Climbed an aircraft, skin shade pale,
Amongst elderly fields of Daily Mail;
Time is dead, time to kill,
Travelling, yet feel so still.
Leaving grey, mist relief,
Into colour; flame Tenerife.
Gigantic mountainous, against so weak,
They speak, they tower, the mighty peak.
Amidst snaking roads fear do give,
Astonishment! In this they live.
Such beauty makes a Spine-a-curled,
I'm here. Not there. In my other world.
Last week I saw Rufus Wainwright on his Songs for Lulu tour, the new album released last month, just a few weeks after the sad death of his mother Anna McGarrigle of cancer, in January. The album itself is the most stripped bare of Rufus' works - it is simply Rufus at his piano. And yet the whole record is arguably his most complicated, intricate and emotionally textured of anything he has ever produced before. The performance was exquisite. Criticised by some as being pretentious, Rufus played the entire album in full, clapping in between songs forbidden. The usual Rufus banter was absent. No little quips of welcomes. Or face pulling. Just Rufus, his piano, and the heart-wrenching musical tale of losing his mother. Typically, the audience illustrated the amazing wide spectrum of fan-base Rufus attracts. From grannies to teens, to trendies to punks, from men wearing skirts to straight-laced middle-aged tweeds; it matters not, and everyone has a wonderful time. If solemn on this oc...
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