Call it an artist’s temperament. I wrote last year of Damien Rice’s prodigious talent, how time has not dulled the power of his voice or the passion in which he attacks the poor six strings of his guitar. But I also mentioned his silence. His hesitance to speak to the crowd. I wondered at the time whether it was arrogance or insecurity, fear or nerves.

Well, we can put that to rest, as he tells us this evening that he was just in a bad mood last year, and he felt bad when his cellist reminded him of it. But he’s “in great form” this evening by his own admission. My Irish granny would say the man is “full of chat” – which is to say, this time around, you can’t shut the man up.

Tonight, he is self-deprecating. He pokes fun at the self-pity and neediness in his songs. He teases the audience: “People call me sad, but you lot always seem to be sadder than me!” He tells us about masturbating before dates to lower the sperm count in his body. Seriously. He cajoles the crowd into singalongs… on multiple occasions.

He takes us on long tangents about the recording of his demos and the difficulties in arranging microphones in the bedroom of his parent’s flat in Dublin. He talks at length about his admiration for Leonard Cohen and the elusive hunt for true love in songwriting. He talks about dropping out of engineering at university when he was young and trying to deprogram himself to live a life of freedom. I am not joking, and I could go on.

If the man didn’t play a single chord, the audience would have got their money’s worth as a pseudo Damien Rice speaking tour about his life and the meaning of it all; such was the wisdom and wit he was willing to part with. But thankfully for those who have listened to and fallen in love with his music, he did manage to play some songs in between his many soliloquies.

It seems a waste of words to restate the obvious eight months later, but suffice to say, Damien Rice is still a masterful performer. He has a voice that is unmatched in his generation of folk singers and his small collection of songs have retained their quiet majesty in the 20 years since they were released.

He quickly addresses the ‘Elephant’ in the room – pardon the bad Damien Rice pun – why is Damo (another one of his comedic acts is imitating the Australian accent badly) back in the country so soon? Does he need the cash? Is he road-testing new material? No. Apparently, it's as simple as his tour manager being a big tennis fan and they all wanted to go to the Australian Open. Playing some gigs was just a way to fill in the time between sets. Talk about work/life balance.

Not to continue to compare this performance to last year’s, but this levity is confounding – it’s at Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde levels. Last year, you could be mistaken for thinking he’s the most self-serious man on the planet.

This year, he pauses the concert multiple times to loudly ask his crew stage left what the score of the Women’s Singles Final is. And then celebrates on stage when Madison Keys wins. It’s preposterous and endearing. But it’s also heartening to see him being so comfortable being his true self, unencumbered by the weight of expectation – or maybe it’s just the more relaxed, old-world charm of the Palais Theatre in St Kilda vs the daunting cavernous stage of the Elizabeth Murdoch Hall in the Melbourne Recital Centre. Who knows? But whatever it is, he’s in a more generous mood than most artists ever are.

One of the first things he tells us is, “I looked at what songs we played in Melbourne last year to make sure we played some different songs tonight for those that were there.” WHY DO MORE BANDS NOT DO THIS?! What a way to reward the die-hards.

Whilst still ticking the obvious D.Rice standards like Delicate, Volcano and 9 Crimes off the list, the set is replete with B-sides and rarities, including Back To Her Man, The Professor & La Fille Danse, and a spell-binding cover of Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Raincoat.

He even plays those album tracks that are usually buried by the hits, like Grey Room, Cold Water, Older Chests, and Amie to really hammer in the two-shows-in-one-year payoff. For any fan who has shelled out the money for both gigs, it’s an incredible gift. And he finishes the encore by inviting the crowd to huddle as close as they can to the stage – ushers and bouncers nowhere to be seen – to play a close-up version of Behind Those Eyes, a song first debuted live in 2017 but still officially unreleased.

And that’s what might stop Rice’s little Australian Open side hustle from continuing next year because if the most recent song he can play is 8 years old, there’s a problem. So, what to make of this dry spell from one of Ireland’s most talented songwriters of the 21st century? Well, for an infamously private man, who rarely speaks to the press about his music, let alone his feelings, we can only speculate – and I would say the common denominator, and a main driver of his creative pursuits, has a lot to do with who is playing the cello on his songs.

Much has been written about Rice’s musical and romantic relationship with Lisa Hannigan, how it drove the writing and recording of O and 9, and how the dissolution of their partnership resulted in Rice’s retreat from the spotlight and a gap of eight years between recorded albums. But with Brazilian cellist and vocalist Francisca Barreto, introduced to us last year and now a mainstay of Rice’s band – could it be that our tempestuous balladeer has found a new creative muse?

Barreto looks more at ease on stage this time around, not feeling herself around the songs like a new player to the ensemble but commanding the attention of the audience and even guiding Damien’s “no setlist, all vibes” policy. Her voice balances Rice’s timbre beautifully, and she is a worthy successor to one of Ireland’s premier cellists, even if she forgets to come back on stage for her part in Older Chests in another chaotic but heartwarming moment.

So, do we need more recorded output from Damien Rice now he’s finally ditched the reclusive-artist-living-in-Iceland schtick? Maybe it doesn’t matter. With songs as devastating as I Remember, as carefree as Coconut Skins and as haunting as Rootless Tree, maybe I should quit over-analysing the curriculum vitae of the man and just enjoy his presence in my city.

It seems ridiculous to say that someone who sold 2 million copies of his debut album is now a secret well kept by his fans, but a decade running away from your own fame will do funny things to your place in the industry. And spending another night with an artist who has successfully escaped the Spotify algorithms, missed the boom and bust of the global music festival circuit and opted out of the relentless promotional cycles of major music labels is a unique blessing.

Successfully deprogrammed and now happy again in a fruitful musical partnership. It’s game, set, match Rice. Same time, same place next year?