RUFUS WAINWRIGHT - ALL THESE POSES

ROYAL CONCERT HALL, THURSDAY, APRIL 25

**** (out of five)

“It’s very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present.”

So goes the opening lyric from Grey Gardens, a Rufus Wainwright deep cut allegedly written on LSD and inspired by a 70s US proto-reality show. So very Rufus. In the cult series, Jackie Kennedy Onassis’ niece and sister are filmed struggling to make ends meet in a dilapidated, cramped apartment ­- sulking at a distance as the First Lady of America amasses inestimable fame and fortune.

It’s no coincidence such a queasy public autopsy of familial envy and entitlement appealed to the young Rufus, who was then only a star in his own head. The blazing constellation of the Wainwright musical dynasty simultaneously blinded the teenager with envy and lit the path ahead. Rufus needn’t have worried though – he would soon go supernova, outshining them all.

At Glasgow’s Royal Concert Hall on Thursday, this 45-year-old battle-hardened elder statesman of arch-popera – tonight accessorising his advancing years with greying sideburns and moustache - deliberately and provocatively savoured that Grey Gardens line, dragging out its vowels with rolled-eyed irony and a devilish grin. It's clear this introspective, self-aware Canadian fully acknowledges this is the dreaded cash-in tour, a ‘whole album’ experience so beloved of artists who perhaps have a divorce or tax bill looming. Or, simply, have been washed up on the barren shores of middle-aged creative bankruptcy.

It’s certainly not difficult to “separate the past from the present” when people are willing to fork out a small fortune to hear tunes you wrote in another lifetime, perhaps to warm the embers of their own fading youthful fires. Blatant nostalgia requires a positive spin, however - so artists often call such shameless cash-ins anniversary tours, a celebration perhaps, and then confidently order that new 1:1 scale Great Pyramid replica for the front room. Everyone’s a winner.

Yet, this is Rufus Wainwright. A true golden child, a prodigious prodigy, a near-as-dammit musical genius revered by his peers and the public with nary an artistic mis-step in his esteemed catalogue. Hence, we can confidently assume there’s deeper torrents stirring underneath overly-familiar surface waters of ‘the hits’. For this is an artist, darling. And even nostalgia can be flipped on its head and reshaped as art, no matter how many layers of bejeweled flamboyance and costume changes eschew the true concept and meaning of the All These Poses tour.

Not only did Rufus follow in his lauded parents’ musical footsteps, he utterly eclipsed their cult fame in a blaze of baroque, sullen genius with his early 2000s albums. And we are here tonight, according to the ticket, to celebrate the anniversary of the peerless Poses, released (well near enough) 20 years ago. But, of course, there’s more to this performance than simply electrocuting old corpses to see which one blinks. Tonight’s concert is not just an opportunity for Rufus to remind us why Elton John once called him the greatest songwriter alive. This is clearly also a wake, with the north star of the Wainwright clan taking the conscious decision to sing at the funeral of his youth.

Such pretention would be unpalatable without true talent as a scaffold, but tonight we are left in no doubt of Rufus’ credentials as a peerless chanteuse. For all his prestigious musical gifts, its this artist’s inimitable voice that remains his unique selling point – a devastatingly precise weapon of mass destruction, melting minds and bodies with depth, richness and audacious verve. A voice powerful enough, perhaps, to soundtrack its owner’s own eulogy. For what transpires tonight is clearly an artist attempting to kill off his past to, perhaps, make way for new inspirations.

Make no mistake – as life-affirming as Rufus’ performing abilities remain - death is the all-encompassing theme tonight. Visually, the thematic intent is obvious, with all the puzzle pieces of presentation coming together to form a cohesively New Orleans masquerade.

The tour-tight band – each given their chance to shine tonight, particularly Jeff Buckley’s former drummer Matt Johnson - are all dressed solemnly in black. The stark Chelsea Hotel backdrop projection is scratched out in thick, black impressionistic tears, like a crumbling memory. The ornate Sternberg piano is as black as the space between stars. The lighting is also consciously subdued, often leaving much of the stage in darkness. The Les Paul guitar sitting unloved on a stand has a skull and crossbones strap. Even Rufus’ feather boa is black. And, perhaps most tellingly of all, a bespoke coat of feathers which will be theatrically and rather literally employed during the jagged, riff-heavy, baroquely thumping 'Evil Angel' is black. Undoubtedly, Rufus is telling us something. This is likely the last time his audience will hear these songs for a while.

Quickly discarding his eponymous, ambitious yet over-reaching debut album with just eight of its 11 tracks, a gorgeous cover of Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now hints to where Rufus’ head is really at. After spending the concert's first half hiding under the glittery, ornate layers of his debut album, sleepily seducing the adoring crowd with a Leonard Cohen story he’s told a thousand times, and narrating a playful diss at Seal he’s timed to perfected over the course of this global tour, Mitchell’s poetry leaves Rufus naked in the spotlight - emoting that wondrous melody with perfect pitch and mannered grace. Ironically, through another’s writer’s words, we get the real Rufus: “But now it's just another show/You leave 'em laughing when you go/And if you care, don't let them know/ Don't give yourself away.” The lump in my throat remained for the rest of the performance, but many in attendance lost their reserve and wept openly. It was a moment where time icies over and all that exists is connection between artist and audience, a fleeting moment of blissful transcendence.

Rufus only gives himself away twice more. Both during the show’s second half - a full-bodied, exotically embellished recreation of his undeniable, immortal 2001 masterpiece Poses. The first dent in the armour was his delivery of the crescendo line in Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk: ‘Please be kind, if I'm a mess’. Unremarkable words at face value, yet he possessed the line tonight, holding the notes until his breath gave out. Another glimpse of creaking bones under the sparkly top hat, the darkness cloaked by that outrageous rainbow button coat and perhaps his past life being asphyxiated by that black feather boa.

The second hovering moment arrives during his cover of father Loudoun’s ‘One Man Band’. Yes, it’s Rufus playing to the gallery with a knowing wink, living out the drama of his intergenerational dynasty. Yet, its skeletal accompaniment immediately startles, anchored down by The Voice sounding like Marley’s chains – an ache of ancient regret filling every molecule of the room with hushed awe. "People will know when they see this show/ The kind of a guy I am/ They’ll recognize just what I stand for and what I just can't stand/They’ll perceive what I believe in/And what I know is true."

His lamentful, spat delivery of Loudoun’s lyric left Glasgow in no doubt - Rufus clearly still harbours deep issues against his father. Yet, this prodigal son is well aware his voice jars with the lyric’s emotional honesty, his dad’s assured, heartfelt directness with words highlighting his own calculated distance as an artist. It’s admirable he’s willing to reveal his only weakness is an inability to truly bleed – with Rufus’ main desire being to simply put on a show, to impress, bedazzle, leave us in awe at his talents. And he does. Yet, as the years crack his skin and slowly calcify the brain, Rufus’ theatrical embellishments seem more a prop to pancake over the cracks, powder over the sweat and paint on a smile. Perhaps he’s throwing these old shapes for the crowd, one last time. All these theatrical poses still work for Rufus, of course. Yet if this tour truly was a funeral for the past, perhaps he’s finally realized if you stay the same too long you turn to stone - becoming nothing but a statue of your former self.