It's the question on everyone's lips, but it takes a brave soul to shout out: "Where's Lisa?" Damien Rice, mop-haired and unshaven, looks up from his guitar with a wry smile. "I don't know," he replies.

The news earlier this month that Rice's association with longtime backing singer Lisa Hannigan had "run its creative course" came as a surprise. Hannigan's fragile vocals alleviated the intensity of Rice's bitter songs of betrayal. While her absence on stage causes consternation, Rice soon reminds everyone that the spotlight belongs to him.

Following the success of his debut album, 2003's O, Dublin-born Rice was credited with rescuing the singer- songwriter genre from James Blunt's bed-wetting brigade. But last year's follow-up, 9, split opinion over whether the acoustic angry young man was for real.

Live, Rice's passion has never been in doubt. He and his four-piece band leap from the sparse soul-searching of The Blower's Daughter to funk, rock and grinding prog, never resting long enough to be pigeonholed. He has always taken more chances on stage than on record, and tonight, his heartbreak is more powerful, his rock more furious, than ever.

But the constant change in moods is disorientating, even for Rice. Having been possessed by the screaming spirit of Me, My Yoke and I, he starts, then stops, the lilting Dogs. "Sorry, I'm not in the mood for that one right now," he says.

It's one of the few times he communicates at all, and it's only after cellist Vyvienne Long's charming Random Man on the Motorway that Rice seems to relax, knocking back four glasses of red wine to play the inebriated Romeo of Cheers Darlin'. Suddenly sober and solo for Cannonball, he sings without a microphone - turned off to meet the venue's curfew - needing nothing and no one to prove how special he is.

· At Wolverhampton Civic Hall tonight. Box office: 0870 320 7000. Then touring.