Jacob Alon is making fantastical, vulnerable folk music
On a quiet day in suburban Fife, exploring the woodland next to their hometown by the seaside, Jacob Alon once found magic in a dead bird. They were young, and this was a mystical but peculiar beauty they hadn’t found around the estates by their house. They kept finding the same breadcrumbs of beauty in broken shadows on the beaches, odd shells, fallen branches and anything remotely strange in this boring part of Scotland.
Years later, Alon has turned that childlike wonder and love of fantasy into gorgeous, lilting folk songs with lyrics that paint a misty landscape of that made-up world inside their head. On a cloudy Monday afternoon, the musician meets NME for coffee in a cosy Dunfermline café. Everything about their presence matches their songwriting – gentle, quiet, and contemplative. They’ll sometimes take deep pauses to find the perfect metaphor, like “unzipping nested layers” or, when describing dealing with past scars, “stroking tattoos”.
Sipping a latte, Alon looks off into the distance. “I think music holds a very strong connection to memory for me,” they say. For while some lyrics are based on fantasy, there are plenty of elements that represent hard times, like watching their mother struggle through a toxic relationship. Eventually, they’d face the impact that had on the rest of the family. “There are certain songs I listen to in certain periods, and I get instantly transported back when I hear them. I think in the same way, through the process of writing, I’m connecting back to things – but there’s also new memories being formed.”
Alon released their debut single ‘Fairy in a Bottle’ last year. They gave a breathtaking performance on Later… with Jools Holland, perched alone on a stool, every tender note leaking warmth like a timid sunrise. Sporting gold, feathered trousers with matching gold shimmer on their eyelids and bare feet, it’s clear they want to be raw and honest with who they are. Another single, ‘Liquid Gold 25’, is a gorgeously intimate track about loneliness and love. “A tempered glass guarding another world / Brings a comforting cold to your fingers,” Alon’s silvery voice rings out, clear and naked over feathery acoustic guitar as a shy drumbeat shuffles by underneath.
Now, the 24-year-old has announced their debut album ‘In Limerence’. It’s a record exploring the title for its literal meaning: the sense of deep longing that Alon didn’t always realise within themselves, and the danger of dreaming rather than learning how to love. Speedy Wunderground legend Dan Carey, who usually produces post-punk records, chose to work on Alon’s tender folk album after meeting each other through mutual friends. “He’s one of my best friends,” grins Alon. “I’m so lucky. It’s funny how you can meet someone and so quickly become close. He’s one of my favourite people and, through making art together, I just trust him so much.”
The songs on ‘In Limerence’ drift through a fantasy world written in response to Alon’s troubling “tattoos”. It’s illustrated by their silky-soft voice, which they surprisingly didn’t find beautiful a decade ago (it took endless YouTube tutorials to think they even had a shot at singing). They grew up in Fife on their mother’s music taste: veteran rap and R&B staples Lauryn Hill and Stevie Wonder.
“Growing up, a lot of us don’t see ourselves in the mainstream. We push into our own world and find a home somewhere else”
But the Scottish folk scene is a home away from home – a safe den that cradles their passion. “It’s impossible to separate from,” they say with a soft smile. “When I moved to Edinburgh just before the pandemic, I really got drawn into the scene and it encouraged me a lot. There’s so much humour here beyond what you would expect, and there’s this zero bullshit filter that I really love.”
Alon isn’t sure where their music will take them after ‘In Limerence’ – or even whether it will stay in the folk realm. But we briefly touch on Polari for a second, the forgotten queer tongue which they’ll hopefully weave into their artistry one day, and they say there’s more to be done in recovering eradicated languages and cultures in music. “I would love to channel more of that, because growing up, a lot of us don’t see ourselves in the mainstream,” they say. “We push into our own world and find a home somewhere else.”
As Alon carves out their path to self discovery, ‘In Limerence’ is a signpost, tapping into that realisation that too much dreaming can be dangerous. “Within this record, there are many ideas of escaping to fantasy in a world of dreams and using this prison of fiction to impose on yourself,” they say. “Dreams can be beautiful, but they’re also a place to be trapped in forever with good intentions of protecting your heart from pain and the full depth of love. I’ve done that so much, and I want to spread awareness of obsessive romantic attraction to the idea of someone, not to someone.”
Alon is still very much figuring it out. Making music for them is as much about connecting with other people and giving them a safe space as it is about doing all of that for themselves. “It’s scary to always be completely honest,” they say, reflecting on the trust they have for themselves. “Learning to accept things that are both ugly and beautiful is really intimidating, and I feel I can only give that to the world when I’m ready.”
You can work on trust, says Alon, but you can never get too confident. “People say you shouldn’t get too big for your boots,” they add. “I think people should be too big. Their toes should poke through the seams of their boots, and they should scurry up the pavement. That would be my dream.”
Jacob Alon’s ‘In Limerence’ is out May 30 via Island/EMI
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Sophie McVinnie
NME
