Jacob Alon Stuns at the BRITs—Desert Dreamers Take Center Stage

Mia Reynolds, 1/20/2026From Scottish beginnings to desert dive bars, this piece celebrates music’s power to lift us beyond limits—reminding us that every stage, big or small, is a place for brave hearts, honest stories, and the magic of being heard.

Sometimes, the most extraordinary journeys begin in quiet corners. Jacob came up in Fife, a spot many folks couldn’t point to without a map, where music wasn’t just a pastime but a sanctuary—the sort that rustles through forests and rattles in old speakers late at night. It’s not often you see someone trade a world of hedged hopes for the bright flashbulb promise of live TV, but Jacob did. By the time Radio 1’s Jack Saunders handed over that Matthew Williamson-designed award, it hit like some cosmic confirmation—the small-town secret had become a national headline.

Curiously, stories like these don’t just orbit London anymore. Across the breadth of Britain, even reaching the high, sandy bones of California, the spark of performance is just as likely to flicker in the backroom of a local bar or sweep through a casino hall rowdy with anticipation. Lately, it seems, magic is less about the size of the stage and more about the nerve to climb up on it.

Sprawling deserts and icy winter evenings seem unlikely partners, but that’s where the heartbeats of live music echo loudest. Out in Southern California’s high desert, for example, the January air might bite at your ankles, but inside places like Agua Caliente Casino, there’s real warmth—Brad Paisley is set to swap boots for spotlight on the 31st, the crowd primed for each familiar chord. Not too far off, Marty Calderon and his band quietly flipped the script at Better Days, their Chicano soul a moonlit mix of longing and velvet heartbreak—music that lingers, even after the last note exhales.

Walk into Frogees Lounge when the band Düssonic gets going and you might think you’ve stumbled into a fever dream somewhere between Memphis and Liverpool—with a dash of dust and mischief thrown in. Their sound, lively as a Friday night, doesn’t bow to genre. It’s all elbows and wild invention; the kind of thing that could make even the local skeptics grin.

Meanwhile, up in Central California, laughter and nostalgia pass each other in the wings. Katt Williams is due to light up the Save Mart Center in Fresno. Odds are, he’ll leave folks doubled over, his humor as brisk as it is biting, which is just the thing on a cold January night. Elsewhere, Beatles harmonies drift from Pechanga Resort’s halls—The Fab Four giving a wink to the past, while at the Fox Theatre, Visalia, timeless Eagles tunes flutter like so many ghosts of road trips gone by.

But what pulls these far-flung moments together isn’t just the music, not really. It’s the way stories—with all their bruised hope and battered ambition—remind people that belonging sometimes starts with being seen. Stacey Tang, currently Chair of the 2026 BRIT Awards Committee, put it straight: “Giving artists visibility, support, and therefore confidence to experiment and grow shouldn’t be underestimated.” The comment hangs in the air, as true on a big stage as it is in a van packed with secondhand gear and anxiety.

Jacob put it differently, but just as plainly: “In a world full of broken and rusted jaggy edges, I’m grateful to find a place for softness still. And I will keep fighting for it.” Maybe it’s a Scottish thing, or perhaps just the purest root of any artist willing to risk failure for a moment of shared tenderness. Whether that’s a new anthem echoing from a festival tent or a teenager muddling through chords in a rented rehearsal room—well, isn’t that where tomorrow’s favorites often start?

So the calendar stacks up—shows scribbled in margins, gigs blooming in places otherwise emptied by late January’s chill. Lightning might strike at Agua Caliente, or just as likely in a makeshift venue with spotty sound and the faint aroma of spilt beer. Some would say it doesn’t much matter. What counts is the courage to step up, the willingness to reach—however high or far, however tremulous the voice.

The thing is, music doesn’t care about borders or limitations. It uncurls in strange places and makes companions out of strangers. Turns out—if you look close, or listen just a little sideways—that’s where something like hope gets stitched together. And maybe, thinking about it, that’s the real headline.

There’s a peculiar sort of gravity that tries to tether dreams to the places they first take root. Some manage to slip its pull—and anyone paying attention might’ve felt it the night Jacob Alon, visibly shaken, dared to speak about it from the BRITs Critics’ Choice stage. “In the wee town where I grew up in Scotland, it often felt like there was a limit to how high you could dare to dream,” Jacob confessed, the words trembling just enough to make them real. “So being part of something like this makes me feel like I’m floating far above the sky.”Sometimes, the most extraordinary journeys begin in quiet corners. Jacob came up in Fife, a spot many folks couldn’t point to without a map, where music wasn’t just a pastime but a sanctuary—the sort that rustles through forests and rattles in old speakers late at night. It’s not often you see someone trade a world of hedged hopes for the bright flashbulb promise of live TV, but Jacob did. By the time Radio 1’s Jack Saunders handed over that Matthew Williamson-designed award, it hit like some cosmic confirmation—the small-town secret had become a national headline.Curiously, stories like these don’t just orbit London anymore. Across the breadth of Britain, even reaching the high, sandy bones of California, the spark of performance is just as likely to flicker in the backroom of a local bar or sweep through a casino hall rowdy with anticipation. Lately, it seems, magic is less about the size of the stage and more about the nerve to climb up on it.Sprawling deserts and icy winter evenings seem unlikely partners, but that’s where the heartbeats of live music echo loudest. Out in Southern California’s high desert, for example, the January air might bite at your ankles, but inside places like Agua Caliente Casino, there’s real warmth—Brad Paisley is set to swap boots for spotlight on the 31st, the crowd primed for each familiar chord. Not too far off, Marty Calderon and his band quietly flipped the script at Better Days, their Chicano soul a moonlit mix of longing and velvet heartbreak—music that lingers, even after the last note exhales.Walk into Frogees Lounge when the band Düssonic gets going and you might think you’ve stumbled into a fever dream somewhere between Memphis and Liverpool—with a dash of dust and mischief thrown in. Their sound, lively as a Friday night, doesn’t bow to genre. It’s all elbows and wild invention; the kind of thing that could make even the local skeptics grin.Meanwhile, up in Central California, laughter and nostalgia pass each other in the wings. Katt Williams is due to light up the Save Mart Center in Fresno. Odds are, he’ll leave folks doubled over, his humor as brisk as it is biting, which is just the thing on a cold January night. Elsewhere, Beatles harmonies drift from Pechanga Resort’s halls—The Fab Four giving a wink to the past, while at the Fox Theatre, Visalia, timeless Eagles tunes flutter like so many ghosts of road trips gone by.But what pulls these far-flung moments together isn’t just the music, not really. It’s the way stories—with all their bruised hope and battered ambition—remind people that belonging sometimes starts with being seen. Stacey Tang, currently Chair of the 2026 BRIT Awards Committee, put it straight: “Giving artists visibility, support, and therefore confidence to experiment and grow shouldn’t be underestimated.” The comment hangs in the air, as true on a big stage as it is in a van packed with secondhand gear and anxiety.Jacob put it differently, but just as plainly: “In a world full of broken and rusted jaggy edges, I’m grateful to find a place for softness still. And I will keep fighting for it.” Maybe it’s a Scottish thing, or perhaps just the purest root of any artist willing to risk failure for a moment of shared tenderness. Whether that’s a new anthem echoing from a festival tent or a teenager muddling through chords in a rented rehearsal room—well, isn’t that where tomorrow’s favorites often start?So the calendar stacks up—shows scribbled in margins, gigs blooming in places otherwise emptied by late January’s chill. Lightning might strike at Agua Caliente, or just as likely in a makeshift venue with spotty sound and the faint aroma of spilt beer. Some would say it doesn’t much matter. What counts is the courage to step up, the willingness to reach—however high or far, however tremulous the voice.The thing is, music doesn’t care about borders or limitations. It uncurls in strange places and makes companions out of strangers. Turns out—if you look close, or listen just a little sideways—that’s where something like hope gets stitched together. And maybe, thinking about it, that’s the real headline.