Word: wainwright
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...Rufus Wainwright belongs in the second category. Dim lights and booming opera music let last Friday’s packed crowd know that Rufus was about to appear on stage. I momentarily had the impression that I was about to be welcoming a large woman in Viking horns, but I quickly remembered I was here to see a diva of another sort. Dressed in an embroidered vest stolen from his mother’s closet, a tight black shirt and a pair of faded jeans, Rufus came onto the stage and sat down at the grand piano awaiting...
Looking at Rufus Wainwright is pleasing, eye candy even, but listening to him sing is something else entirely. For the uninitiated I will stumble through a description of what that man can do when he sings, but for those of you who have heard him—you know what I mean. The songs that we react to, the songs that we really love, do two things: aesthetically, they sound good to us, but they also reach us on some emotional level. Rufus Wainwright has the sort of voice that is clearly amazing. It doesn’t matter...
...song “In My Arms” from Rufus’ first album, Rufus Wainwright, displays the haunting quality of his voice perfectly. A sort of ballad, “In My Arms” begins with Rufus singing alone with only the accompaniment of a few chords on an acoustic guitar. “You gave me all your loving one day, you gave it all and almost faded away,” sings Rufus. The song builds from there, blossoming into a rich harmony with background vocals, electric guitar, strings and drums. Rufus repeats...
It’s hard to place Grant-Lee Phillips among the current crop of male singer-songwriters. More folksy and intimate than Rufus Wainwright or Ben Folds, yet more ambient and textured than Pete Yorn or Ryan Adams, Phillips seems destined for a niche market. And that, according to him, is just fine...
Harvard, of course, aspires to make us all like Harry Bailey and Sam Wainwright--or even, God help us, like Mr. Potter, the wealthy, grasping banker of Bedford Falls. And no one here, no gov jock or pre-med or final club frequenter wants to be George Bailey. No one wants to suffer and sweat and barely scrape by, to give up youthful potential in favor of adult burdens, to sacrifice dreams on the altar of necessity. No one wants to be at the end of their rope on Christmas Eve, staring down into dark water and needing a little...