Jacob Banks sings for the people who feel too much

His music doesn't fit into streaming-friendly categories, nor does it bend to the short attention spans that shape modern listening habits. It is expansive, cinematic, often unwieldy in its ambition. It demands patience. It dares you to sit in your feelings.

And yet, Banks is not here to play the tortured artist. He doesn't see himself as a savior of “real music,” nor does he romanticize struggle for the sake of credibility. He is not precious about his craft, nor does he dwell on the mythology of himself. “I don’t allow myself to be moved,” he says simply. “If I don’t allow myself to be moved by great feedback, then I can’t allow myself to be moved by negative feedback.” To some, that sounds like confidence. To others, it reads as complete indifference.

This polarity defines him. For every listener who considers his gravelly voice and grand, orchestral arrangements a revelation, there is another who finds his approach too elusive, his work too sprawling, his refusal to be easily categorized an act of defiance that borders on arrogance. And Banks is fine with that. “I don’t think my music is digestible in a ‘singles’ type of way,” he says. “I feel like I’m misleading people when I drop a single that sounds like this, but the entire project travels so much.”

The Yonder trilogy is perhaps the most distilled version of his ethos yet—three installments released over the space of five months, each with its own sonic world and emotional arc. Book I is a tribute to the music that raised him, the echoes of Nigeria running through its melodies. Book II ventures further afield, weaving in alternative influences and electronic textures. Book III, the final chapter, is stripped-back, raw, and deeply personal. “This one is for the people who are constantly burdened by empathy,” Banks says. “It’s exhausting to be hyper-aware, but some of us don’t have a choice.”

This trilogy is not a marketing gimmick, nor is it an attempt to game streaming algorithms by trickling out content in bite-sized pieces. It is, simply, the only way Banks knew how to tell this story. To condense it into one traditional album format would be to flatten it, to rob it of its expansiveness, to betray the complexity of its themes. “My loyalty is to the story,” he says. “I will tell the story how I think it’s best fit. So I’m not forcing it to work within a tempo, a genre, an instrument. If I feel like the story is best told on a folk guitar, I’m going to tell the story on a folk guitar.”

There is something deeply old-fashioned about this approach—something at odds with the hyper-commercialized, hyper-digitalized way music is consumed today. Banks doesn't chase virality, write with the expectation of radio play, or seem remotely concerned with whether or not his music is “relevant.” And yet, his audience has grown. His songs, despite—or perhaps because of—their refusal to conform, have found a global fan base that spans festival crowds and die-hard fans of deep earthy voices.

Even his presence—his physicality, his delivery—feels distinct. His voice, deep and weathered, seems to belong to another time, an era before digital perfection. He sings as if the words have been carved into him, as if he is simply the vessel through which they are delivered. “I don’t feel like I view myself as an artist,” he says. “I feel like songs already exist, and I just have to catch them.”

He describes his writing process as something closer to remembering than creating. “It’s not this meticulous, grand gesture,” he says. “Like, I can hear the songs, faintly. I just need to pull them down and give them what I can.” This is not an artist meticulously crafting a persona; it is a man who, by his own admission, found music late in life and has never felt bound by the traditional structures that govern the industry.

“I think music is a team sport,” he says. “If I don’t have the stories for you, I hope Sam Smith does. If Sam doesn’t, I hope Lauryn Hill does. I don’t think it’s imperative that I am your person. I just want to be present enough that if you need me, I’m here.”

This is what makes Banks so compelling—and so divisive. He is not trying to be everything to everyone. He is not selling you a dream, nor is he particularly interested in whether or not you “get it.” He is simply doing what he does, in the way that makes the most sense to him.

And if that resonates with you? Then you have found a home in his music. If it doesn’t? Well, Jacob Banks will be just fine.

This is a man who has built a career by trusting his instincts when every structure around him encourages the opposite. “I felt pressure to be authentic to myself, which is a lot of pressure, I guess,” he says, a trace of amusement in his voice. “It’s like, do I believe in this story as it is?” It’s a radical question in an industry that often asks artists to mold themselves to fit a template—to think about what will sell, what will work, what will be digestible.

These songs, and the album as a whole, are not here to comfort—they are here to confront. To press a finger into the bruise. To remind listeners of the things they try to push away. “I wanted to be honest,” Banks says. “I didn’t want to make something easy. I wanted to make something that actually felt like what it’s like to be inside your own head when everything is too loud.”

Compare this to "Blind", a song Book II that leans into the chaos of knowingly making a mistake but embracing it anyway. “It talks about allowing yourself to be used as such, but just knowing that it’s going to end in flames—and committing to that process,” Banks explains. The production mirrors that recklessness. “That, to me, went with distortion, with something heavier,” he says.

Unlike the first two installments, which leaned more into sonic exploration, Book III is led entirely by feeling. “It’s not focused on sound. It’s focused on emotion,” Banks explains. “I think this one is for the people that feel too much.

“I don’t want to force people who don’t want to listen,” he says bluntly. “If the emotional stuff isn’t for you, you don’t have to listen to Book III.”

That restlessness is evident in the way Book I paid homage to the African music that raised him, Book II leaned into the synth-heavy sounds of his Birmingham years, and Book III stripped everything back to raw, vulnerable storytelling. Banks builds worlds and then walks away from them, refusing to be tied to any one place, any one sound.

“I found music very late in my life," he admits. "I didn’t have the pressures of having to choose a genre to align myself to. I just found it all at the same time, and it all just sounded amazing to me."

He sees no reason to follow rules that serve no purpose. Ten-track albums, predictable structures, the expectation that every project must fit neatly into a single frame—it all feels hollow.

"Who decided I must do it this way? And why should I care? Why am I being pressured by dead people? At best, listeners pick like four songs anyway," he points out. "No one's dropping ten slappers. People take what speaks to them and move on. So why do I need to give them ten of the same thing? Most musicians are auditioning to be on the listeners' playlist. So I think most people are like “I love that, next.” Everyone's playlist on their phone is their greatest album of all time."

Banks’ voice is the first thing people notice—the kind of voice that stops conversations, that makes you turn your head without realizing why. It is rich, unpolished, and startlingly deep, evoking something ancient, something primal. It doesn't beg for attention; it commands it. And yet, for Banks himself, it is the least interesting thing about his artistry.

“The people always come back to the voice,” he says, almost dismissively. “And it’s weird because it’s the thing I care about the least.” It is an astonishing admission from an artist whose vocal presence is so singular, so unmistakable. “I’m not a singer,” he continues. “I don’t think I’ve sung a note in about two months.” There is no romantic attachment to it, no mythology surrounding its power. “I don’t sing in the shower. I don’t sing in the house.”

For Banks, the voice is merely a tool, no different from a guitar or a drum machine. It is not something to be worshipped. It is something to be wielded. “It’s just an instrument,” he says. “I care about the experience of the song. Some songs, the experience is the voice. Others, it’s the production, or the lyrics, or the silence in between.”

His indifference to his own vocal gift makes him an anomaly. In an industry where vocalists are often pressured to make their voice the centerpiece, Banks actively resists. He has no interest in proving himself through raw vocal performance. “I don’t like doing acoustic shows,” he says. “I don’t like stripping down songs that were never intended to be stripped down.” He doesn't want his music to be reduced to a gimmick, to be repackaged for easy consumption.

This refusal to pander extends to the way he creates—keeping his circle incredibly small. So small in fact that he doesn’t lean on any particular person to know he’s going in the right direction. “I have never sought feedback from anybody,” he states plainly. “It just doesn’t make sense to me.” He pauses, then clarifies, “Ultimately, because I think you’re going to tell me what you think I want to hear. You don’t have it in your heart to break my heart. And that would be unfair—to put you in a position where you have to lie to me.”

It is an almost brutal self-sufficiency, a conviction so strong that it can feel alienating. He doesn't need reassurance. “I don’t share my music with anyone,” he says, without a trace of ego. “Not because I think I’m better than anyone, but because my taste has been validated over the years. The universe has been so kind to me. Why would I suddenly think my favour has run out?”

This is what makes Banks such a force—his unshakable belief in his own instincts. He doesn't second-guess himself. He doesn't seek permission. And in a world that thrives on self-doubt and external validation, that kind of certainty is rare.

It is a philosophy that has guided his entire career. He doesn't seek mass appeal; he seeks connection. And if that means some people will never understand his music, so be it. “I want to present enough so that people can decide for themselves,” he says. “If home is here, great. If not, go somewhere else.”

For Banks, this is not a rejection of his audience—it is an offering. A challenge. A test of who is truly listening.

Because for those who do, who hear beyond the gravel and the growl, who follow his music into the depths where it demands to be felt rather than just heard—there is something there. Something worth finding.

And for him, the story is never static. It shifts, expands, contracts. The Yonder trilogy itself is still evolving—he hints that he might add songs to the tracklists retroactively, shaping and reshaping the albums even after their release. "It’s kind of like a book of short stories," he says. "I might move things around. If there’s a song that fits into the narrative of Book III, I’ll add it to Book III."

For some, this might seem erratic. For Banks, it is the only way he knows how to create. To capture the truth of a moment, to give each story the space it demands, and to never, ever stay in one place for too long.