My Weary Query

It was 95 degrees. 4000 of us stood waiting for Rufus to appear. The rum and coke I sipped numbed my legs and feet. The liquor made standing bearable but didn’t eliminate the heat. Sweat trickled down my back. Rufus better be worth this, I thought.

As we Austinites stood shoulder-to-shoulder in Subb’s backyard, couples (girls and boys, boys and boys, girls and girls) flirted; some rolled ice cubes across their faces. Three pre-teen girls sat Indian style on a loft overlooking the yard, waiting patiently. Mommas stood with their sons and daughters; guys stood with their buddies. We were a spectrum of ages, genders, and sexualities—most of us left of the norm.

Occasionally someone’s paper fan blew air on me that smelled of Stubb’s BBQ. And with it images far more rugged than Rufus Wainwright came to mind — Uncle Willie’s backyard grill parties, for instance. Or Bobby Flay cooking up everybody’s all American soul food: ribs, brisket, sausage, HAWT dogs, and sauce so messy you have to use wet-wipes to clean yourself. Tasty, yes, but not sophisticated as Rufus, I imagined. Not Rufus who recently played Carnegie Hall and The Old Vic.

As we stood, the beer and BBQ I smelled connoted a soundtrack much different from Rufus’ music—something more beefy and Americana like Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA, or even John Cougar Mellencamp’s Jack and Diane (“two American kids growin’ up in the heartland”).

“Is this really a Rufus Wainwright concert?,” I thought I heard someone say. BBQ is as quintessentially American as baseball and apple pie, and thankfully, Stubb’s brings a diversity of people and musical genres to the cuisine, including Rufus, the openly gay singer-songwriter-entertainer. Stubb’s website announces, “From Hip Hop to Country, Rock and Roll to Singer Songwriter, Indie Rock to Electronica, we love them all.” And they happily host a gospel brunch the morning after to boot.

I have to admit, Stubb’s disrupts my vision of BBQ that’s somehow intertwined with a narrow nationalism–namely wealthy, white, straight, good-ole-boys who hitch a grill on the back of their Chevy and Ford trucks. It signals something, err, Bush, Republican, Aggie, and even GOD BLESS THE USA, a.k.a. Lee Greenwood.

[Sorry for this diatribe, but I heard that song 1000 times when the towers collapsed on 9/11; and while I’m happy to be an American, I was also happy when Lee’s song stopped clogging the airwaves; I wanted more Dixie Chicks. KUT 90.5 proved a comforting place to turn, and is still my station of choice since I'm not one for blind patriotism].

So I was saying there’s something about barbecuing, like making a fire and guarding the meat, that evokes conventional masculinity and a certain nostalgia for God and country. When Rufus finally took the stage, though, he brought something refreshingly queer to the cuisine. If not as conventional as the proverbial apple pie, Rufus and Stubbs BBQ were as weirdly satisfying a combo as apple juice and cheese (at least for us liberal WHOLE FOODS junkies).

Rufus took the stage with roaring applause, looking as if he were Uncle Sam’s illegitimate grandchild. He was clad in a short suit with red, white, and blue stripes; the get-up was punctuated by red boots, a black belt, and sequined brooches that caught the stage lights with his every move. Even with all its quirkiness, Rufus knew something essential was missing. “I need a cowboy hat,” he insisted moments before making his entrance, so his crew commandeered a ranch hat from a willing fan named Bud.

“I know I look ridiculous. I can’t decide if I want to be handsome or cute,” he debated. He moved the hat down over his face to give the lonesome cowboy look. Then moved it up to show more of his face. The crowed cheered for the low brim. “Okay, handsome it is.”

He mostly performed songs from his new album, Release the Stars. About 10 minutes into the show, Rufus sang his single Going to a Town, which he’s described as his “breakup letter to America.” The audience applauded the lament as soon as the melody soared from Rufus’ grand piano.

Rufus was a taken aback by the strong reception. “What an amazing audience,” he said. “Y’all must really like music. George W. lived here. I guess it takes a lot of music to bear that.”

He proceeded swiftly, song after song, maneuvering between the piano and guitars—sometimes signaling orders for his crew to open or close his grand piano, or to adjust the sound, all the while synthesizing something burlesque, operatic, pop, and folk in his music.

We endured the heat and tight quarters for good entertainment and a little booze. “It’s August!,” Rufus said as he toweled himself dry. “We’re doing a show outside in August in Austin. I don’t blame you if you leave. It’s hot!”

But no one thought of leaving. Like the BBQ cooking in the background, the music had soul and sustenance. His lyrics, so often about love, sex, breakups, family, stardom, hypocrisy, and healing are above all else, truthful and compelling. Like any good artist, his work takes on new meanings over time and experience. What’s amazing is that at only 33, he’s so much varied experience to draw from, and already 5 albums of purely original music that breaks heteronormative assumptions of love and living, and still appeals across a spectrum of identities and sexualities.

His band is also strikingly versatile in talent. They toggled between back-up vocals, the piano, electric guitar, trumpet, the French horn, and flute as Rufus belted out epic numbers like Do I Disappoint You, Slideshow, and Beautiful Child. The Act I finale, Between My Legs, featured a drag queen, Rebecca, who’d won a contest to perform an interpretive dance of the song. Rufus kept steady focus on the music and lyrics, but gave an occasional wink to the giddy queen, who played all areas of the stage.

He ended the show with 14th St., and exited the stage to a cheering audience. Everyone demanded an encore. Apart from the the raucous crowd, two teenagers peeped through a crack in the greenroom where Rufus made his exit; they took turns peering-in, both aghast and giggling until a security guard shined a flashlight on them. They’d just seen Rufus undressing.

The crowed yelled. RUFUS! RUFUS! RUFUS!

Finally he came back onstage in a bathrobe to sing some of his older tunes. Then, with much flare, he put on high heels and lipstick. He tore off his bathrobe to reveal a mini-suit, and performed a parody of Judy Garland singing Get Happy from the movie Summerstock.

“Forget your troubles c’mon get happy,
you better chase all your cares away.
Shout hallejulah c’mon get happy
get ready for the judgment day.”

And that’s exactly what he did. The evening proved we Austinites can eat our BBQ and be questioning patriots, too. We can rock to Springsteen and Mellencamp’s flag waving music as we down brewski and charred ribs, but we can also stand in the August heat and raise a glass to Rufus as he critiques what it means to be conventionally American or male or conventionally anything for that matter.

Thank you Rufus, and Stubb’s. I’m saving my ticket.