Wow, did this Rufus Wainwright show really happen a week ago? (Yes, it did.) How did I forget to post this review in that time? (I was busy. And the show was pretentious, sad and lame — a real downer.) Wait, wasn’t this show supposed to be at the Paramount — where Wainwright’s elite sense of musicality and his fans’ dutiful worship would have made more sense than the shoes-sticking-to-the-floor Ogden Theatre? (It was originally at the Paramount, but when tickets failed to move, promoter AEG moved it to the smaller and cheaper Ogden.)

OK, here’s how this disappointing, if occasionally beautiful, show started, and I’m paraphrasing: “Ladies and gentlemen. Rufus will perform his new record in its entirety. Please, no applause between songs.”

Wait, half the fun of a Wainwright concert is applauding the singer-songwriter/diva. And you’re telling me we can’t applaud? And we can’t watch other people applaud? (Wainwright’s fans are avid, fervent clappers. They’re part of the brilliance of a Wainwright show.) And to add insult to injury, Wainwright’s stark first set was performed solo with a grand piano with a giant projection of a huge, lurking, taunting eyeball — a la the cover of his latest CD, April’s “All Days Are Nights: Songs for Lulu.”

Yeah, Wainwright’s show was freaky. Firstly it was sad. He lost his mom, Kate McGarrigle, earlier this year, and you can hear that in his new record — which isn’t nearly as captivating or melodic as his previous effort, 2007’s wonderful “Release the Stars.” Secondly it was pompous. No applause? This isn’t the symphony. This isn’t a concert hall or an opera house. This is the same venue that will host Super Diamond and B.o.B. in the next month. Thirdly, even the second, clap-when-you-like set was dour. We don’t go to shows to have a wet blanket thrown on us.

Halfway through the first set we ran into a friend who nodded toward the silent room and the dramatic stage and said, “Don’t look at him too loud.” A few moments later, as Wainwright transitioned between songs, a blaring ambulance tore down Colfax Avenue, a garish reminder that an entire theater full of people were standing (upstairs) and sitting (downstairs) in silence listening to very sad, sometimes-pretty songs.

One of the show’s biggest faults was the venue. The Ogden is a solid rock club that has seen many improvements over the years, but it was unquestionably the wrong setting for this show.

There was a lovely moment at the end of his first set. While he worked his way through “Zebulon” — singing “My mother’s in the hospital/my sister’s at the opera/I’m in love but let’s not talk about it/there’s so much to tell you” — his unsinkable spirit rose to the top. But then he ruined the moment at the set’s end when he abruptly stood from the piano bench, spun 180 degrees on his toes and walked dramatically off the stage.

Yikes.

The second set was more casual. “Going to a Town” was poignant and well-delivered. But the damage had already been done. We went expecting a concert — but we got a concerto. And while he surely thinks his new music is deserving of such glowing treatment, it’s not.

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