Jacob Alon might have been a doctor, were it not for the “c*** of a cardiologist” who chose to humiliate them in front of their classmates. Yet the Scottish musician, 24, is still deeply invested in matters of the heart. Having released just two songs so far, already they have demonstrated a gift for examining love through a queer lens. As a writer, Alon is fearless – their songs like sacred hymns, washing away shame and self-loathing by confronting those feelings head on. As a singer, they are extraordinary – in possession of one of the most remarkable voices of their generation.
It was only last November when Alon performed their debut single “Fairy in a Bottle” on Later… With Jools Holland, barefoot and adorned in golden feathers and a scarlet cowl. With their tumble of dark curls and glitter-dusted cheeks, Alon brought to mind some fantastical creature of Arthur Rackham’s imagination. When they sing, it’s with a voice redolent of Jeff Buckley or Big Thief’s Adrianne Lenker, soaring from a chest-deep croon into a piercing cry.
Today, at a hotel bar in Groningen – a fog-drenched town in the Netherlands – Alon, who is non-binary, is more casual mid-tour; the golden feathers replaced by jeans and a jumper. In conversation, though, they retain their romantic way with language, speaking in the same half-beat rhythm in which they sing. Alon is excited about the imminent release of a new single “Liquid Gold 25”, named after the brand of poppers and inspired by a recent hook-up on the dating app Grindr. A debut album, we hope, is also on the way.
Lyrically, “Liquid Gold 25” speaks to Alon’s wish to dissociate, and to those destructive impulses born from our desire to feel wanted. “Covered in spit, you submit to feel closer to anything that keeps love alive,” Alon sings, over a lolloping guitar hook and patter of the hi-hat, then, later: “There’s no kissing, he sinks his teeth inside/ For this is where love comes to die.”
“I was thinking about the cycles that can be common in the queer community of downloading Grindr, deleting it in periods of low self-esteem, seeking validation then experiencing repulsion, longing, loneliness…” Alon says now. “It’s definitely possible to have a healthy relationship with these things, but very often the culture on that site tends to be more toxic. It feels like self-harming a little bit, the way you seek it out knowing you’ll come away feeling low.”
Raised in Fife, with its yawning coastal paths and clusters of fishing villages, Alon was a self-described radge (Scottish slang for a tearaway) before they found music. Aged nine, they asked their mother to teach them a song on the piano. That song was “Right Here Waiting”, the forlorn Eighties ballad by American singer Richard Marx; Alon’s performance of it earned them second place in a school talent show. “That moment felt really special – performing was a really electric thing,” Alon says. From there, they went on to form bands with names like The Pleaser Tweezers and Tramadol Nation – playing silly songs to make their friends laugh – but harboured no real ambitions of a career as an artist.
“I think it’s quite a Scottish mentality, but especially in Fife, there’s a low ceiling on what you can dream for,” Alon says. “I always felt that being a musician wasn’t possible for someone like me, and that I should be realistic.” Certain family members discouraged them, too, and so Alon opted to study medicine in Edinburgh instead.
“I really struggled to fit in, even though I loved so many parts of it,” they say. “The university environment is f***ed up. But I think what made me most miserable, and I didn’t know it at the time, was living someone else’s dream. I had music in me – a voice, an honesty – that hadn’t bloomed yet.” They smile, a little. “I’m still blooming.”
It was that incident with the “c*** of a cardiologist” that put Alon off medicine for good. “I think he wanted to make an example of me, to make me feel small,” they recall. “He succeeded. I felt awful, and I didn’t fight back. I wish I’d slapped his face!” They returned to class after his outburst, thinking this would be their life from now on. “It forced me to take a step back and realise I didn’t want to be in this environment.”
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Alon stuck it out for the rest of the year before switching to theoretical physics. Then Covid hit, and with it another round of existential second-guessing. “It was the same thing, where I realised I was miserable. Like, ‘What the f*** am I doing?’ I’m meant to love this, but I hate it”.
So, they quit and, for the past few years, have found the songs pouring out of them. One such being “Confession”, an extraordinary track of delicately plucked guitars and Alon’s gossamer voice. “We were only fourteen/ Wild, wide eyes/ Pledging our virtues between holy crimes,” they croon. “We’d drink ourselves naked/ Swallowing the shame/ Stirring in the silence/ Tangling our brains.”
They became a regular on Edinburgh’s folk scene, singing with grizzled sea dogs and young pups in the Captain’s Bar while scraping a living in a local cafe. Alon signed with a manager and then to Island Records, who paired them with producer Dan Carey – which might seem an odd choice to those who know the Speedy Wunderground co-founder for his work with scowling rockers like Fontaines DC and Black Midi. But it’s a stroke of genius to those familiar with Carey’s earlier work, on songs such as Sia’s 2004 piano hymnal “Breathe Me” or Emiliana Torrini’s 2005 album, Fisherman’s Woman.
Alon crashed with Carey while working on new music, of which an overarching theme will be limerence: the state of intense romantic longing for someone who often does not reciprocate. Those who have experienced limerence will know it can lead to obsessive thoughts – an infatuation that overlooks any flaws or, indeed, turns those flaws into an attractive trait. “It’s nice meeting people who are in the know, because it feels like an inner circle of self-awareness,” Alon says with a laugh. We should all get tattoos, I suggest.
“Therapy is helping but also making art – it’s like getting something out of you,” they say. An exorcism, then. I mention a feeling of being haunted by the idea of someone, as though they’re lurking around every corner of your mind, just out of reach. “Yes, and the glimmer hits and you see them suddenly, then project this fantasy onto them,” Alon says. “Ultimately you have to accept that this person is dead… because they never existed. It really feels like you created and then killed this thing.” It’s a precious gift that Alon has, bottling these indefinable feelings, then releasing them with the sweetness of a sigh. It’s a kind of magic, even.
Jacob Alon plays Hoxton Hall in London on Monday 27 January and King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow on Friday 31 January
