What separates Rufus Wainwright and the other second-generation singers
who sprang up at the same time (Sean Lennon, Emma Townshend, and Chris
Stills the most notable among them) is that Wainwright deserves to be
heard regardless of his family tree; in fact, the issue of his parentage
is ultimately as immaterial as that of his sexuality -- this
self-titled debut cares little for the rock clichés of an earlier
generation, instead heralding the arrival of a unique and compelling
voice steeped most solidly in the traditions of cabaret. Like his folks,
Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle, he's a superb songwriter,
with a knack for elegantly rolling piano melodies and poignantly
romantic lyrics; while the appearance of Van Dyke Parks and his
trademark orchestral arrangements hints at an affinity for the pop
classicism of Brian Wilson or Randy Newman, the vocals come straight out
of opera, and although Wainwright is unlikely to be starring in La
Boheme anytime soon, he conveys the kind of honest emotion sorely
lacking in the ironic posing of many of his contemporaries. Maybe the
kids are alright after all.
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