Listening to Old Voices - Daddy Wainwright

Rufus and Martha get all the headlines these days, but their old man deserves more than a passing mention. In truth, though, the mention may not thrill him. Loudon Wainwright III (and make sure you include the Roman numeral; it adds that smarmy touch that perfectly suits this prep school scion of wealth and privilege) is an asshole. But given his heavily autobiographical songs, he probably wouldn’t dispute the claim. He’s a very funny asshole, and his witty, literate songs will frequently leave you laughing out loud. But no one in contemporary music exposes his shameful behavior and cringe-worthy moments more openly than Loudon, and it’s difficult to like him based on what he reveals. For better or worse, he’s the King of Confessional Creeps, the simultaneous winner in both the Best and Worst Musical Jerk categories. He is simply the most nakedly honest songwriter in a long line of navel-gazing tunesmiths. But Loudon always manages to ?nd the lint in the navel and hold it up for public viewing. His personal revelations are shocking, disturbing and frequently distasteful. They are also what make him great.

The “New Dylan” tag has been the kiss of death for more than one aspiring singer/songwriter, and it probably didn’t help the young Loudon Wainwright III that he was touted as a songwriting genius, favorably compared to His Bobness, and signed to a big contract with Atlantic Records while still in his early 20s. He scored a Top 20 hit with his 1973 novelty song “Dead Skunk,” a decidedly mixed blessing that saddled him with the unfortunate reputation as a musical comedian (he’s funny, but he doesn’t play the Weird Al Stupid Parody game), a reputation he’s never entirely shaken. In any event, he hasn’t, uh, sniffed mainstream success since “Dead Skunk.” All he’s done—over the course of a 35-year, 20-album career—is provide a running musical commentary on his marriages, the births of his children, their nursing habits (“Rufus is a Tit Man” was the title of one of his early songs), his extramarital affairs, his divorces, his besotted nights, his woeful parenting skills, his ambivalence toward the music industry, his dread of growing older, and his grief over the loss of his parents. Those who know Loudon only from “Dead Skunk” are missing an entire life.

It’s a life that’s been captured in all its tattered glory and frank ignominy, complete with clear-eyed, unflattering appraisals of his role in its frequent relationship disasters. Other great songwriters have chronicled the devastating effects of divorce on their psyches, and on the psyches of their loved ones—Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks, Richard and Linda Thompson’s Shoot Out the Lights, Bruce Cockburn’s Humans, Richard Buckner’s Devotion + Doubt. But there may be no songwriter who has so fully plumbed the depths of his own voracious appetites, of his own wretched libido in contributing to the relational rubble.