It’s easy to reach for the superlatives to describe the voice of Jacob Alon, one of 2025’s breakout revelations. The singer-songwriter’s vibrato – reaching cirrus in its higher register – recalls the late Jeff Buckley. And yet it remains distinctly Alon’s own instrument, inflected by a childhood in Dunfermline in Fife, and notable for its emotional restraint, which is in marked contrast to the wild feeling of the music and lyrics.
This singer, who uses they/them pronouns, could perform their vivid tales of unrequited young love and unexpected violence with greater anguish. But Alon, a subtle operator, consistently prefers to underplay their hand, even though this show in North London is their biggest headline set to date.
On the evening’s opening song, Elijah, Alon’s arpeggiating guitar makes way for a vocal that catches the light, but never scorches the ceiling. Don’t Fall Asleep, Alon’s tender song about the death of their cousin, shifts between reasons to remain alive (“Stay awake and watch the flowers grow / Green and indigo”) and sighs of grief.
But no one goes home feeling short-changed: an artist is at work here. Their guitar fingerpicking, dextrous and eloquent, is every bit as nuanced as their vocals. Alon’s outfit – a tinsel scarf paired with gauzy stage clothes and bare feet – is all part of their otherworldly appeal.
Alon is a subtle operator: their vocals are in marked contrast to the wild feeling of their music and lyrics
Alon was only recently on a path to becoming a theoretical physicist: this gig is the culmination of a standout year that has seen them go from being the first Scottish act to win BBC Introducing’s artist of the year, to releasing their affecting debut album In Limerence – about a state of besottedness that seems like love but is merely a projection.
The album was nominated for the Mercury prize; Alon has since been shortlisted for the critics’ choice award at the Brits. Songs about poppers and antidepressants marked Alon out as folk artist with contemporary concerns.
Alon has toured with Olly Alexander and Kae Tempest this year, and gave a well-received Glastonbury set this summer. A three-piece band bolsters the artist’s sound tonight, making it a little more conventional. But there are plenty of moments on just guitar, or just keyboards, as they begin the set solo and tune up between songs, marvelling at the venue (“Look at the size of this place”). A new track, Log, is so fresh, someone has to shine a light on a lyric sheet at Alon’s feet.
Sometimes, they murmur into the microphone so quietly and vulnerably, it can be hard to hear them even in the quivering stillness. One preamble, to Don’t Fall Asleep, stands out: on “days when it all feels too heavy”, Alon notes, they want us to remember: “The world is better with you in it.”
At other points they are more forthright. “This is a song about a ruckus,” Alon says wryly, “when I was taught a lesson by the Crete mafia.” Again, the distance between the events of August Moon (“they plunged a glass in the side of your face [...] I screamed till their ears bled”) and the manner in which Alon sings of them is masterfully handled. At the song’s climax, they do not scream until our ears bleed: everything strips back to Alon’s barely there vocal. Moments later, the band come back in to accompany an understated wolf howl.
As it’s the end of Alon’s year, and the same month as Christmas, there’s time for a diversion with guests. Joined by their support acts, Pem and Tendertwin, as well as singer-songwriter Douglas Dare, there is a rendition of Joni Mitchell’s River – a song about how rough Christmas can be when you’re yearning to escape it.
It all ends where it began, with Fairy in a Bottle, their breakout track about unrealistic expectations of love. Two-thirds of the way through, the lights flash intensely and Alon’s guitar playing turns gnarly and abstract, as if the instrument’s hollow body hides a hornet’s nest. Deftly, though, Alon brings the song back in, ending on gentle resolution rather than obvious catharsis.
Other artists can have their shrill lamentations – not this class act.
Photograph by Antonio Olmos for The Observer