Hauser at Radio City Music Hall: I Came for My Partner, I Stayed for the Feeling

A few months ago, I’d never even heard of Hauser. And now I was standing in line for his concert at Radio City Music Hall.

I came to know the Croatian-born, classically trained cellist turned rock performer through my partner, R. I’d walk into the living room and find him watching YouTube clips: Hauser barefoot, his shirt unbuttoned, sitting in a forest somewhere, soaked by the rain, always making moony eyes and kissy lips at the camera.

It was ridiculous. But Hauser’s talent was undeniable. And his music clearly meant something to R.

So, I surprised him with tickets.

I’m not much of a concertgoer anymore. And I’ve never been a crowds person. Going to Radio City was definitely outside my comfort zone.

I approached the venue with a feeling of mild dread. But I perked up when I saw the posters outside. They showed Hauser split down the middle by the outline of his instrument: half of him in a red shirt, the other half in a tuxedo. The posters said: The rebel is back!

It was so campy, I couldn’t help but laugh. Was Hauser in on the joke? I started to get excited about the show.

Then came surprise number two: We were upgraded to orchestra seats. My guess is that management wanted to fill the empty seats down front. We were happy to oblige. So were the other people in our row: mostly ladies, mostly middle-aged. There was another gay couple a few rows in front of us.

A sign in the theater warned us there would be strobe lights and smoke. Of course there would.

When Hauser came out, the crowd roared. He was wearing a fitted blazer, tight pants, loafers without socks. He opened slow, with a classical set. The music was sad, romantic, and very dramatic. Before every piece he said, “This is my favorite song.” But the way he said it, I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

In between songs, he cracked goofy jokes. Sang a little. Claimed to forget the lyrics. Drank his water with big slurping sounds like a baby sucking its bottle, watching the audience for its reaction.

He brought out musical guests, a singer and a violinist—women in long gowns with long blond hair. When the singer sang, “The Phantom of the Opera,” Hauser took his instrument and headed out to the audience to play. He kept warning (or reassuring) people that “things were about to get crazy.”

At one point Hauser changed into a silky green shirt and ripped black jeans. The music changed then too. It became much more rock-based. He and his small band did covers of pop songs, many with a Latin flair, like “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

Hauser pumped his pelvis as he drew his bow across his electric cello. He did little kick-step dances. He made his moony eyes and kissy lips at the crowd. After an exuberant performance, he picked himself up off the floor, wiped the sweat off his face with a towel, and tossed it to an adoring fan.

Video screens behind him played his now-familiar YouTube clips: Hauser as a pirate, Hauser in a thunderstorm. It still looked absurd. But in this new context—under the stage lights, in front of an adoring crowd—it made a different kind of sense.

Near the end of his set, Hauser played a little of “New York, New York.” He didn’t overplay it, but I imagine this was a big deal for him, playing here, as it would be for any musician.

If he can make it here, he’ll make it anywhere—and he already has.

Hauser’s showmanship isn’t just spectacle. It’s sincerity pushed past the point of embarrassment. Maybe that’s what makes it work: not just the virtuostic cello-playing combined with pelvic thrusts, but the refusal to shrink from acknowledging real feeling, even if it’s only to wink at it.

By the end I was on my feet: clapping and singing along, as loud as any other fan in that room.