Damien Rice
“9”
(Heffa)

2 Stars

Damien Rice needs to lighten up. if not for the sake of his listeners then for the sake of his own mental health. “9,” the Irish thirtysomething’s sophomore release is alternately dense and minimal, forcing the listener to conclude that Rice is on the brink of a nervous breakdown. With despairing melodies and broken-hearted nostalgia permeating nearly every track, “9” might as well be a suicide note.

Let’s take a look at his influences. Rice’s sound is reminiscent of, if not directly derived from, a long tradition of moping whiners who whispered their way to the top of the alternative charts. It’s not a bad move, ripping off the acoustic plinkings of bygone modern folk singers. But let’s not forget: Jeff Buckley drowned, Nick Drake overdosed, and Elliott Smith was found stabbed in the chest. Sure their records were lovely—raw, and eerie. They may have made heaps of money: but then they croaked. They died untimely deaths and now their songs can be heard behind the suicide sequences of movies like “The Royal Tenenbaums.” These are not, or at least should not be, the career aspirations of any musician, no matter how many women have broken his heart or how much his life resembles a chapter from “Angela’s Ashes.”

“Elephant” provides the most frustrating example of Rice’s skeletal songwriting and croaky delivery. Even when Rice manages to lift his singing above a three-inch voice, his songs vary in their degrees of success.

“Dogs” is likable enough, perhaps because it sounds like a less-catchy version of Train’s “Meet Virginia.” “Coconut Skins” gets itself going on a comparatively upbeat acoustic riff, until Rice mentions death and promptly squelches any optimism the listener may still possess. The second half of “Me, My Yoke and I” actually ascends to the level of rocking then comes off as just plain scary without a counterbalance to its six minutes of screechy anguish and unmitigated emotional hell.

At least Rice’s instrumentals leave nothing to be desired, and his tangible sadness on “Accidental Babies” rivals the near-tears delivery that Jewel owned back when she sang “You Were Meant for Me” all those years ago. She’s now happily married to a country singer. So maybe there’s still a ray of hope for young Rice. Then again, Jewel also sang at an audible decibel level and employed such useful songwriting devices as hooks and recognizable rhythm and syntax, so maybe not.

While “9” probably won’t offend you, it certainly won’t make you feel warm and fuzzy. And, with the exception of the highly annoying and entirely unnecessary 16-minute instrumental track (don’t ask), there’s nothing blatantly wrong with the album—other than the fact that it kind of makes you feel like giving up. If you liked Damien Rice before, when he was only mildly melancholy rather than out-and-out bipolar, then you’ll probably like this album. However, if you like coherent vocals, the occasional bass line, and just generally being alive, “9” is probably not for you.