Would you believe me if I said Damien Rice walked so Justin Vernon could run?
In the simplest, briefest nutshell: A 20-something artist gets burned out by the industry, hits a hard reset, leaves town for a while for a proverbial cabin in the woods, only to ultimately write the most successful album of their career (thus far). In terms of genre, Rice might be a bit more grouped in with the straightforward folk set, marketed to the VH1 crowd as a rebirthed Jeff Buckley, while Vernon’s Bon Iver owes more of a debt to the Appalachian freak folk that reigned a few years after — music that could be perceived as a reaction against the indie singer-songwriter archetype established by the likes of Rice, Iron & Wine, and Jose Gonzalez. Still, both Rice and Vernon have a well-documented tension with the Industry side of things and, somewhat ironically, achieved major success as a result. Unlike Vernon, Rice never quite replicated the reaction to his utterly gorgeous, haunting 2002 debut, O — nor did the era’s indie crowd appreciate his totally unironic, floppy-haired sincerity — but the album is a classic nonetheless.
Even years prior to striking out on his own, Dublin-born Rice had achieved some recognition as a member of the rock band Juniper, which he’d formed with schoolmates Paul Noonan, Dominic Philips, David Geraghty, and Brian Crosby in 1991. The quintet put out a couple of EPs — 1994’s The J-Plane and 1996’s Manna — and signed a six-album deal with PolyGram. They put out two official singles, “Weatherman” and “World Is Dead,” which found spots on the Irish charts. But Rice was extremely unhappy. Feeling pressured by PolyGram, who wanted a more radio-friendly sound out of the band, Rice bounced. Burned out by the music industry, he decamped to Tuscany to — no joke — become a farmer. “It was that classic story where you do what they tell you,” he told LAUNCH in 2004. “And I was younger at the time and I didn’t know, I didn’t have the experience.”
“But I got restless,” he said, acknowledging how his issues were only going to follow him, even if he changed countries. Unbeknownst to Rice, he had a distant cousin in the business, Bond composer David Arnold, who helped him build a home studio upon his return to Ireland, where he’d be free to write and compose on his own timeline. Thus begins the story of O, a snapshot of an artist shutting out all the background noise and simply doing something for themselves.
Though Rice is obviously the driving force behind O, the album, a whispery, perfectly imperfect acoustic collection, is packed with contributors, including backing vocalist and Rice’s then-creative and romantic partner Lisa Hannigan, cellist Vyvienne Long, guitarist and co-producer Mark Kelly, and a bumper crop of others (11 in total). Dedicated to the late Irish singer-songwriter Mic Christopher, O is brimming with feelings so raw, they would make any A&R rep salivate. Or cry. On the backs of standouts like the softly jangling “Cannonball” and the lusty “Volcano,” Rice builds a sonnet-filled world that feels directly inspired by Shakespearean romance and tragedy.
The journey begins with an opener that lives up to its name; the slow-building “Delicate” sounds almost like Rice was mid-thought when he opened his mouth to spin a yarn about a secret tryst that means more to one person than the other. By the end, Rice is practically howling, “And why do you sing Hallelujah / If it means nothing to ya? / Why do you sing with me at all?”
Next up is a one-two-three punch of “Volcano,” “The Blower’s Daughter,” and “Cannonball,” each of which have bubbled up in pop culture, from the sexual musical chairs film Closer (2004) to The X Factor UK. I’m especially fond of the urgent, yearning “Volcano,” which I distinctly remember seeing on VH1 one weekday afternoon and feeling moved. Bolstered by Long’s cello, “Volcano” primarily features Rice and Hannigan ravishing each other with their aching vocals. Lyrics tell a tale of two lovers where one idolizes the other, who sadly concludes, “She’s still too young.” (Hrm. Well, 2002 was a different time.)
“The Blower’s Daughter” is probably the Rice song that most people know, primarily due to its playing at the start and ending of a major motion picture starring Natalie Portman, Jude Law, Julia Roberts, and Clive Owen, which, come to think of it, also featured bars from another O track, “Cold Water.” Anyway, “The Blower’s Daughter” is practically the centerpiece of Closer because it’s basically the song equivalent to the movie: minimalist, slow moving, rooted in a romantic obsession that tiptoes somewhere between loving and loathing.
“Cannonball” holds a similar place in the zeitgeist. Against a strummed acoustic guitar, Rice shifts between mournful minor key and triumphant major as he whisper-sings how there’s “still a little bit of your taste in my mouth” and “still a little bit of you laced with my doubt.” This one eventually found a spot on Britain’s The X Factor, where competition winners Little Mix paid tribute with their own “Cannonball” cover. When theirs was released, it topped the British and Irish Singles charts on its first week. The original only reached #32 on the UK Singles Chart, but something tells me Rice had stopped caring about chart placements and other traditional markers of industry success.
Though it did not rake in Grammys or stay at #1 for weeks, O‘s gradual ascent feels appropriate for Rice’s cautious headspace at the time. After it peaked at #8 in the UK, O won the Shortlist Prize for Artistic Achievement in Music (an award for albums that sell fewer than 500,000 copies), though it would eventually be certified Gold in the US, where its presence was felt at open mic nights across the land. O‘s follow-up, 2006’s 9, failed to match its predecessor’s sales, and it took Rice even longer to do a third solo album. He did eventually release 2014’s My Favourite Faded Fantasy, but he’s been quiet ever since.
Interviews with Rice in his post-O years show a man still incredibly uncomfortable with fame, or really any visibility. Not so much because great music nets him admirers, but more because the industry always seems to be asking things of him that he just doesn’t want to do. Reclusive tendencies aside, Rice’s O absolutely deserves another look, as few artists have put out a work that is this atmospheric and tender — or had the audacity to sneak in a cover of “Silent Night” as a hidden track at the end of an album. Think of it as a lovely little reward for sticking around after the curtain drops.
