The endurance of the bare-boned singer/songwriter archetype is befuddling, considering that in 2003, the genre seems almost terminally idle. But sweet-faced, shaggy-haired poet-players have always seeped up an inordinate amount of hyperbolic, next-big-thing gushing from critics and fans; it's usually the kind of unchecked flattery that stems from recognizing what massive balls it takes to be unabashedly earnest, accepting that it's actually kinda brave to indulge the precious sentimentality that goes hand-in-hand with maudlin emoting.
Come the fuck on. This shit doesn't earn anyone a free pass. It's still possible to-- without repressing romanticism entirely-- take your broken heart and make its artistic likeness more interesting and dynamic than the overwrought, acoustic sap perpetuated every day in coffeehouses and Hallmark stores across America. Because on its own, even a really convincing Sincere Face is never enough to make anyone's gut flip.
Yes, the soft, tortured acoustic ballad is a valid and occasionally transcendental form of creative expression (see Dylan, Buckley, Nick Drake et. al.) but over the last fifty years, it's also become mind-numbingly formulaic. Irish troubadour Damien Rice's steadfast refusal to revise and redeploy means that his ten-track debut, for all its quiet confessions, is ultimately far more stagnant and sonically predictable than anybody wants to admit: O's musical path is so painfully well-tread that the record seems at times almost self-mocking, and Rice himself singer/songwrites like he's playing that shit on TV. Bravely calling on all renowned acoustic slingers from Joan Baez to Elliott Smith, Rice synthesizes the defining characteristics of folk-rock's quirky forefathers without coughing up a single noteworthy contribution of his own-- not only is Rice failing to augment the contemporary folk-rock paradigm, he's just doing an awkward imitation.
The big, inescapable problem with O is that, aside from being derivative, Rice's songwriting is also unbearably repetitive-- he stubbornly relies upon time-tested singer/songwriter formulas (quiet acoustic strumming and sober, wavering vocals), and repeats them almost exactly the same way, every time. Even his noble attempts at creating distinction, including an expectedly swelling string section whose rises and falls are, yes, cartoonishly familiar, seem knee-jerk and contrived. The whisper/scream trick, the dim acoustic intro, the painfully restrained percussion, the lilting chorus-- a hidden, a cappella version of "Silent Night"? Really?
And yet Rice makes it difficult to pull the bullshit card, because O is so unrelentingly affable. It's thoughtfully rendered, and if only superficially, all the proper parts are in place. His breathy vocals-- curiously pitched and slightly broguish-- are compelling, and when mixed with the airy coos of the impeccable Lisa Hannigan, these songs can surpass their mundane, by-the-book casings, at least momentarily; likewise, Rice is a capable guitar player, although his Dave Matthews-via-David Gray pluck-and-strum can be awfully exhausting. Still, irksome familiarity will always eclipse niceness, and this record's got no surprises.
Single "Volcano" is O's highlight. A rich, meandering cello line slides in between jerky acoustic strums, light drums and curt cymbal tapping pushing up against Rice's sufficiently vague lyrics ("What I am to you/ Is not real/ What I am to you/ Is not what you mean to me"). There's a spectral creepiness implied in the uncomfortable sparseness of the track, which sorta falls apart in the crooned bridge, but comes back in the haunting, many-tracked vocal breakdown with Hannigan, and its sinister suggestion is welcome-- when "The Blower's Daughter" interrupts, with its dramatic "I can't take my eyes off of you!" hollers, the memory of "Volcano"'s baleful, Nastasia-y threat becomes infinitely more appealing. Things get worse: even the leather bound adult-alternative handbook advises against publicly airing sentiments like "Cannonball"'s "Love/ Taught me to cry."
O has a thick canvas cover and impressive art-book packaging; its liner notes are crammed with drawings, paintings, and curiously superimposed poems. It seems instantly unfair that the record housed inside doesn't get the same kind of boundary-breaking treatment, but relies instead on all the whiny, sad-eyed clichés of a genre in desperate need of a fresh approach.
