STARDUST

Adriana Carcu

I must have heard him about a year ago, did not recall his name just the inflection of his voice - like golden dust on leaves, like the echoes of a sad afternoon, like the rambling tunes of a child playing alone; and still, cultivated, sophisticated, intellectual.  The second time I heard him it was in a TV cultural magazine and this time I managed to remember the first name, Rufus.  A solemn name that always makes me think of some ancient Egyptian king. I don’t know why; the name is, if ancient, Roman.

 Soon after I learn that Rufus Wainwright comes from an American family of musicians and that he is an ardent opera fan, which explains the cultivated timbre of his voice.  

This winter, charmed by that timbre, soft yet firm, and weary, I finally got to the stage when I bought the record.  The record is called Release the Stars, and has a most intriguing layout, details of the Pergamon Altar entwined with German kitsch paraphernalia; cuckoo clocks, garden dwarfs and all.  You can see Rufus in Lederhosen laughing in front of a marble fireplace, but what you hear is a completely different story.  You hear sounds you can’t put your finger on, elusive and subtle; solemn, dimly erotic.  His stories are about a journey to Europe, a journey to escape a disillusioned land, a love lost.  The quietly told stories take you to Berlin, to Paris and on the long green paths inside his dreams.  As you listen to the unhurried, hypnotic chant, all you know is that you don’t want it to end, then you play the record again, and again.