Rufus Wainwright Solo

By Carlo Antonelli

Rufus Wainwright is the son of a father whose lineage traces back to a distinguished 17th-century American family, among the founding figures of New York City. In a way, part of his genetic code harks back to the Founding Fathers themselves—a phrase that’s been heard (arguably too often) in recent months.

At first glance, nothing in Wainwright’s career appears to betray this heritage. On the surface, his artistic journey might seem a sophisticated queer carousel, where the dazzling orchestral stylings of '60s maestros like Van Dyke Parks (with whom he has worked) and Burt Bacharach swirl together with the magic-making machinery of classic American musicals, the singer-songwriter traditions of the '70s on both sides of the Atlantic, our own melodrama, and fragments of Hollywood’s fiercest leading ladies from the past fifty years. Together, these influences have yielded a body of work of remarkable solidity—a songbook of the highest calibre.

And all of this (apologies for the early spoiler) comes through in the conversation summarized here in monologue form, without the questions, like a flowing, casual narrative. Still, something of his stern, puritanical paternal lineage has clearly survived: the determination to hold fast to one’s identity, unwavering integrity, an almost stubborn refusal to compromise, and a readiness to confront conflict head-on when someone tries to take away what you’ve fought hard to build. That moment, like a recurring nightmare, has returned. And metaphorically, Rufus stands on his porch, beside a rocking chair, rifle in hand. Ready.

“I’ve been living in Los Angeles for many years now—twelve, to be exact. I made my first albums here back in the ’90s. Then I spent twenty years in New York. I was away during the wildfires, but my house came close to being hit—we were just on the edge of those monstrous fires that swept through Hollywood. We’re fine now, and it’s been raining non-stop in L.A., so things seem stable for the moment. But danger has become part of everyday life.
I even wrote a Mass called Requiem about ecological destruction. So yes, I think we’re in the midst of a catastrophe. Whether you’re in Los Angeles or Italy, you’re going to be affected. California just feels like the front line because it’s more extreme here—and we’re more used to it. We’re trained.

How old am I? I’m 51. Yes, I’m married. I’ve been with my husband for twenty years, married for about twelve.

Let’s just address the topic of my sexual identity right away and then move on. I was in the car, singing “Heart of Glass” by Blondie in the back seat, and I saw my father’s nervous eyes in the rearview mirror. I could tell he was deep in thought. It was clear to him, even though he didn’t say anything—and in truth, it was clear to me too, quite early on. I accepted it at around 12 or 13, but I’d known since I was about seven.

On the other hand, I was very close to my mother. She was musically involved too—she was in the first band I had with my sister. My mother and I were practically married, in a figurative sense. There’s even a story online about her doing crystal meth in London, but it’s not true. It was just cocaine. And it was me, her, and Marianne Faithfull. So, you know—we were in good company.

Marianne was a huge fan of my mother back in the ’70s, and later became one of mine. We were all close for years. It was a miracle my mother lived as long as she did. She lived life to the fullest, and I admire her for that. Her life was truly one of a kind. I think of her Italian years—her time with Mario Schifano, in Rome...

That’s part of why I have such a strong passion for Italy—because I’m a huge opera fan. My favorite composer is Giuseppe Verdi. For me, going to La Scala was—and still is—like stepping into a cathedral. I’ve been several times. Italy is very important to me.

Elsewhere—even in the U.S.—my pop career hasn’t always been easy, but I keep at it. And I’ll never forget the extraordinary concerts I’ve done in Rome and Milan. I adore Spoleto. I performed there many years ago and I’m thrilled to be returning. I have beautiful memories. I did a show with Robert Wilson based on Shakespeare’s sonnets, then a solo concert. And now another. This one will be special—tailored just for Spoleto. I’ll sing my own songs, some Judy Garland, and perhaps a track by Mina. I love her. I had an Italian boyfriend who introduced me to her.

I’m surrounded by “stars,” so to speak. Mina, of course, and Garland, Joni Mitchell, opera singers, and actresses like Meryl Streep... Today I have a rehearsal with Jane Fonda. She’s my new best friend. I had many Fonda moments growing up: the aerobics tapes, the lake dives, the sexy outfits... she’s done it all. We’re working together on the Dream Requiem.

There’s nothing strange about this kind of collaboration. I live in Los Angeles. Here, the industry is everything. There’s no point in sitting around sipping cappuccinos—you have to work. But my primary passion, as I’ve said, is opera. Sometimes I need to leave L.A. and go to Italy to produce an opera and clear my head. That’s what I did with my last two, Prima Donna and Hadrian. I’m drawn to challenges and unusual sounds.

Early in my career, I thought that was a strength—but in the pop world, not everyone wants to be challenged. I’ve stayed true to my style, and now people expect something meaningful from me—something that lasts longer than a burst of popularity.

I belong to the tradition of the singer-songwriter. For me, lyrics are fundamental. I’m not saying mine are perfect, but I put a lot of heart into them.

These days, lyrics in pop music are often terrifying. A lot of young people say they want to be singer-songwriters, and I tell them: do it only if you’re ready to earn nothing, be unknown, have no success. Do it only for the music. It’s like taking a vow of poverty. But if you stick with it, the audience will feel that.

Now I have 16- to 18-year-old fans who grew up with my music. What matters most is writing something that endures. The material has to hold up. I’m a fan of indestructible melodies and powerful, universal messages. That’s where I’ve put all my energy.

It hasn’t been easy, but now I have the songs that help me fight the battle. They are my arsenal.

Speaking of battles and armories—America today is under attack by dark forces. There may come a need for a new revolution—or even civil war. Not just as a gay man, but as a human being, I feel that.

I was just talking to Cat Power, and she said: ‘Next week I could be in prison in El Salvador.’ And she’s right. Right now, the government can deport anyone for any reason. We’re all at risk”.