I tried. Having read John Aizlewood's extravagant review of Rufus Wainwright's show at the Old Vic, I was willing to admit I may have been wrong when I concluded in 2004 that the flamboyant Canadian singer is an over-weening, self-indulgent idiot and I never wanted to listen to his hollow music again. "Sell your relatives to get a ticket", readers were advised. Not being immediately acquainted with any people traffickers - which made the suggested transaction slightly inconvenient - I thought I'd give my promo copy of his new album, Release the Stars, a whirl instead. I pressed play. I heard his awful nasal whine slither its way unmelodiously around his luxurious arrangements like a tuppeny tart dirtying your best upholstery. And I disliked him afresh.

Let me explain: I don't wish merely to scorn Wainwright, but to untangle the mystery of why disliking an artist is often as much a matter of passion as liking others. I mean anyone who likes Joanna Newsom, in my book, can't be all bad. Anyone who dislikes Razorlight I consider a friend.

I first heard of Wainwright around the time of Poses (2001); he had been compared to many of my favourite men: Elliott Smith, Jacques Brel, Jeff Buckley. I liked that album's lead off track Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk, about his time in rehab, but didn't really get into the rest - inoffensive though it was. However, after one mildly entertaining gig at the Lock Tavern in support of Want One (2003), a collossally boring one at Islington Academy in support of Want Two (2004) and the sprawling mess of those two long, long albums inbetween, my good will was exhausted.

I actually quite like Rufus Wainwright himself; the most entertaining bits of those concerts were the bits where he yaddered away about his amusing life. I like his stance. I salute his open gay-ness, and rather like his Gay Messiah conceit. On paper, he is brilliant. And on paper is where he works best, dispensing with witty anecdotes in press interviews, because his music is such a disappointment. Despite his obvious talents, he doesn't seem to try very hard with his actual songs, putting all energy into expensive arrangements to prop up melodies that smack of complacency. His tunes rarely develop or move anywhere; often they just sound like the first thing he bashed out at the keyboard - and yet he seems so precious about them. He has expressed an ambition to be recognised as a great singer, but again, he sings incredibly lazily, slurring, drawling, relying solely on his voice's curious timbre to draw out the emotion - which is why he gets so boring so quickly. With focus and discipline, he could be brilliant. And this is why he pisses me off so much: great songs make great artists, not great arrangements and clever quips.

He seems to put his lack of mainstream popularity down to his homosexuality - and he probably has a point. Still, though they are less explicit about it, the Scissor Sisters, Elton John and Mika haven't exactly been hindered by theirs. No, he's not as popular as his ubiquitous media presence would imply as he's never written a song good enough to justify it. More often than we care to admit, the public get it right.