Jacob Alon talks identity, memory, and debut album 'In Limerence' • Interview • DIY Magazine

If you want to experience the boundary between the real world and the eternal world, Celtic mythology suggests there are special locations where the two dimensions blur. ‘Thin places’, they call them. The problem is, you don’t find them – they find you. And you can’t use your eyes, ears, or fingers as a guide; their discovery is simply intuitive.

Normally, these are natural landmarks – mountains, bogs, rivers – but Jacob Alon conjures the essence of thin places in their music. No matter what note they sing, whether a guttural croon or wistful coo, every second is a pull in to their mystical, off-kilter world. “It does feel like you can speak without words through music,” they muse. “I think when writing music as well, you can be in this state where certain words or sounds come before any sense is made of what you’re trying to say. I think that’s a really precious thing.”

Since releasing debut single ‘Fairy In A Bottle’ last September, Fife-born Alon has skyrocketed from the tiny folk clubs of Edinburgh towards Jools Holland and Olly Alexander, who he supported on the latter’s recent UK/EU tour (“It was really strange because I’d seen Olly die on TV!”). Today, they’re speaking to us from Brussels, where they’ve just played their first festival of the year.

Thin places aren’t the only areas in life where reality blurs, and Alon took notice of this on a self-help spiral when writing their debut album. One listen to The Crappy Childhood Fairy podcast introduced them to a connecting thread in their life, and the eventual title of the record: ‘In Limerence’. “[Limerence] is an obsessive fixation on the idea of something or someone, from a place of absence,” they explain. “And part of you knows that. You’re doomed to cling to people that aren’t real. You’ve made them up, and you’ve killed them. It leaves you stripped of all your self esteem and potential for real love.”

Alon’s debut traces the memories of many such fixations - whether romantic, familial, or personal - over deft fingerpicked guitars and yearning vocals. But though ‘In Limerence’ is undoubtedly personal, this is not a straightforward “raw, honest” record. To be in limerence with someone is to idolise them, to believe they are the sole solution to all one’s problems. Of course, that’s never quite what life turns out to be, and that unreliable memory is part of what Alon wanted to explore: “What’s fiction and fantasy is quite thin – it is sometimes impossible to untangle those threads when you’re in the state of limerence.”

“It’s always a good thing to be making art in difficult times.”

On one side, there’s a dimension to the record akin to Celtic mythology - a world where demons and fairies draw
breath, where time refuses to play by the rules, and where pain doesn’t exist. Take ‘Of Amber’ and ‘Don’t Fall Asleep’, which rework real experiences from Alon’s life, but in a more fantastical tone. The former, for instance, retells the story of Orion pursuing the Pleiades sisters as a metaphor for limerence itself; just as the sisters are turned into stars by Zeus, Alon’s lovers too are trapped in a golden light, never to be set free.

Then, there are songs that snap out of that fantasy. There’s the haunting ‘Liquid Gold 25’, which documents destructive Grindr hook-ups during which the proverbial Magnum 45 is put in one’s mouth and “swallow ‘til it makes you cry”. On ‘August Moon’, meanwhile, Alon describes a trip to Malia where they and a friend were just getting back on good terms after Alon confessed their feelings to them. That is, until they were attacked by locals, and Alon watched a “glass plunged into the side” of their friend’s face. “It felt like the universe had ripped us apart as we were just connecting,” they recall, adding that it felt like “a lesson of shame from the universe – no, you can’t ever have this thing. It’s impossible for someone like you, and here’s the scar to prove it.

“I had nightmares about that night for so long, but I think one of the biggest parts was the shame - almost feeling really silly that I could have loved someone in a world with so much violence,” they add. “For years, I carried around that fear and that pain, and then it was only writing that song and telling that story that I was able to let go of that and process that. Now, when I sing that song, I sing it with an extra bit of triumph.”

Out of all their songs, Alon calls ‘Fairy In A Bottle’ “the most raw”. “That one was really hard to perform at first because it felt so personal,” they explain. “I’m not the good guy in ‘Fairy In A Bottle’; I’m very much coming to terms with how this [fixation on someone] is quite a selfish thing to do. It’s also hard for the object of that desire – it’s a lot to put someone onto this impossibly high pedestal that no one can live up to.”

“I think it’s the responsibility of artists to use their voices when they can and reflect the world in a very honest way. I think that’s all we can do.”

Increasingly, Alon has become more acquainted with being stood on that pedestal themself – and the cost it might take to keep standing up there. They’re part of a wave of openly queer musicians like Adrianne Lenker and Kae Tempest (who they’re soon touring in support of), and are speaking to us weeks after the High Court’s ruling to legally define a woman by biological sex – a decision that will no doubt encourage a fresh swell of transphobia.

“The world has changed a lot since even the making of this record, and it feels strange to be promoting it while feeling like there’s so much suffering going on,” they acknowledge. “It’s always a good thing to be making art in difficult times. That’s what I’m trying to explore now – ways to join the fight and not let these forces of hatred and division win, really trying to be there for the people that I love and nurture that sense of community.”

They go on, talking about how they hold out hope for the future and how love simply has to win, but then, they stall. “Even though these nasty cunts have the loudest voices, just trying to see the people that matter the most, I think, is the only way to…” Alon falters, and then gives up: “I don’t know why I say this. I don’t have a fucking clue, to be honest, but it’s all I know how to do.”

They tell us being a musician has brought forth a “strange pressure to get things right”, and it’s clearly a responsibility Alon takes seriously. “It’s hard when you’re not an expert – none of us are experts,” they explain. “But it’s important because the people that should be leading us are failing us and I think it’s the responsibility of artists to use their voices when they can and reflect the world in a very honest way. I think that’s all we can do.”

This isn’t the only complication Alon has recently experienced. They recall opening for Olly Alexander - the Years and Years frontman best known for his sweaty club bangers, which stand completely at odds with Alon’s tender tunes. Though they praise the crew as “iconic”, they say one Glasgow show was particularly difficult, with people “screaming and talking over me the whole time.” “I was like, ‘I don’t know if I want to do this anymore’,” they admit. “The only way I can perform is to make myself open, and when you do that and people don’t care, it’s so sore. I really did struggle with that; I had a little breakdown.”

But since playing their own shows, Alon has said they’ve been reminded of why they turned to music in the first place – and why they’ll only continue rising to the occasion. “I need to share,” they say. “Well, I need to write, that’s for sure. For me, it’s a way to understand a deeper level of how I’m feeling and to process the way I am within the world – especially now, given that it’s such a dark time in history. The fact that people have shared their stories of what [my music] has meant to them makes it so worth it.”

‘In Limerence’ is out now via Island.

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