Words by Hannah Clemens//Illustration by Dan Jircitano
Romance isn’t dead; it’s just hiding. You can find bits and pieces if
you look hard enough, in rainy streets or black & white photographs. Or, if you prefer not to seek romance in cheesy places like that, you could find a sizeable dose in Damien Rice’s latest record, 9.

The remarkable breadth of Rice’s fanbase (his devoted followers
include my parents, half a dozen thirty-somethings I used to work
with, my twenty-one year old music snob friend, and a bevy of teenage regulars on the Eisley message board) made 9 a particularly anticipated follow-up. After garnering so much acclaim from a debut full of acoustic angst, he could be forgiven for simply releasing a sequel full of the same ideas and moods, but fortunately that is not what 9 is. On the contrary, this is a clear step forward in songwriting and arrangement. Vyvienne Long’s cello gets knocked down a notch in the mix to make room for a few other strings and – gasp – electric guitars! There are even a few expletives thrown in to add a little edge (and make my parents reconsider their adoration of Rice). At its core, 9 is still Damien Rice doing what he does best: mixing intense sadness with undeniable euphoria.

Like his debut, 9 was produced collaboratively with Rice’s band, but the result of this DIY ethic is anything but lo-fi. Unlike the
single-flavor songs of O, “Elephant” and “Rootless Tree” start out bland and benefit from sudden bursts of beautiful noise a la the Twilight Singers or “Fake Plastic Trees.” “Me, My Yoke and I,” on the other hand, pairs forced and often nonsensical rhymes with an inexorable crescendo – a tired old trick, but the effect is still chilling. “Accidental Babies” is the opposite of these lush madrigals, depending entirely on piano to back up Rice’s post-breakup malaise. Urgent folk tune “Coconut Skins” displays Rice’s range of song structures, while standout starter tracks “9 Crimes” and “Animals Were Gone” reach their string-soaked pinnacles via progressions as natural and gradual as a river’s current.

Many have noted a cinematic quality to Rice’s music, and nowhere is that more evident than 9, all 10 tracks of which fairly beg for visual accompaniment. Forget the prominence of “The Blower’s Daughter” in 2004’s “Closer;” these tracks should be coupled with images just as unabashedly romantic and melancholy, along the lines of “Before Sunrise” or “Wings of Desire.” Or maybe it’s just that the best place to experience 9 would be a darkened theater – at least for those of us who take advantage of such ideal make-out opportunities. Listen to 9
and you may find yourself wishing for low lighting and someone’s arms around you. I dare say that’s the way these songs were meant to be heard.