The Magic Of Damien Rice

Many of the stories I've written over the years are scattered all over the internet. Some of them I still kind of like and would like to preserve, so I'm reposting them here on my blog.

Here's my account of the first time I ever saw Damien Rice perform live. The original post can be found here. 

When Damien Rice walked onstage at Singapore’s Star Theatre last Saturday night, the venue was pitch black. The spotlights didn’t immediately flood the stage as expected, even after he started on his first song. For a few minutes, all audiences could hear was a faceless, disembodied voice wailing “Older Chests.”

I couldn’t help but think he was making a statement. Perhaps it was a way to remind the crowd of the first time they heard Rice’s music: on the radio, on bootlegged mp3s, on CDs. Having him right there in person, in the flesh, was certainly a treat, but for a majority of those who chose to part with their hard-earned money to catch his show, including me, the opening was a throwback to the days when we listened to his music, often alone and in the dark, grappling with emotions as varied as confusion and anger, sadness and grief.

Most music fans have a list of artists they’d like to see perform live. I’m lucky I’ve ticked off a few in mine: John Mayer, Keane, Snow Patrol, Joshua Radin, Sting, The Lemonheads, Aerosmith, Howie Day and many others. But Damien Rice has always occupied one of the top slots in my own concerts-to-attend-before-I-die list. It began almost immediately after a friend, Pedi, introduced me to him via a bootlegged copy of his debut album O.

“I really enjoyed the Damien Rice CD,” I told Pedi via email, dated 16 November 2003. “I think it’ll be living in my CD player for a while. Favorite tracks: ‘Cannonball,’ ‘Cold Water, ‘Amie,’ and ‘The Blower’s Daughter.’”

Since then Rice has been a fixture in my musical diet. The thing with his music though is that it’s not exactly for everyday consumption. You probably could, if you really wanted to, but his brand of melancholic, folk rock lends itself well to moments of sobriety and introspection. He’s not the first name that comes to mind at rave parties, beach trips, or your fraternity’s all-nighter. His songs don’t exactly suggest joy, sunshine, and the promise of happy ever after.

Instead, the music of the fortysomething Irishman seems to go well during our darkest, gloomiest moments. It’s the soundtrack to those episodes in our lives when we’re wounded or scared. We put him on when we’re feeling anguished or despondent, when the tears fall and our insides hurt. He doesn’t celebrate with us when we’re happy so much as he commisserates during heartaches and heartbreaks. Sometimes we play his songs just to temper our relative cheer with a dose of soul-stirring reality. His music is catharsis; sad and painful at times, but always leaving us feeling grateful and hopeful.

Which is why I didn’t hesitate to fly to Singapore when he announced a stop there as part of his My Favourite Faded Fantasy tour. He was just in Singapore late last year as part of the lineup for a music festival, but as far as I can remember, this is his first solo show in the Lion City since 2006.

From my front row seat, Rice was almost luminous in his loose collarless shirt, suspenders (or braces as the Brits call them) and khaki burlap trousers. With his acoustic guitar, he launched into one song after the other with hardly a word to the audience: “Delicate,” “My Favourite Faded Fantasy,” and “9 Crimes.”

Finally he addressed the audience with a humorous allegory about a 13-year-old boy who receives a million dollars everyday but is told not to do anything about it. The punchline (which I won’t reveal here; you had to be there) got a laugh out of the audience, belying the image some might have of him as a staid, ultra-serious singer-songwriter. He then segued to fan favorite “The Professor & La Fille Danse.”

After “I Remember,” Rice couldn’t help issuing a gentle reminder about concert etiquette directed at those with overactive bladders. “Maybe wait till after a song before you get up to go to the toilet?” he said, drawing claps of approval from the crowd, and perhaps sheepish grins from those already up.

“What’s the one thing in common with all your romantic relationships?” he asked. “You.” Rice then revealed how he himself has been staying away from romantic relationships for two reasons. “First, because you don’t want to feel bad about yourself. You’re not a failure if you didn’t do anything. And the other reason is fear.”

At this point I realized how much Rice transcended the stifling limitations of a one-man acoustic show. It’s so easy to bore an audience when you have nothing else but your voice and a guitar, but Rice made smart, efficient use of both of those instruments to deliver a stunning, mesmerizing show. He was such a powerful presence that you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him even for a second. The lighting design helped, too, with dramatic, strategically placed beams enhancing the intimate atmosphere inside the 5,000-seat theater.

In a previous interview for music site Bandwagon.asia, Rice mentioned that he likes walking out onstage without a plan or a setlist. When he asked the audience what they wanted to hear, he was deluged with a ton of requests. “I heard ‘Accidental Babies,” he said, and then proceeded to sing the track from his latest album.

After “Volcano,” he moved to a small set-up on one side of the stage, where he poured himself shots of whiskey while plaintively warbling “Cheers Darlin’” accompanied by a pre-recorded track.

“Fuck romance,” he spat out at the end of the song.

I yelled out “Amie!” when he asked again what people wanted to hear. His rendition of the track from O was as beautiful as I expected, forceful and elegant. His next song,  “It Takes A Lot To Know A Man,” was a showstopper. He used samples and delay pedals to add a rich layer  of dynamism to the end of the regular set. One after the other he recorded an acoustic guitar track, electric guitar, clarinet, percussion, and another acoustic guitar, then mixed them all together in a gut-busting performance that no doubt left many in the crowd picking their jaws up from the floor.

The encore came soon enough. I couldn’t help but scream “The Greatest Bastard,” which, thankfully, he was kind enough to oblige. Security had their work cut out for them when Rice asked audiences to come closer for his final three songs. “Cannonball” was the first song of his that I heard over 13 years ago and it was especially moving to be just a few inches away from him as he sang those unforgettable words: “Stones taught me to fly/Love taught me to lie/Life taught me to die/So it’s not hard to fall/When you float like a cannoball.”

The profanity-laced chorus of “Rootless Tree” is particularly memorable, sending audiences into an energetic sing-along.

Rice’s big finale is also perhaps his biggest “hit.” Most audiences were introduced to him when “The Blower’s Daughter” was used in the Mike Nichols’ drama “Closer.” Fittingly, he used the track to close out the show.

It was likely that last song melted away any vestiges of doubt anyone might have had about the potency and sheer magic of Damien Rice. “The Blower’s Daughter” is Rice himself—intensely personal yet undoubtedly universal. Lots of other people can sing and play guitar, but the way Rice does it makes one believe how connected we all are despite all our unique experiences and sensibilities. And I think that’s what makes him so special.

Walking out of that theater, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for having witnessed a truly amazing artist at the top of his game. Judging by all the giddy, slightly dazed expressions on almost everyone else at the venue, I suspect I wasn’t the only one.

I watched the show with my good concert buddy Cheekie