've never put any real thought into what I visualise when I listen to music. I mean, most of the time it's imagery inspired by my take on the lyrics or snatches of promo videos or even something as vague as colours or second hand emotions. On rare occasions it's maybe even me on vocals and rhythm guitar in a sold-out but intimate setting, or me roaming the stage as Nas' hypeman carrying his towel and polishing up his crown. Rufus Wainwright, however, worryingly sets me to visualising scenes from a yet to be staged Rice/Lloyd Webber musical (choirs of rosy cheeked boys with thumbs tucked into their braces; the hero, his arms outstretched, singing to the crowd) and the suspicion that I'm hearing the thoughts of an already well-defined setting, my warped imaginings secondary to the vision that Wainwright has imposed.

Maybe these are obvious visuals, considering the operatic stylings of the music and the way Wainwright’s voice shifts from mellow coffee croon to diva wail to Buckley/Carey theatrics quite effortlessly. Raising the curtain with "Oh What a World", the grandest LP opener since the Presley pilfering version of Spiritualized's Ladies and Gentlemen..., Wainwright makes the bold move of laying out his best track right off the bat. An outrageous, but ingenious, example of classical music P-Diddyism, Wainwright slashes the theme from Ravel's 'Bolero' with a Zorro like arrogance across the face of the track. With cheerfully cherubic tuba playing under surging choirs of cogitating Rufuses, the track is basically the summation of his whole flamboyant, cocky attitude. Luckily, it’s just that one spoonful of sugar short of being too much to bear; one of those moments where all the listed components add up to something that should sound like a right load of shite, but works regardless of any rules of logic or good taste.

That line, unfortunately, is crossed on much of the rest of the album. All but a couple of tracks here are dipped in the melodramatically thick strings of the opener- and the sum result is that it’s almost too much to take the whole LP in one sitting. The ghostly baton of Van Dyke Parks and his fantastically quirky and sentimental Disney string arrangements from Wainwright's eponymous debut hang heavy over Want One. Melodies and lyrics are smothered by the bloated and overly indulgent production, and that's even taking into account that the very kernel of his appeal is Wainwright’s willingness to walk the self indulgent path between parody and honesty. It's a bastard of a fine line to walk with Wainwright being more self aware than your average flamboyant drama queen opera fan. As much as I like what he does, the heavy arrangements and the multiple layers of drunken siren harmonies, horns and strings leaves my head too busy to pick out the better words and tunes. Repeated listens bring a little clarity to the muddle (I imagine that the demo versions would suit me better), but it becomes more of a poorly rewarded chore rather than a pleasurable evening's listening. His reliance on the piano, strings and melliferous thick vocals formula is, simply, holding him back. Even the dip in songwriting quality of Poses was countered by the attempt to meld the Rufus blueprint to some of the more rhythmically progressive leanings of Propellerheads' Alex Gifford. And while he briefly revisits this territory with the modest loop of the organic fender Rhodes sound on "Vicious World", the slender harmonies and "what have I done to myself" lyric show Wainwright doesn't need the Ringmaster style fanfares to do his thing well.

Instead, what Want One really needed was someone to scrape a layer of something lardy out of the middle of the mix. Producer Marius deVries (Bjork, Bono and Bowie) doesn’t oblige us here, by adding more and more until the tracks feel bloated, rather than full. This is not to say that Want One has been totally spoiled, there are many great moments here still; "Go or Go Ahead"s anthemic Yes (as in Wakeman and Anderson) backing vocals, the Sgt. Pepper flourishes on "I Don't Know What It Is" as the perky bass and quietly parping horns make way for Steam Train samples and the goofy, but uplifting orphan child chorus of "14th Street" (smart little banjo outro, too).

The press accompanying this release has been full of tales of how Wainwright’s real life excesses have mirrored his musical excesses and how this is his post-rehab 'rediscovering joy and life's little idiosyncrasies' LP. You could've fooled me. There is tons of desperation to stay alive here and little “back from the brink with clarity of purpose and vision” or joyousness being expressed here. And it's going to get worse before it gets any better; Want Two will be out later this year and is filled with the rest of the session work relying on the "more daunting tracks, the operatic, weird stuff with fouler language and longer songs." Bloody hell, Rufus.