Damien Rice |
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Tue. July 08.2003 10:23 AM EDT |
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Damien Rice: Accidents Will HappenIrish songwriter turns heads with his soft sounds. He talks about bumming around Europe and leaving the protocol behind. by C. Bottomley |
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Damien Rice (Publicity) |
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Damien Rice understands the power of dynamics. Listen to the song “Delicate," from the Irish singer-songwriter's debut, O. It's all about the hushed strum. Where others might start with a bang, Rice tiptoes in. He understands texture, too. A
The disheveled songwriter from County Kildare is his own man, but it’s tempting to lump him in with David Gray, whose initial success in Ireland was our first indication that the era of sensitive troubadours was once again upon us. But where Gray is the very model of sturdiness, Rice follows his sometimes willful instincts. His band Juniper was working by the rules of the corporate rock songwriting when his highly unusual “Eskimo” provided a new tack out of the blue. In an instant, everything changed. “It’s all accidental,” says the singer about his sudden change of direction. “I don’t really decide anything anymore. I don’t sit down and go, ‘Oh, I want to do this. How do I do that?’ I wrote “Eskimo” one day in about 15 or 20 minutes. It just popped out. I didn’t really know what it was about when I was writing it and there it was.” Inspired by this epiphany, he abandoned Juniper and wandered around Europe, singing for his supper and relying on the kindness of strangers. When he returned to Dublin, his demo tape fell in the hands of James Bond soundtrack composer David Arnold. Fortune smiled. Arnold bought Rice a bunch of recording equipment and the result is O, whose enigmatic title is from Pauline Réage’s erotic classic The Story of O. Much as the heroine O seeks sexual abasement, Rice wants you to feel his pain, whether in the bruised keening of “The Blower’s Daughter” or the weeping cellos of “Amie." And people do want to feel it. In Ireland, O has gone platinum. Rice told VH1 about the guitar abuse that inspired “Eskimo,” how he discovered himself by playing in the streets, and why sometimes a songwriter has to be a prick. See three VH1 exclusive live performances, "The Blower’s Daughter", "Volcano" and "Cold Water". VH1: How did “Eskimo” become such a breakthrough? Damien Rice: I was in this other band years ago, and the management asked us to write some up-tempo tunes. I spent three days and wrote a couple of things but there was nothing magical or special about them. On the third day, I thought, “I’m not good enough to be in the music industry!” and threw my guitar - it wasn’t even my guitar, actually - and it bounced off the radiator. I forgot I was trying to write songs because I was so concerned about nearly having cracked my friend’s guitar. I picked it up and my fingers just landed on it. That was the first chord of “Eskimo.” The song literally fell out. From then on in I never tried to write ever again. Stuff that’s special just pops out. It’s not me; it’s the moment. It’s like vomiting! [Watch Clip] VH1: When you decided to bum around Europe did you just jump onto a ferry without a map? DR: I left the band and needed to get out of Ireland. The band was a real tight-knit thing. We had been together for eight years and our families used to go out for dinner together and everything. When I left, everyone was quite irritated, so I needed to get away. I had this dream of living in Tuscany. It seemed like this idyllic landscape with friendly people, beautiful food, fruit trees and vineyards. People sometimes think you’re nuts, but I’ve gotten very used to feeling like, “Fine. You don’t believe in it, but my idea is not stupid.” And the first day I got to Italy I found this amazing house up in the hills with chicken and ducks and a donkey and a horse. VH1: Was there a time when you were playing for pennies? DR: Oh yeah. I busked on the streets. I brought my guitar and would sit in the street and play. VH1: Sleep in any doorways? DR: No. Somebody would always come up and go, “Ah, you’re really good!” We’d start talking, go for lunch and they’d say, “Do you want to stay at my house?” People often think that you need money to do things. That’s absolutely untrue. I had barely enough money to get a bus somewhere. I survived through different doors opening up. That’s why the whole time I’ve been doing this I’ve had no fear about pulling the handbrake and taking a completely different direction. I have no fear about having nothing. VH1: For the wandering musicians out there, where did you do the best business? DR: Dublin. Without a doubt. It’s only when I got back that I copped on! VH1: What’s behind the Gregorian chant at the end of “Cold Water”? DR: At that part in the song it felt right to do something that drifted off to that space. It was like when you get the feeling of dying. Whenever I felt that closeness to having nearly been in an accident, there’s that feeling of drifting off into a still space. I wanted to get the feeling of floating through that place. VH1: Then there’s the opera singer on “Eskimo.” DR: It’s all accidental. When we were recording “Eskimo” I was listening to it back and started singing this other melody over the strings. I thought, “Not another string line! How is that going to fit in?” I’ve known Doreen, the opera singer on the track, for a few years, so I rang her up. Then I rang up my Finnish friend - who looks a bit like an Eskimo so she sort of inspired the song - and asked her to translate some lyrics into Finnish. Finnish is quite glottal, but these lyrics happened to be really flowing and sounded gorgeous. VH1: Did your travels expand your musical horizons to things like that? DR: I learned how to listen to myself. When I was in the other band, before I went up onstage, the managers would put their arms around my shoulder and say, “Go out there and blow them away!” I’d come off stage and have missed the entire show because I was so much in my head. Playing on the street, nobody listens to you, so you listen to yourself. You realize, “God, I’m playing this song much better now, because I’m feeling it.” Now when I go onstage, it’s almost like there’s nobody out there. I never make a set list. I just wander on and go into it. [Watch Clip] VH1: Is the audience giving you more back than you’d get with the rock band? DR: The odd thing is that back then I was more aware of the audience but they gave me less. If I care too much about them, then I’m not doing what it is the audience would want me to do. If I was one of the audience, I wouldn’t want Leonard Cohen coming on trying to impress us. I’d want him to walk on stage, be silent for a second and sing that song like he sang it when he wrote it. That’s what I want to give - truthful responses. VH1: What parts of you does Leonard Cohen tickle that other songwriters don’t? DR: He’s honest. Really, really honest. “Famous Blue Raincoat” is like a letter to his best friend whom his wife visited. She came back so happy that it was obvious that they had an affair - or something had gone on. He thanked him for putting that look back in her eye because he thought it was gone. It’s that powerful honesty, like “I hate you but I love you,” that I relate to. I felt that kind of stuff before. VH1: Does being a songwriter mean you have to be a complete bastard? DR: Being a performer/writer/recording person is odd, but I don’t think it means you have to be an unpleasant human being. Yeah, I act the prick and somebody gets hurt. Then I get confused out of that hurt and somebody else does something to me. Then I have a huge fight that causes a certain emotion in me, I let it out in a song and people go, “Ahhhh.” It’s odd. People tell me “The Blowers Daughter” is such a beautiful song, but Jesus! If you knew the pain that was caused to write that song … [Watch Clip] VH1: Why put yourself through it? DR: I do it because I love it. I absolutely love playing; it’s more of a compulsion or an addiction that I have. I don’t think it’s necessary to be an unpleasant human being. I just naturally happen to be a bit impulsive sometimes or compulsive with certain things in life. And that just brings me somewhere … Maybe one day I’ll break these habits and change. Or maybe not. I don’t know. |
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