The next ‘Piano Man’ who occupies a strand of my musical genome is the loved-by-me, loathed-by-everybody-around-me Rufus Wainwright.

Wainwright uses quite a bit of acoustic guitar, not to mention orchestral music and horns, in his music but at heart he is a tickler of the ivories. Look no further than his sixth studio album, All Days Are Nights: Songs For Lulu, which featured nothing but his piano and vocals.

It’s ironic that he doesn’t fall into the ‘Folk Rock Derivative’ category because he is literally derived from two folk rock singers, Loudon Wainwright III and Martha Wainwright. And though he has covered his father’s songs and included his mother (and sister) on his records, his style is far more baroque.

Wainwright does write his share of ‘Pure Pop,’ however, delivering at least a few songs per album that would be in heavy radio rotation in an alternate universe where talent trumps banality. And he is most definitely ‘Melancholy,’ sometimes annoyingly so.

When in the right mood, Wainwright’s beautiful whine works like soothing bath salts. Other times, not so much. Rufus is one of those artists who I always have to listen to alone because the non-believers around me hear him with a different set of ears.

I liken it to drinking wine. I hate wine, and I believe that’s because my taste buds just work differently than those of wine lovers. There’s no way they are experiencing the same physical sensation I am but just happen to enjoy it. They taste something different, something good.

Rufus Wainwright is my fine wine. Everybody else winds up with a bitter taste in their mouths.