening motif of “Vibrate.” Written for his 2003 album “Want One,” the song is a desperate plea to an unrequiting lover: “My phone’s on vibrate for you / But still I never ever feel from you / So call me . . . / Call me anytime you like.”
He eventually got up from the piano bench and reached for his guitar at center stage. Greeting the audience, he was just as relaxed as he appears in videos at his house, in the studio and at Carnegie Hall. Rufus is charming, and the audience, bursting with applause and laughter, held onto his every word.
When he speaks, Rufus is full of witty remarks and elegant bravado, but, when he plays, Rufus is absolutely bare. His hands wander unhesitatingly across the keyboard, and his voice, only richer with age, can reach all corners of emotion — from faint to “fortissimo” — in a matter of seconds. Nothing about his performance felt affected. As he adjusted the strap on the guitar, you could tell that his focus had turned inward. He closed his eyes as he counted in the next song. I recognized the chords immediately.
“Gay Messiah” juxtaposes the softness of its guitar chords, lullaby-ish in their repetitive strumming pattern, to its coarse lyrics: “No I won’t be the one / Baptized in cum / . . . / Someone will demand my head / And then I will kneel down / And give it to them looking down.”
In this Biblical reference, Rufus casts himself as John the Baptist, foretelling the emergence of a messiah who will “fall from the stars” of “Studio 54,” an exclusive Manhattan night club that saw in its prime the patronage of gay icons such as Liza Minelli, Andy Warhol, and Divine. This messiah will materialize on the shores of Fire Island, “wearing tube socks” as if from “1970s porn.” Rufus does not prettify these images; the lyrics are direct and crude with little aesthetic appeal, yet he apotheosizes these things long deemed depraved by modern society. “Gay Messiah” is an insolent declaration to American society that the gay community has no obligation to whitewash gay life in order to make gayness beautiful.
Although playing this song in Albany, New York in 2024 was not an act of groundbreaking activism, when it was first released in 2004, HIV-related mortality rates had peaked in the United States only ten years beforehand. Lawrence v. Texas had just overturned an anti-sodomy law in Texas only a year beforehand. The early 2000s was a complicated time for gay people in the U.S. The gay community — Rufus included — hoped for a savior to liberate them from their suffering.
Returning to The Egg or “L’œuf,” as he likes to call it, Rufus felt drawn to reminisce on his youth. Although he grew up in Montreal, Rufus was born in Rhinebeck, New York, just sixty miles south of Albany, and he attended boarding school seventy miles away in the Village of Millbrook. He performed his song “Millbrook” in which he remembers the “pines” and “gentle tower” of his high school campus as well as the “evening breakdowns” that took place there.
He explained that the namesake of “Zebulon” was a childhood crush, whom he remembered as his mother was dying of sarcoma in 2009. He further explored this theme of young love in “The Art Teacher,” which tells, from the first person, the story of a young girl who falls in love with her art teacher.
He also looked forward to the future, playing his unreleased “Old Song.” He advertised his West End musical “Opening Night,” set to close in May, as well as his upcoming requiem which will premiere this summer in Paris.
He indulged his affinity for opera when he sang a pop arrangement of the aria “He Loved” from his 2018 opera “Hadrian”. Paying homage to another Montreal great, Leonard Cohen, with a cover of “So Long, Marianne.” He sang an acoustic arrangement of “Ready for Battle” from his new musical. The concert seemed to touch all ends of his repertoire — with one blinding exception: where was the Judy?
The whole evening, I had anticipated hearing at least one song from Judy Garland’s endless repertory. Rufus’s 2006 tribute concert to her iconic 1961 Carnegie Hall performance sold out both nights and resulted in a Grammy-nominated live album. In 2022, he performed and recorded a virtual concert at Capitol Studios, once again singing only Judy Garland songs. Her live recordings played over the speakers during the intermission of our concert at The Egg, and I was certain that Rufus would sing at least one Judy song. Over an hour into his set, I began to realize that the concert would eventually end, and probably soon. I started to panic — he hadn’t sung Judy yet!
After a lively “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” Rufus exited the stage only to return a minute later for an encore. I held my breath.
He sat at the piano and, ever the Democrat, played an updated version of “Going to a Town” where he poked fun at Republicans. This earned much laughter from the abundantly white, middle-aged (or perhaps just aged), theater-going New York crowd. When he invited his aunt onstage to join him in “Hallelujah” (more Leonard Cohen), I knew all hope was lost. Rufus’s recording of “Hallelujah,” which is featured on the Shrek soundtrack, is his best-known recording. While I enjoyed hearing him sing the Canadian classic, I was overcome with disappointment. I had been so excited to hear him sing “Come Rain or Shine” or “Over the Rainbow” or “A Foggy Day” — anything Judy! But for whatever reason, that I will likely never know, Rufus did not sing a single Judy Garland song.
Rufus’s evening at The Egg was heartbreaking. His pristine voice is just as rich and luxurious as it was in 1998 when he recorded his first album, and his elaborate, wandering piano compositions are bewitching. The only unpleasant part of his concert was the end. He took a bow and flew offstage as quickly as he had come. His sequin shirt flashed once more before vanishing behind the black curtain. In that moment, I learned — the hard way — that Canadians can be heartbreakers, too.
