Wainwright performs a soaring tribute to Garland

NEW YORK -- The novelty of it was undeniable. For two nights, flamboyant pop musician Rufus Wainwright would be re-creating the 1961 concert Judy Garland performed at Carnegie Hall, just eight years before she died of an accidental overdose. The blue ticket stub read ``Rufus Wainwright in Concert," and then right below it: ``Dedicated to Judy Garland."

That was only half of it. Wainwright's concert at Carnegie Hall on Wednesday (and also last night) was not merely a show, but a cultural event that drew a sold-out crowd dotted with celebrities and an audience that held Wainwright in rapturous esteem. If he weren't already so revered, it would have been a star-making moment.

Performing the entire concert, which later became a Grammy-winning album, was a wildly ambitious project, encompassing more than 25 songs, two costume changes (from cream-colored suit to top hat and tails), and peaks and valleys of decadent singing and sentiment.

But Wainwright was up to the task, dusting off these American Songbook chestnuts with verve and an obvious affection for the material. What he lacked in Garland's emotional heft and vocal grandeur, he compensated for with blowsy bravado and a keen understanding that delicious vamping goes a long way. Every toss of his floppy hair and thrust of his hips was in synch with the astounding full orchestra conducted by Stephen Oremus.

Wainwright's reverence for Garland aside, the concert was as much as about Wainwright and his own aspirations. Of course, there was the symbolic importance of a gay performer saluting a pivotal gay icon. Yet this wasn't an evening of reinvention, but rather heartfelt homage, right down to Wainwright forgetting some of the words (as Garland did) on ``You Go to My Head" and resurrecting some of her original stage banter.

His love of Garland, he explained, started with ``The Wizard of Oz," and as a child, his dream was to click his ruby-red slippers just like Dorothy. That was on a good day; on a bad day, he fancied himself the Wicked Witch of the West.

The show also gave Wainwright a chance to explore his range of talents, from sultry jazz singer (perched suggestively in his ``jazz chair," as he called it), to hammy showstopper, to brassy ballad belter. For ``Puttin' on the Ritz," his gleeful smile and enthusiasm made you feel as if he were a child again, performing in the family living room.

And, yes, the night was an absolute scene, from David Byrne seated right beside me to Peter Sarsgaard escorting a very pregnant Maggie Gyllenhaal to the ladies room. Oh, and there was Carson Kressley (surprise!) in a plaid blazer casting his queer eye on a gaggle of men near the stage, and, later, Laurie Anderson (sans Lou Reed), Tony Kushner, and a demure (and also pregnant) Beth Orton quietly leaving the theater. Outside, Sarah Jessica Parker waved to fans from behind her limo as Kristen Johnston stood beside her puffing on a cigarette, and Norah Jones practically went unnoticed as she chatted with friends.

As for the rest of the audience, well, as a friend observed, ``It's the only show I've seen where the line to the men's room is 20 times longer than the one for the ladies' room."

Back to the music. On ``Do It Again," sung in the original key, Wainwright channeled Garland's pathos perfectly, his falsetto rarely touching down and giving every note a cracked vulnerability. Later, in a rare example of surpassing the original version, Wainwright's wrenching take on ``The Man That Got Away" stole the show. ``I'm happy that wasn't the song that got away," Wainwright quipped.

If there was a bigger vamp during the 2 1/2-hour spectacle, it was Wainwright's sister, Martha, who momentarily upstaged him with her guest turn on ``Stormy Weather." Regal in 6-inch heels and a clingy mauve dress, Martha was all 1950s Julie London glamour, with a touch of tear-jerking Edith Piaf.

But then it was back to Rufus, with faithful renditions of ``Rock-a-Bye Your Baby With a Dixie Melody," ``Swanee," and a rousing duet with Lorna Luft, Garland's younger daughter (was Liza busy?), on ``After You've Gone." Wainwright invited his mother, Kate McGarrigle, to accompany him on a soaring ``Over the Rainbow."

``I feel like Celine Dion," she said deadpan as she sat down at the piano, to which Wainwright sighed, ``Oh, mother," as only a mortified child can.

After encores of ``Get Happy" and ``Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye," neither of which appeared on Garland's album, Wainwright soaked up the thunderous applause alone in the spotlight, as his mother stood in the wings dabbing her eyes. It looked like someone finally got his childhood wish.