Damien Rice
9

There are albums that must be listened to in certain circumstances, at precise moments, in short, when you feel the need. Often there is a thread that connects the listener to the artist, especially if the artist is named Damien Rice, and this thread is necessity, the same that unites those who feel the need to listen and those who feel the need to sing. Singing and playing, without too much fuss or technicality. This is "9".

Someone, almost two thousand years ago, would have called it "Labor Limae". That's why "9" is not "O", and for the simple reason that Rice has finally realized that with the same potentials and the same capacities and maybe a less improvised recording studio, he could have done something more polished. The style, mind you, remains the same. Rice speaks of freedom, of existence, of love, of anger, and continues to do so in his own way.
The subtle and elegant support of the Irish singer Lisa Hannigan is the choice that further enhances "9". It doesn't take much to understand that. To be precise, the first four minutes or so of "9 Crimes" are enough. The singer's voice introduces itself as an actor would from behind the curtain at the beginning of a show, setting foot on a dimly lit stage with a faint piano in the background and rare, vibrant drum beats.
Then the main actor enters: Rice, and the voices intertwine, blend. In "Dogs" they even
unite, make love, up to a true melodic climax, and you quickly forget about the previous outburst, that of "Rootless Tree", the one where the angry chorus seems to take on a rock tone (Fuck you/ fuck you/ fuck you/ And all we've been through), and it doesn't really matter if with "Me, My Yoke And I" this rock, now purely achieved, risks sounding clichéd, retracing paths already crossed by people like Ben Harper, the impact and result are still anything but trivial.

The first half of the album flows by with pleasure. There's everything, presented in its usual simplicity. There's the love ballad "Animals Were Gone" (At night I trip without you/ and hope I don’t wake up/ ‘Cause waking up without you/ is like drinking from an empty cup) and "Elephant", the gem of the album, a crescendo that leaves no escape. When the acoustic sounds mix with the electric ones and the drums, I would challenge anyone to find a person who, having listened to the track, remained impassive and indifferent. But who knows if his way of writing music and conveying emotions is not exactly a double-edged sword. The second part of the album indeed seems to get lost in repetitions and add nothing more than what has already been said. "Grey Room" resembles "Amie" too much and "Coconut Skins" seems like filler born from extended listening to Bob Dylan. Everything fades away slowly, leaving a bit of a bitter taste, some confirmation, some certainty, and a piece of advice to give to anyone writing music these days: if you think you have created the most beautiful melody of all time, maybe it's better you listen to Damien Rice first.

To me. Reborn.