Damien Rice seems to have nothing to prove. He has no musical agenda, fits neatly into no genre- until his debut album O hit big he didn't really have a proper band to speak of. And after selling two million copies of that debut album, more than four years passed without more than the occasional contribution to charity compilations (and one would be remiss in not seeking out the track Unplayed Piano, as it is among his strongest). But musically he seemed to have nothing to say, so nothing he said.

Until his bandmates starting pressuring him. Maybe he didn't have anymore good music in him, perhaps O was a lark. "We don't think you can do it." And as any good Irishman will do when called out, Rice got pissed and hit the pen and paper. Only this time he wanted to do something different, something a little more aggressive and heavy, not that O didn't have it's moments of cornered rage. But heavy is not exactly what arrived...

If you are not already familiar with Rice's work, you would recognize the track The Blower's Daughter as one of the pivotal scenes from the film Closer. Rice's approach is essentially this: emotion stripped to its essence, unsanitized by necessary musical structures, but often balanced against acoustic guitar, cello and piano, and laid bare for all to witness. Uniquely, he often shares vocal duties with the starry-voiced Lisa Hannigan, either as a duet or full track.

So it was with heavy in mind that Rice approached 9, a title which he claims "just felt right". Since the alternative was the Monty Pythonesque "A Hen Will Sit On An Unfertilized Egg", perhaps he was right to trust those feelings. And while 9 is by no means consistently heavy, it is also a distinctively different beast than O.

The opening track begins with simple piano and a melancholy Hannigan half-mumbling "is that all right with you... give my gun away when it's loaded." Rice joins as a cello lifts his voice up from the darkness. It is a brooding, placeless and ultimately gorgeous track that builds in postrock fashion to a borderline tantrum. It, more than any track Rice has produced thus far, encapsulates all of the elements that make his music unique.

The more straightforward The Animals Were Gone follows, a track that could easily have fit on O. We are reminded how visual and interesting Rice's lyrics can be. Where other songwriters may have approached the mourning of a dissolving relationship more directly, Rice gives us lines like "waking up without you, is like drinking from an empty cup", "Yesterday you asked me to write you a pleasant song- I'll do my best now but you've been gone for so long" and "I love your depression and I love your double chin." Quirky and poigant in the same breath.

By Elephant you are wondering where he's going to work in all of that heavy. But clearly it's not that kind of heavy he was referring to. Rice seems to communicate directly to the inner lack in all of us, and nowhere is that in greater relief than on this track. "What's the point of this song? Of even singing? You've already gone, why am I clinging?" Another track that trickles softly from spoken word/ plucked guitar to a sudden and alarming crescendo. As all of the pieces chitter to the ground, and Rice mouths "this has got to stop," we are reminded that no one else is creating music like this right now.

From the "Fuck You Fuck You And All You Do" of Rootless Tree, the emotional protest song that is Coconut Skin to the searing fury of Me, My Yoke and I, the listener feels like more than just a witness on this intricate journey. Rice puts you right between him and his pain and dares you to watch. It's interactive blues. It's an emotional snuff film. It is a revelation.

For this listener, the highlight of 9 is buried near the end of the disc. Sung to a lover who has left him for another, it's a song that's been done a million times. But never like this. Listening to this track was like hearing Jeff Buckley for the first time, when you knew you were experiencing something magical- something that transcended even the artist's intentions. "Do you come, together ever with him? Is he dark enough? Enough to see your light?" Rice puts it out there, with little apologies for what his uncensored heart has the say. And the punch line is worth every second. "Well I know I make you cry and I know sometimes you wanna die. But do you really feel alive without me? If so, be free. If not, leave him for me... before one of us has accidental babies." A twisted and comical way of saying Come Back To Me. And all of it, simply spoken over a mournfully plucked piano.

To my ears O took almost a year to fully blossom. 9, on the other hand, arrives as a beautiful and urgent album, but one that is still constantly surprising me and reinventing itself after many listens. If you are interested in hearing the most exciting artist to come along in ages, give 9 a spin. It may not be the exciting you might be expecting, kind of the way it was not the heavy I was expecting, but trust me, as someone who listens to hundreds of CDs each month, this *is* exciting.

Damien Rice creates music to remind us that perhaps the heart is meant to break.

"I have no desire to make statements. I've no desire to try to be something other than what I am or to try to make the music something other than what it is."