Martha Wainwright, Rufus, Marilyn and Kate.
I attended a Rufus Wainwright concert four or five years ago at a nightclub (damned if I can remember its name) at the corner of Rideau Street and Cumberland in Ottawa. What I remember is how startled I was at how campy…and gay…Rufus was. Startled not because I objected, far from it. No. Simply because I’d assumed, naively I suppose, that he was straight. It took a bit of reorienting, after which I settled into an awed appreciation of this man’s wonderfully powerful, tireless vocal chords, and the charm and ease with which he held his audience. He must’ve sung for two hours straight, at least. Just belting it out, full throttle. It was one of the best concerts I’d ever been to. His sister Martha joined him on stage for several numbers.
Last weekend I took in the final gig on her latest tour. Her voice, like her brother’s, is premium, high octane. A Ferrari that lives to be gunned and driven hard, to the limit, for the distance. Impossible to red line, power to spare whenever she needs to pass. Horsepower, delivered with deep, heartfelt emotion,
makes for stage domination. She purred and pumped out her lyrics. Moused with and delighted her audience. Joked about dildos with her band members. A formidable presence, not just because of her voice; but because of her lithe, sensual chassis; presented as it was with a faux ditziness. A taller, thinner Marilyn. A kitten in tight blue jeans and high heels, wriggling and bending, pelvising, leggily, lanky. A magnet for male, and female eyes. Just like Rufus, she gave ‘er. And her mom Kate showed up too.
Reminded me of how great that Love over and Over album is. Funny how it calls up memories of driving along howling, snow strewn highways outside of Humbolt, Saskatchewan. Last weekend’s evening highlighted by the two singing in French. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Martha seemed more fluid and at ease in it than in English.
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