Week 419: “Poses” by Rufus Wainwright

It’s a truism that fame doesn’t bring happiness, but it’s a tricky topic for songwriters to tackle. After all, there may be no better way to alienate your fans than by whining about how your fame (which wouldn’t exist without those fans) is so hard to deal with.

And yet, we recognize that money, fame, and popularity are not necessarily companions to happiness. Rarely are we surprised when we discover that our favourite artist has been battling depression or has attempted suicide.

In music, the “I’m so sad because I’m famous” theme runs across genres. Rock, hip-hop, indie, pop, country…it seems that other than breaking up with someone, nothing hurts famous musicians as much as the simple fact of being a famous musician.

All of which means that it is difficult to write a song about the perils of fame in a way that sounds genuine, new, or artful.

For me, Rufus Wainwright’s “Poses” is about as good as this type of song can get.

When he wrote it, Wainwright was perhaps not enormously famous, but certainly on the brink. His father, a Canadian folk icon, had passed his son’s demo tapes on to an executive at DreamWorks (a connection that may have further contributed to Rufus’ impostor syndrome doubts) and that had led to his debut album.

Rolling Stone named him best new artist for 1998. He won awards. Elton John called him ‘timeless’. He toured with big names. By 2001 he was in residence at the legendary Chelsea Hotel in New York, making famous friends, and flirting with several addictions.

It was there, in that fragile territory between high critical acclaim and low record sales, that he wrote this conflicted, powerful, crushingly beautiful song.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. Rather than focusing on the obvious, big-picture aspects of fame, he zooms in on the mundane details that accentuate the ridiculous nature of being glamorous: “There’s never been such grave a matter / As comparing our new brand name black sunglasses.”

2. Rather than images of exaggerated, rock star debauchery, he switches out the decadent for the pathetic: “I did go from wanting to be someone / Now I’m drunk and wearing flip-flops on 5th Avenue.”

3. In each chorus, the chords beneath his voice climb up by single degrees of the scale; perhaps a metaphor for rising to fame. But then, at 4.23, the melody resolves in a satisfying cadence. If you’re optimistic, maybe this is Wainwright coming to terms with fame.

Recommended listening activity:

Exhaling as if your life depended on it.

Buy it here.