Loudon Wainwright III, Chris Smither
Penn Live Arts/ Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
3680 Walnut St.
Philadelphia
Feb. 1, 2026
“You know [what] the great thing about getting to be this old is? Less peer pressure.” That’s a joke Loudon Wainwright III – the singer, songwriter and actor – relayed from an afternoon hanging out with the late, great songwriter Tom Lehrer, who passed last July at the ripe old age of 97, before singing us a hilarious song of Lehrer’s, “Oedipus Rex," strumming smartly on a ukulele:
There once lived a man named Oedipus Rex
You may have heard about his odd complex
His name appears in Freud's index
'Cause he loved his mother
Ironically enough, the now-79 Wainwright got plenty peer-pressured during his solo performance: I was easily one of the youngest people in the crowd, surrounded mostly by folks old enough to remember when his song “Dead Skunk” – “#1 in Little Rock, Arkansas – no shit, six consecutive weeks!” he exclaimed, back in 1972 – was on the radio. (He told us a story about meeting Bill Clinton and asking if Clinton ever recalled hearing the tune; nothing but a simple, straightforward “No,” was the answer.) He succumbed to the pressure when someone shouted out a request for the aforementioned “Dead Skunk," insisting we sing along like we mean it, and other song titles were hurled from the seats throughout – I’ll confess, I shouted for “One Man Guy," mostly to prove someone sub-40 knew the catalogue. We were treated to songs and tales across his storied career, now in its sixth decade. (Twenty-six albums! That’s, like, 300 songs! But who’s counting?)
Wainwright was in fine form and his commanding voice was as spry or spryer than a man a third his age, his face still possessed of its usual elasticity and tongue-wagging splendor. The only thing betraying his age: “So I start out the show standing, knock over a few things, then I sit down – and if you’re really lucky, I wind up lying on the stage,” he joked. “So as they say, it’s all downhill from here.” I’ve loved Wainwright’s music since I first heard “The Swimming Song” years ago, a perfectly-written, banjo-and-fiddle-led ode to the evergreen greatness of summertime swimming – whether it's in the ocean, a reservoir, or an overly chlorinated pool – that’s been a stalwart companion to many a swimming hole day trip. So I was overjoyed to finally catch the guy in person. He’s that rare artist who, like Randy Newman, gets at all the feelings: his songs can be side-splitting, tear-jerking, or rage-baiting, something for any and all occasions and moods.
The highlights were several – a new song, last year’s “Just a Cat,” showed he’s still got the goods and a way with words that unfailingly hits his target. For me, “best” and “most unhinged” are often synonymous, and I absolutely loved his hamming-it-up a capella rendition of 1983’s “The Grammy Song” interspersed with hilariously-told stories about the times he’s been nominated for and/or won the statuette (of course, he was here with us instead of at this year’s ceremony; apparently there’s no “Best Song About Deceased Pets” category, though maybe there should be). This whole bit lasted like eight minutes and was a morbid hoot. Essentially, his first two losses were posthumous awards for Steve Goodman; the first time was one thing, but twice got to feel a bit too much. When it was his turn: “The ceremony was held back in LA. I flew out there, and that afternoon I walked off with the hardware. This little victory felt especially sweet because not only had it been a long and torturous journey to get the Grammy, but one of the other nominees in my category was my old Saratoga Springs pal, Bruce ‘Utah’ Phillips.” Incredulously: “Bruce died in twenty-oh-eight (laughter) and his record was a tribute album. I know it sounds churlish and awful…” (and here he slid into a low, menacing voice) “...but I finally beat the dead guy.” Less peer pressure, indeed.
