I arrived at college as a scene kid freshman with a swoopy haircut, girl jeans, and a CD wallet filled with metalcore and emo albums.

Living in a dorm beside so many diverse music fans was a quick relief for that.

In the first few months, I was inundated with wonderful music that expanded my own tastes outward—many of those CDs still have a place among my favorite records. Artists like Sigur Rós, the Mars Volta, Imogen Heap and Frou Frou, Bright Eyes…

And Damien Rice.

I had my first brush with this record while catching up on a drawing class I had missed. I went to the art building during to pick up my sketchbook, and a girl was in there painting. “Delicate,” the opening track to this album, was playing on her boombox (remember boomboxes?).

I asked her who it was, and she told me. But by the time I got back to my dorm, I had forgotten his name.

Until weeks later, my roommate was listening to the same song. I burst out of my seat in excitement. He quickly burned me the CD, and I played it on repeat for weeks.

It became a sort of Bible to me. I listened with my guitar in hand, laboring over the fingerpicking patterns and chord changes (“Cannonball” was something of a white whale for me). As I listen to it now, years removed, I still instinctively sing along with every word (except for “Cold Water,” which was somehow omitted on my copy).

That burned disc has long since disintegrated into a cloud of rainbow film and warped plastic. But with the long-awaited vinyl pressing finally in my possession, it can return to my regular rotation, where it belongs.

At first glance, O might seem like little more than a nice collection of well-written songs by a greenhorned Irish singer-songwriter. And through the first few tracks, you could be forgiven for thinking that.

The songwriting is top notch, but there’s not much notable about the arrangements, which are aided by a cello, a brushed drum set, and Lisa Hannigan’s delicate alto. Even “Delicate” sounds like the same sort of Starbucks-friendly folk rock that could be tossed into any indie dramedy without making much of a difference.

But as the record wears on, Damien Rice gets a little weirder.

“Amie” starts out sounding like an acoustic love song, until the string section starts making sci-fi noises and the lyrics turn to a UFO sighting. “Cheers Darlin’,” a bitter drinking tune to being led on, is accompanied by a sardonic clarinet, before exploding into a burst of electric guitars. “Cold Water” features a choir of Gregorian chants.

“I Remember” is two songs—the first a ballad led by Hannigan, then a menacing rocker by Rice that redlines the faders. His voice clips as he screams at the top of his register over swirls of strings, guitars, and an overdriven drum set, becoming more Radiohead than Ryan Adams. Also, that was always the song I forgot about when I put this CD on to sleep to.

“Eskimo” seems to return to the more conventional form of the first half of the record, until it blooms with a full orchestra, complete with an operatic mezzo-soprano.

I could continue even into the hidden tracks—which are each just as good as the proper album cuts—but I would bore you. And I didn’t even touch on “Older Chests,” “Volcano,” or even “The Blower’s Daughter,” each of which could easily be argued to be the best track on the record.

The point is, O is an amazingly diverse and consistently rewarding record—nevermind the fact that it’s a debut that he mostly recorded in his bedroom. It’s so good in fact that it’s prevented me from listening to anything else he’s done. The shadow of O hangs too darkly over them, and I just wish I was listening to this instead.

Which might be unfair, but O is a singularly wonderful record that needs no follow up. Damien Rice made a statement into the world that is as clear as it is brilliant. If this had been the only record he ever released, he would still be highly regarded.