To begin at the beginning. Jack L was born Sean Loughman (hence the early song ‘Lock Man’) in Athy, Co. Kildare, and worked as a trainee mechanic until, busking around Europe, it dawned on him that he could sing for a living.

Following a stint in the short-lived but intriguing Serious Women, a Sly Stone-influenced funk entity, Jack properly found his voice with the Black Romantics, who created a mighty word-of-mouth stir within weeks of their first gigs in early 1995.
Mixing Jacques Brel covers with Jack’s own embryonic forays into songwriting, those gigs soon passed into local legend, with the gang serving up pure black midnight magic to an increasingly enchanted audience.
At a time when the zeitgeist in general was well-disposed to string-soaked torch-song balladry (Tindersticks and the Divine Comedy had just burst into bloom), this stuff was manna from heaven. Jack’s singing was, without any exaggeration, comparable to vintage Scott Walker, while his stagecraft was spellbinding: a touch of Sinatra Swingin’ Lovers slickness, hints of Nick Cave’s preacher-storyteller theatricality, possibly the ghost of Jim Morrison welded into a unique whole. On more than one occasion, his heart-on-sleeve delivery brought to mind the great Willy deVille, not a compliment I’d bestow lightly. This period is documented to fine effect on the Wax album.
Wary of being seen as just a tribute act, Jack split from the Blacks in 1996, concentrated on his own material, and belatedly hit record stores three years later with the universally well-received Metropolis Blue.
Another collection, Universe, followed in 2001. By now, Jack’s rabid live following (there are people who claim to have witnessed every one of his Dublin performances) was packing out The Point on a regular basis, while the voice was being hailed as ‘a national treasure’, and serenading Lansdowne Road audiences at rugby internationals. And the momentum continues. His first album in five years, Broken Songs, recently went double platinum, and has just been joined in stores by a sparkling live DVD entitled Memento, released in response to public demand.
“It’s not the first one we’ve done," Jack explains. "We got a good DVD out of the Brel stuff. But from my point of view, it’ll be a nice thing to have when I’m sitting in my rocking chair as an old man. I just thought the whole night was euphoric, one of those gigs where you walk off feeling pure exhilaration. The live show’s pretty much always been where it’s at for me, you hit emotional highs that just aren’t attainable in the studio. We’ve a new thing now that we record all the gigs, then make them available to buy directly after the show. Effectively, it’s like making a live album every single night, warts and all. I think it’s only a matter of time before everyone does the same thing, now that the technology’s there.’”
As with any black romantic worthy of the name, Jack’s exterior persona – dark, brooding, Byronic, even vampiric – contrasts pleasantly with the man himself. Offstage he’s a right gentleman: warm, good-humoured, fond of intelligent and light-hearted discourse on any topic from politics to football. Though a born showman, Jack has zero interest in fame for its own sake, hence his assiduous avoidance of major-label involvement.
“I’ve had a lot of offers from major companies,” he explains, “and they all wanted to tell me what to do. I’d left school because I was sick of people telling me what to do. I don’t see how creativity can be unaffected by that sort of pressure. I can half-understand their point of view, but they all saw me as just a singer, an interpreter of other people’s stuff, and I like making my own music. I’ve always written and I’ve always wanted to create, so I stayed on that path and I’m quite thankful that I have. You see so many people who are huge, famous, rich, but they don’t have any control over their work or their lives. I can decide what I want to do, and when to do it.”
Maybe Jack has missed the big time – certainly that’s what some would say. Personally though, he has no regrets.
“I’m quite happy to have a normal life," he says. "I’m a working musician and able to sustain myself without having people waiting outside with cameras, which I’d hate.”
You would?
“Fuck, that would drive me nuts. What could prepare you for that kind of insanity? I want people to buy the records, but I’m happy with anonymity. People collar you here and there. Sometimes it’s a pain in the arse, sometimes it’s lovely – people will have a story about some gig, or some song, changing their life. Music has done that for me time and again, when I was a miserable teenager and music was the one thing that’d put magic into your world. So to be told you’ve had the same effect on other people… that’s some feeling.’
Though undoubtedly melancholic, the chief theme running through Jack’s work is one of optimism and hope.
”Resilience, I’d say. Isn’t that what life’s about for everyone? Nobody has a perfect life. We all face problems, bereavements, etcetera. Everybody’s fighting, with themselves, their own subconscious, their past, whatever. And if you get lost in it, that can drag you under. It’s essential to remind people that all’s not lost, when they’re down in those dark places – there’s nothing worse. It’s easy to be cynical, but I’ve always had an optimistic disposition.”
At the same time, he’s always had a melancholic streak, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. “I actually enjoy melancholia – if you don’t let it get too overwhelming, it can provide some of the most beautiful moments of your life. The joys of sadness. Like when you’ve loved – or just wanted – someone who’s somehow lost to you, and you hear a song that almost makes them materialise in front of you. Melancholia’s a great feeling in itself, it’s up there with euphoric love. I’m glad I have it. Or maybe we’re just twisted, are we? I’d say it beats happy-clappy contentment, any day.”
Has he battled depression?
“Depression’s too strong a word. Maybe as a teenager, when people always used the word ‘dark’, which I actually liked. You know, life’s been good to me. I’ve never been afraid of embracing that side of the mind – if other people see it as dark or negative, they’re entitled to. Books were a great source of comfort, opened my mind, my brain, some of them changed my life. Mainly, I’d read non-fiction. Carl Jung, I found, answered quite a lot of serious questions about what we’re doing here and what’s really important. I read endless biographies too. Politics. History. Information of all kinds.”
Is he religious?
“As Groucho Marx said, 'I’d never be part of any club that would have me as a member'. I’m more of a born-again pagan. I think once you subscribe to certainties, you’ve blinkered yourself. You need to keep your mind open to all possibilities – I don’t think anybody really has a fucking iota how we got here. Anybody who says they have is brainwashed. I know people need a belief system, and that’s quite inspiring in a way, that humans aspire to the divine. There’s obviously a point to our existence, and it’s nothing to do with buying shit, or any consumerist crap. But we’re not equipped to understand these bigger questions. Like the dinosaurs, our time might soon be up. Mankind seems to have really done a job on itself. Which only leaves the trees and the plants to inherit the earth. If there’s anything left of it.”
Does Jack notice the audience when performing?
“Hardly. Not once you get started – I’m sort of in a world of my own, completely wrapped up in whatever emotion I’m directly feeling about the song. Also, there’s usually a big fuck-off light in your face, which kind of blocks the audience out anyway. I’m trying to entertain myself, as much as anything. It’s an ego-based business – no one goes up on stage and sings unless they’re getting some sort of ego gratification from it, I’m sure I’m no exception. I only really notice the audience when they’re howling obscenities at me.”
Aside from the oft-mentioned usual suspects, Jack professes a particular affection for some singers who wouldn’t instantly leap to mind: Talk Talk’s Mark Hollis, Jeff Buckley, Nat King Cole, Serge Gainsbourg.
“I like people who play characters in songs, changing their voice depending on what’s required,” he says. “Also, I love Mongolian throat singers. They’ve this technique where they can hit two notes at the one time, it’s unlike anything else you’ve ever heard. I’m interested in people who push the limits of the voice’s capability.”
Was his cover of ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ a goof, or is he genuinely into mainstream pop? 
“Very much so. I was raised on Top Of The Pops, I can still remember the magic of the buzz on a Thursday night when you had Tomorrow’s World just before it and you knew the weekend was coming. And every once in a while, you’d see something that would blow your mind. Obviously I didn’t shed tears when it went, it had lost the magic towards the end – the charts had become so irrelevant and manufactured, which wasn’t always the case. I covered Kylie ‘cause I loved the song, same with the Gnarls Barkley thing, a classic. And I like the idea of taking chirpy, happy ‘the world is great’ songs and giving them my own treatment, putting them into a different, darker context. Any great song should be able to stand on its own without the music, be something you could sing at a session. When you write songs, you listen to everything, even the shite on the radio. You’re listening to it melodically, to the production, what the bass is doing, et cetera. I’m obsessive about music on that level. I love electronic music, too. Most techno’s shite, just robot music, but you get stuff like the Chemical Brothers – it’s amazing headphone music, especially if you’re flying. Or driving.”