Though he's had a handful of releases since 2007, Rufus Wainwright hasn't made the last five years easy on his listeners. Between two live albums (one of which was a double-length tribute to Judy Garland), a startlingly immodest and premature career retrospective (a whopping 19-disc limited-edition box set called House of Rufus), and a collection of ponderous and meandering Shakespeare-influenced piano demos (2010's studio album All Days Are Nights: Songs For Lulu), the casual fan might be forgiven for wondering if Wainwright had any interest in expanding on his uniquely composed and orchestrated brand of pop.
The answer is, well, sort of. While Out of the Game certainly represents Wainwright's return to more formal song structure, it marks a clean break from the florid and operatic pop that more or less defined his first five albums. Thanks in no small part to the presence of producer Mark Ronson, the bombastic orchestral pieces and the fluttering ariettas have been swapped out with an armory of peeling guitar licks and 1970s-inflected AOR grooves. Anyone with a mildly frayed birth certificate and a passing history with FM radio will get the touchpoints; Steely Dan, 10cc, Wings, ELO. If we were on a boat, you know what kind it'd be.
It's a look that Wainwright wears well, not only because he's always worked partly in the tradition of the very literate and offbeat West Coast 1970s singer-songwriter Randy Newman, but also because the relatively tighter forms of these songs prevent him from indulging in the pomp and grandiosity that often undermined his recordings. Game is certainly no less produced than any of his previous albums, but there's a lightness of touch throughout that nicely offsets its bigger moments. The sound's inherent moldiness also allows the 38-year-old Wainwright to stretch more fully into a pose he's been toying with for a decade; that of the cynical and conflicted older guy increasingly perplexed by a younger generation. Take the lead single, a statement piece that shows him proudly wearing his fusty new threads while simultaneously thumbing his nose at the hipster set: "Look at you, look at you, look at you-- suckers!" he sneers. "Does your mama know what you're doing?"
While it's a welcome update to his sound, Game isn't a straight genre exercise either. In fact, some of the album's best moments come from the songs that edge just outside of the blueprint. Boasting a pipe organ and a wormlike hook, the three minute "Bitter Tears" is an arch pop song that channels Wainwright's inner Falco; the simple "Sometimes You Need" is a surefooted ballad that rests on an acoustic guitar arpeggio before gently layering on the strings; and album closer "Candles" is a slow-burning torch song that's been re-routed through a Scottish pipe band.
When Wainwright falters, it's for familiar reasons, usually some combination of overindulging and oversharing. With its drain-circling piano arpeggios, fussy falsettos, and mildly cringeworthy lyrics ("One day you will come to Montauk/ And you will see your Dad wearing a kimono"), "Montauk" is the worst offender in this regard. Ultimately, though, it seems a bit churlish to ding someone for being uncool on a record celebrating that very fact. Even with a producer like Ronson at the helm, Wainwright will never be cool, or even popular. One thing's clear, though: He doesn't mind if you don't.
