Tuesday 12/04/05 Rufus Wainwright, Joan As Police Woman @ Birmingham Symphony Hall, Birmingham

For a second you had to pinch yourself. Half-way through the first encore; the shuffling, Latin American-esque beat of ‘Old Whore’s Diet’, Rufus Wainwright began to strip. First one button, then another. It was puzzling: maybe he was just very hot? Then the drummer started to join in and any doubts were quickly erased. We were thus entertained/subjected (delete as applicable!) to a moment of high camp and tongue-in-cheek exhibitionism that would have made Frankie Goes To Hollywood blush. Our flamboyant, boyish singer stood there in pink high-healed shoes, striped-stockings, a blue glittery thong and a black vest, with a crown balanced on his head and a banner reading "Miss Birmingham" draped over his shoulder, swaying his hips and grinning like wasted go-go dancer. Behind him, a member of his band pranced about in S&M gear, wielding his whip like a debauched, yet slightly awkward lion tamer and the drummer ran around the stage in a tight red thong. The two female backing singers had stripped down to fish-nets and the lead guitarist was dressed as a pirate. Then the strobe-lights kicked in. It was quite a moment.

And it all began so civilized. A backing singer and multi-instrumentalist to Rufus, Joan Wasser (working under the name of Joan As Police Woman), opened the night with a wonderfully melancholic set, filling the vast, high-ceilinged Birmingham Symphony Hall with her molasses-rich voice and tales of broken love. Her closing track, the Elliott Smith inspired ‘We Don’t Own It’, in particular, was warmly received and there was also a nice moment when she got the audience to scream out loud in unison, just to demonstrate the acoustics of the auditorium.

Then it was time for Rufus Wainwright. Opening with the menacing, cinematic ‘Angus Dei’ and followed by three other new songs, the show got off to a slow, contemplative, almost phlegmatic start. Not that the music was inferior or sloppy, but rather a little too similar in pace. ‘Crumb by Crumb’, ‘Peach Trees’ and ‘Hometown Waltz’, whilst distinctive and layered on record, seemed to lack a little something when played one after another. Accordingly, Rufus - maybe sensing a slight restlessness in the crowd - laughed after playing Peach Trees: “I remember when I wrote that song, thinking this is way too long!” Indeed, minor gripes aside though, it was still a solid if unspectacular opening, and Rufus’s random, between-song chat was always genuinely amusing, as he rambled on, struggling to hold on to his train of thought: “Wow, this theatre…I feel like I am in an Arnold Swartzanegger movie…it is like a big space-ship…sorry, erm, yeah, okay…I have A.D.D tonight!”

Yet, despite his slightly nervy, shambolic demeanour, Rufus nonetheless appeared to crave the spotlight, and seemed more than happy tapping away on his piano in front the hushed, reverent theatre. And whilst there were a few mistakes in his playing - he cocked-up part of the timeless ‘Hallelujah’, to his own apparent amusement - his acerbic, compelling voice was near faultless. In particular, ‘The Art Teacher’ appeared to be a live favourite, with its stripped-down surging melody and intriguing lyrics, with Rufus singing from the point of view of a girl reflecting on her first crush (Rufus joked that she was like the girl who fancies Harrison Ford in the first Indian Jones film): “He asked us what our favourite work of art was, but never could I tell him it was him.”

Likewise, the heartbreaking ‘Memphis Skyline’, the aforementioned, stark ‘Hallelujah’, the bitter nostalgia of ‘Dinner At Eight’ and ‘Vibrate’ - with its much appreciated, strung-out “Vibraaaaaaaate” - were all listened to in awed, could-hear-a-pin-drop, silence. Indeed, ‘Dinner at Eight’ – a scathing account of his relationship with his father – formed a part of the ‘family section’ (Rufus: “We are the musical equivalent of the Kennedy’s!”), which also included a song about his mother (‘Beauty Mark’) and a song about his sibling Martha (‘Little Sister’). The latter, notable, for its lyrics about the trappings of fame and vanity, with Rufus picturing a time when her “hair becomes a powdered wig, and I become a total bastard.”    

Yet, watching an artist or band perform the songs off the "current album" can be a little like watching an international football friendly: the new ones are given a run out and receive a generous reception, but at the end you want to see the "big stars", and Rufus, true professional that he is, certainly knows how to end a show, closing the main set with arguably his two finest moments: the ode to addiction ‘Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk’ and the brilliant, rolling melodies of ‘14th Street’. Then for the encore, things got naked, and after the chaotic ‘Old Whore’s Diet’, the rousing ‘Oh What A World’ was met with a rapturous response. Now the audience have a new image to associate with Ravel’s ‘Bolero’ (from which the song heavily "borrows"). Instead of Torvil and Dean winning gold in the Winter Olympics, hearing the piece will now surely evoke memories (or for the more sensitive, nightmares) of Rufus cavorting and flashing away in his outfit (him and the band were now wearing witches hats and capes over their underwear) singing: “Oh what a world we live in, straight men…like me.” Eventually, the brisk pop of ‘California’ closed the evening and they were gone, ending a great, at times scintillating night. Three cheers for Miss Birmingham! Hip-hip-hooray……