'I Can't Really Write Happy Songs': An Evening with Damien Rice in Singapore

SINGAPORE—Ushers carrying laminated signs announcing that taking photos and videos inside the venue was not allowed walked around The Star Theatre here on the evening of singer-songwriter Damien Rice’s concert on Saturday (June 3). It felt more like a stage musical performance than a proper concert, but it was the venue’s—and sometimes even the artist’s—prerogative, so most people turned their mobile phones on silent and kept them inside pockets or handbags as zero hour approached. 

Even a disembodied voice made the same appeal before piped-in music by artists like Nina Simone and Leonard Cohen fell silent and the house lights dimmed. The silhouette of the Irishman materialized at around 20 minutes past 8 p.m. Similar to his 2016 show in the same venue, Rice was enveloped in darkness even as he pierced the silence with his commanding yet strangely comforting vocals.

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“Astronaut” was the first song. “I can be your astronaut,” he crooned, “if you want some space.” Earnest and warm and delivered in the artist’s honey-soaked gravelly voice, it was a trademark Rice song, his first in many years (or at least, the first one I’ve heard that’s not in any of his three full-length LPs).

Eventually the lights turned on and bathed Rice in gold. Dressed in a nondescript brown jacket, slacks, and tan leather shoes, he sported a manbun (new) and dimples on his left cheek (not new) when his lips curled into a rare smile. 

Photo by PJ Cana.

“I was backstage waiting for the show to start,” he said. “I brushed my teeth and closed my eyes for a bit and when I opened them again it was time to start. Pretty soon, this (he gestured to the crowd and the auditorium) would be all over and we’ll go out and do our own things, and it just made me think about living our lives as ourselves, instead of trying to live a version of ourselves that other people or our jobs would like us to be.” 

This was the third time I was catching Rice perform live and each time it was not in the Philippines. Some would argue that spending on flights, hotel rooms, meals, transportation, and show tickets to watch a man sing and strum his guitar for a couple of hours is more than a little excessive, if not downright absurd, but, to quote the movie Almost Famous (which I watched in the inflight entertainment on the flight back to Manila), people who say this clearly don't know what it is to be a fan. “To truly love some silly little piece of music, or some band, so much that it hurts.” 

That’s how I feel about Rice. Exactly 20 years ago, a friend who’s a bit of a snob when it comes to music, introduced me to the Irish singer-songwriter’s music with a bootlegged copy of his debut album O. My musical diet at the time consisted a lot of roughly the same type of music—guitar-wielding singer-songwriter types, so Rice fit right in.

But there’s something different about his songs. They’re modest and melancholy, sparse and atmospheric. Instead of sharing them with friends and loved ones, you keep them close to your chest and listen to them during bouts of loneliness or despair. Armed with nothing more than an acoustic guitar and his words, Rice articulates our deepest, darkest emotions, in songs that feel almost like a salve applied to an exposed wound. 

Photo by PJ Cana.

In “Volcano,” one of his oldest songs that he wrote when he was in the band Bell X1, Rice asked the audience to join him in a sing-along. He divvied up the crowd and asked each section to sing a part of the song. For a guy who has to entertain an audience with just a guitar all by his lonesome (plus new cohort Francisca Barreto from Brazil), it was a clever way to get people involved.

Introducing “My Favorite Faded Fantasy,” which is also the title of his third album, he said, “There are great advantages of the deeply dark, powerful passion, romantic love. And this is a song written from that place where we’re so blind, that what (we) call love is like, ‘You listen to me! You don’t understand what I’m feeling!’ And it sounds like a child with a toy and their brother or sister takes the toy away. You feel like you need it, and you can’t live without it in that moment. And this is a song that’s all about that but only in the shoes of an adult.

“If you bought tickets to this concert, you can probably relate,” he added.

It was becoming clear at that point that Rice was a bit chattier this time around than he was seven years ago at the same venue. It’s during moments like this that you get a glimpse of the person behind the music.

Photo by PJ Cana.

“Very often it’s the relationships where we go to the greatest highs, in what we call love, and in those relationships, we can have also the greatest lows,” he said. “But the great thing about being a songwriter is that it’s good fodder for songwriting. Because sometimes, people ask, ‘you seem sad,’ because there might be songs that feels sadder. And it’s kind of the opposite really. It’s a little bit like having shit out of your system.

“It’s a real gift being able to do that,” he continued. “So I highly recommend buying an instrument or pen and paper or whatever it is, for any of those times where we feel like a piece of shit. Just get it out.”

And just before he performed “Cannonball,” also a track from O that I used to think was yet another incredibly sad and poetic song, he called it one of his happy-ish songs.

“Somehow, I can’t really write happy songs, but I have happy-ish songs. And this one here is happy-ish. It’s at the beginning of that relationship, when everything was just…ahhh.”

Even if you closed your eyes, it was evident that the 49-year-old was still in his element. You don’t really expect much from live performances of acoustic singer-songwriters, but when they leave you transfixed, that’s as good a sign as any that your adoration isn’t for naught. In Rice’s case, the artist that I grew to respect and love was still all there. His voice remained unchanged despite the years—from album to bootlegged records to live shows—and he still exuded bucketloads of quiet, aw-shucks charisma. 

After inviting the crowd to yell out requests, he heard “Eskimo,” which he said was a song that came out of his old band days when he was being pressured by their record label to write a song that would be more “radio-friendly.”

Photo by PJ Cana.

After “9 Crimes,” he said “F**k seats” and asked audience members to come closer to the stage, just as he did all those years ago. The mobile phones came out after the mad rush and he launched into a seven-minute-long rendition of “Trusty and True” to end the regular set. So much for the no photos and videos rule. Of course, there was clamor for more, and after a few minutes, he walked back onstage to deafening cheers before he launched into “I Remember.” And the big finish, just like last time was “The Blower’s Daughter,” the closest he probably has to a hit. 

Twelve songs later, just as he predicted, it all came to an end and each of us inside the venue slowly filed back out to go back living our lives. But we have memories stored in our brains (and in our phones) of that hour-and-a-half-long set. It’ll last us long enough until we get the chance to see Rice back onstage. Hopefully, the next time won’t be too far away, and he actually makes his way to Manila to play for his Filipino fans.