I was an early adopter of Damien Rice’s music. I simply have to be at his Dublin gig

In a famous scene from the 2000 film High Fidelity, John Cusack, who plays the manager of a Chicago record shop, utters the line: “I will now sell five copies of The Three EPs by The Beta Band.”

He plays the album – specifically the track Dry the Rain – and waits and watches as customers become intrigued.

In early 2002 I got a job working at the Mary Street branch of Golden Discs in Dublin city centre. I was something of a cliche, having dropped out of my third year of a science degree in Trinity College to work full-time in a music shop. What can I say? The lab coat didn’t suit me. Besides, I was infinitely more interested in gigs and CDs than biochemistry and thermodynamics. I promised my parents I’d return to third level the following year and launched into my dream job, hoping to emulate the characters from films like Empire Records, Pretty in Pink and, of course, High Fidelity.

The only catch was that the MO of Golden Discs was to sell chart music, not the indie and guitar-based stuff I was into. All day, every day, the shop speakers blared out Avril Lavigne, P!nk and Westlife, which, to be fair to all three, cured me of my pop music snobbery. The repetition was a killer, though. To this day I still know all the words to The Eminem Show, and if I never again hear the Junkie XL remix of Elvis Presley’s A Little Less Conversation until the day I die I’ll be happy.

When the manager of the store wasn’t on the premises, the staff would grab the opportunity to play their own personal favourites. For me, that was Damien Rice’s album O. Released in February 2002, Rice’s debut solo album (he’d previously been in the band Juniper, who went on to become Bell X1) was like nothing I’d ever heard before. It had made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up the first time I listened to it, cradling the fabric-covered CD case in my hands like the unique miracle it was.

I’d play it through the Golden Discs sound system any chance I got, and when the manager returned from her lunch break, she’d already be giving out before she was even in the door, hissing at us to put on Liberty X or Nelly and Kelly. I couldn’t convince her that this man from Celbridge, his guitar, and his musical partner Lisa Hannigan were going to be huge.

As an early adopter of Rice’s music, it was immensely gratifying to see O slowly but surely gain recognition. Me and my friends saw him play it live up and down the country in tiny venues. We travelled to London in 2003 for his show at Union Chapel, sleeping in the airport because we couldn’t afford a hotel for the night. To see Rice live at that time was almost a religious experience, with his loop pedal and haunting cello accompaniment.

Next spring Rice will embark on a world tour of 25 cities, including Dublin, to mark 25 years since the release of O. I simply have to be there. Did I manage to get tickets in the presale last week? No. Did I secure tickets during the general sale the next day? Also no. Will I somehow source tickets before next March? God willing.

I will rally the troops who saw him with me in The Red House Hotel in Newbridge a few days before Christmas in 2002. I will weep as he plays Amie and I Remember.

I’ll die of shock if he manages to convince Lisa Hannigan to join him on stage for the first time since 2007, when she was abruptly removed from a tour “between sound check and gig” because of irreconcilable differences. Both have since spoken about the split. She says it was “for the best” and has gone on to have a hugely successful solo career. He told Hot Press in 2009 that his high point until then had been “meeting Lisa Hannigan”, while his lowest was “Lisa Hannigan not wanting to talk to me any more”.

Plenty of people have developed an opinion on Rice over the years. Many blame him for the explosion of bland “man with guitar” musical acts that came in his wake. Some view him as a crank, up himself, a poser. Plenty will honk about paying not to see him at the Bord Gáis Theatre next year. Great. More chance of me securing a ticket, then.

I did get my High Fidelity moment in Golden Discs. “I will now sell five copies of O by Damien Rice,” I announced to my manager, pressing play on The Blower’s Daughter on a quiet weekday in the shop.

I didn’t sell five, but I did sell two. I count it as a win.