Price Rufus Wainwright, The Palladium, London Amy Winehouse, Astoria, London

Try as I might to get through this review without resorting to the phrase "friend of Dorothy", it needs to be acknowledged that Rufus Wainwright recreating an entire Judy Garland concert note for note has to be one of the gayest propositions imaginable.

The concert in question is something of a holy artefact in gay culture. On 21 April 1961, Judy Garland delivered a historic bravura performance of 27 showtunes and standards at New York's Carnegie Hall; eight years later she'd be cold on a London mortuary slab after a fatal Seconal overdose.

Rufus Wainwright, as a former crack fiend, is a man who knows a thing or two about the interaction of stardom and addiction, and the Palladium, where Garland performed many times, is the obvious location. Nevertheless, it's an extraordinary challenge, and it's one which, within his own limitations, Wainwright just about pulls off.

The passing of almost half a century makes a few anachronisms inevitable, forcing Rufus to explain who on earth Jeanette McDonald (at whom Garland took a dig in "San Francisco") was, and, somewhat less comfortably, to issue a disclaimer that "some of the songs are blatantly racist".

Then again, there are instances where changing times, and changing meanings, add a certain something: you can see Rufus relishing verses like "The plot can be hot, simply teeming with sex/A gay divorcee who is after her ex..." and lines about "a swain getting slain for the love of a queen".

Wainwright's orchestra are a match for the original version, recreating the big band sound in deft brushstrokes. Where he can't match up, however, is vocally. I keep remembering Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge: perpetually a semitone flat.

To help, he is joined by two guest singers: his sister Martha (who really can sing) for "Stormy Weather", and Garland's daughter, Lorna Luft who belts out "After You've Gone" with all the gusto you'd expect from someone wanting to do their mum proud. He also proves that natural stage poise is not something you can learn: he fluffs his lines in the first verse of "Foggy Day", and during the prelude to "How Long Has This Been Going On?", he attempts to cross his legs on a high stool and nearly tumbles off.

A game effort, then, but, as he concedes during "Swanee" after his voice cracks on the high note, "OK Judy, you win."

In 2004, 75 viewers contacted Ofcom to complain about Animal Passions, a documentary examining the dark world of zoophilia. Whenever I hear people talking about Amy Winehouse, and the debate descending from the highbrow (is she rejuvenating vintage jazz or feeding a culturally pernicious trend towards nostalgia?) to the low ("would you, or wouldn't you?"), I think of that show, specifically the acronym JRHNBR, which I daren't explain here. Whether you find her exquisite or equine, there is, as always, a third way: sure, she looks like a horse, but a sexy horse.

I, for one, applaud her for saying no-no-no to rehab (that single's a true story), and nonchalantly rejecting sexist Heat magazine notions of acceptable female body shape and conduct. And likewise the white encrustation on her nostrils in last weekend's News of the World, the dodgy tattoos, her vomiting on this very stage (on a G-A-Y night), the drunken duet with Charlotte Church and countless other scandals are all part of the fun, and inseparable from the way in which, after her debut album Frank, she tore up her own script and escaped her possible fate as just another Joss Stone. Because, promising as Frank was, she's exceeded all expectations.

Hailed by ignorami as a Motown pastiche, her style is actually an earthier seam of retro, and her musicians - chiefly black guys in skinny ties - look like the Stax/Volt Revue backing band, teleported directly from backing Sam and Dave some time in 1964. Their delicious vintage soul sound has even the bouncers doing the Watusi.

Like Wainwright, Winehouse hasn't dressed up (it's jeans and t-shirt time), but her hair, which she admits is a weave, is the longest and biggest in the world, an effect exaggerated by her tiny frame. Her deep, languid voice and sheer don't-give-a-flying-one onstage charisma make me wonder whether, in 2053, that decade's version of Rufus Wainwright might be recreating an Amy Winehouse show.

Oh, alright then. Just Right Height, No Bucket Required.

s.price@independent.co.uk