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As the venue lights dip to nothing – save for 12 small
candles dotted unassumingly to offer a frail, flickering
illumination – his fingers begin the slow dance of a
broken man healing, up and down the neck of his acoustic
guitar. He croaks the opening of ‘Cold Water’ in a high
half-confessional tone, only partially outweighing the
status of a whisper, asking “Lord, can you hear me now?”.
His band (like the candles, unassuming) gradually pick
up the task of carrying him with a sober folk shuffle
from the safety of the shadows, as if they’re pushing
him step by step, bit by bit, up this lonely ethereal
staircase. And then with little warning, save for the
stirring of a few gentle roaming blue lights, and like
an unstoppable flood shredding the tissue of darkness
that previously protected them, an intense detonation
of white light bright-washes the entire room, capturing
Damien’s now frenzied, distorted attack on his guitar
in sharp focus. It is the first time your scribe almost
cries tonight.
Because it’s not just this man’s beautifully structured
songwriting that makes him. Nor his inter-song storytelling
– an open-book of open-hearted and occasionally humourous
laments – his vigorously fragile voice nor his utter
softness and approachability. Though all those things
may put him an airy indoor space ahead of his peers,
whoever you consider them to be. We realise that now,
though the majority of that is plainly demonstrated
already on last year’s breathtaking debut ‘O’.
Live, in the flesh, it’s almost as if he’s second guessing
your emotions, because you’re there, in the flesh, and
he can. Or has to. Playing to and benignly toying with
you, and then hoisting you out of your languid sedation
and turning you right on your head. He has a genuine
falsetto to die for at full throttle. And a warmth so
credible, convincing and of such depth you’d probably
kill for him if asked. And all the while you’re under
his spell you can’t help but feel this just isn’t something
you can learn or practice or fine tune. Are you even
listening, David Gray, Turin Brakes, Starsailor?
As if his influences weren’t plain enough (and it’s
no let down that someone of such lone greatness should
have traceable influences), they are paid homage tonight
with covers worked into his own songs, Jeff Buckley’s
‘Hallelujah’ abridging the aforementioned ‘Cold Water’
and a perfect furious insert of Radiohead’s ‘Creep’
into the otherwise blissfully quiet ‘The Blower’s Daughter’.
And then there’s Kylie’s ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’
hooked onto ‘I Remember’. Which may be no influence
as such, but it’s a magnificently executed and welcome
homage to a genius and versatile song either way.
His own ‘Hallelujah’, the soaring, bleeding ‘Delicate’
(“Why’d you sing Hallelujah, if it means nothing to
you..?”), starts the set as if we’ve interrupted a private
thought. The comparatively frantic last single, ‘Woman
Like A Man’, like a part-drunk/stoned tirade opens him
up further, and if it’s a bold step onwards on record
it’s got its boots on live. But what caps the evening
is the fact that although he carries songs like the
amazing ‘The Professor’ stunningly on his own he’s not
the only star on that stage. Lisa Hannigan, backing
and co-vocalist, is a revelation, with a Theramin-esque
range to bridge the largest, craggiest ravine. And then
some. She comes into her own taking the lead on a touching
tribute to Nina Simone with the late singer’s rumbling,
percussive ‘Be My Husband’.
He returns for the encore, kneels at the lip of the
stage in a respectful silence, utterly unplugged, without
amplification of any sort, and picks his way out of
the seclusion with the naked splendour of ‘Cannonball’.
His words hang strong in the still air, mixing organically
with the melodies fluttering like independent sprites
from his guitar. Crud once saw Fran Healy do the same
thing at a Travis gig at Hammersmith Apollo, but on
that occasion it was nothing more than a pleasant gesture.
Words cannot really express how precious this man is.
Fuck Jeff Buckley*. He’s dead. Damien Rice is most certainly
alive, and in so many ways.
Relevant sites:
www.damienrice.com
* Though obviously, get ‘Grace’ first… 
James Berry for Crud Magazine© 2003
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