A Renaissance man in modern application, Wainwright's grand scope here covers a great deal of space and unwittingly mines the ground dug out by many a contemporary artist. With multitracked vocals and lush, complex arrangements (both, Wainwright staples), the ghost of Brian Wilson seems a ubiquitous presence-- especially on numbers such as "Vicious World", where Rufus' plaintive, appealing croon takes center stage, backed by a chorus of his own likeness and a finely tuned, direct arrangement. "Movies of Myself", with its straight-ahead bounce, drum-led clip, and aberrant guitar crunch, recalls Jason Faulkner. "14th Street" is a Jim Croce chorus-line cabaret burlesque, and "Natasha" loosely tunes in to early Paul Simon-inflected tribute-narratives.
But to say Wainwright is following anything but his own vision would be a misconception. His footsteps mostly lead him back to his earlier cabaret-infused theatre pop and maudlin, hushed anti-ballads. The result is a top-heavy album, with his best material-- the more operatic and unconstrained works-- all unfolded within the album's first half hour. "Oh What a World" opens the album with a tuba's reluctant elephant steps and some acoustic plucks, and slowly trickles in a full concert's worth of accompaniment before deploying a string rendition of Ravel's Bolero behind Wainwright's plaintive warble.
"I Don't Know What It Is" follows in with a slow building, twinkling pop sensibility, carrying his most melodic vocal punch. "Go or Go Ahead", the album's most compelling portrait, falls in like fine China crashing to the ground in slow motion, reaching an epic chorus that carries the song just shy of the seven-minute mark. The lyrics carry mythological grandeur, but as with the rest of this album, they're shot through with vulnerability and emotional nudity.
"Vibrate", then, marks the album's low water mark, taking his stream-of-consciousness, take-me-as-I-am drama too far: Over thin instrumental accompaniment and languished tones he sings, "My phone's on vibrate for you/ Electroclash is karaoke, too/ I try to dance Britney Spears/ I guess I'm getting on in years." This, along with "Natasha", "Pretty Things", and "Want" are simply too sparse to offer any real substance. But then "Beautiful Child" cuts in, sounding, before the mix becomes too cluttered, like Wainwright fronting an inspired, experimental U2. Perhaps there is a battle going on here: It sometimes feels like Wainwright is merely fighting his way through inspiration, unable to put anything aside. And between the scrambling and shifty vulnerability, he stumbles onto something that is uniquely his own. But if there's any momentum to speak of leading into this album's sequel, it's the anchoring weight of Want One's second half, without which the record could survive itself.
