Jocelyn Alice does not just write songs. She engineers earworms that have a peculiar way of colonizing the Canadian subconscious. You know the tracks even if you think you do not. "Jackpot", "Feels Right" and "Bound to You" have not just occupied space on Adult Contemporary and Hit Radio dials; they have practically paid rent there. With Platinum and Gold certifications hanging on her wall, she is the rare breed of artist who balances commercial viability with a vocal grit that sounds like it was forged in the same kiln as Amy Winehouse or Adele.
Sitting across from her, you do not get the sense of a polished pop product. There is a raw, jagged edge to her presence that mirrors her vocal delivery. She has been back in Calgary for a few years now, a move that felt like a tactical retreat and a spiritual homecoming all at once. The Canadian prairies offer a specific kind of isolation that L.A. simply cannot replicate.
"Yeah, which is fucking wild to think about," Alice says, reflecting on her return to Alberta. "It’s like the last two years was such a weird vortex of time, it feels like it’s been 10 years and also like two days."
The timeline of her return coincides almost perfectly with the global shutdown. While many artists found themselves trapped in the sprawl of Southern California, Alice made a break for the border just as the gates were closing. It was a move motivated by more than just geography. It was about the fundamental safety net that Canada provides.
"I was already living halftime here and halftime in L.A. at the beginning of the pandemic, and then it hit and I felt I was ready to be in Canada and have health care and my family," she explains.
That proximity to family is not a minor detail for her. In an industry that thrives on isolating talent to better exploit it, Alice has leaned into her domestic roots. The distance from the American epicentre of the industry allowed her to breathe, even as others struggled with the geographical divide.
"I can’t imagine that because especially my younger brother, he’s just gotten me through this time," Alice says. "I don’t know what I would have done without my little bubble here."
But the music did not stop just because the world did. Her single "How Could You Not Know" dropped recently, though calling it a "new" song is a bit of a misnomer. In the world of high-stakes publishing and label politics, songs often sit in a deep freeze for years before they are allowed to see the light of day. This track has a history that predates the current cultural climate.
"No, like so many of the songs I’ve released in my career, they’re generally pretty old," Alice notes. "This is definitely one of the oldest songs I’ve ever released. I wrote it probably five years ago now and was playing it live a lot as the original version and really believed in it."
The trajectory of the song was nearly derailed by the very machinery meant to propel it. When she signed with Sony in New York, the corporate instinct was to polish the track until the soul was buffed right out of it. It is a common story in the industry: a raw demo gets overproduced by a committee of suits who are more worried about TikTok algorithms than artistic integrity.
"I signed to Sony in New York a few years back and they wanted to release it and the production just wasn’t quite nailed yet and I thought it could be better," she says. "I felt like I’m taking a huge risk but I’m just going to pause on this for a second and just wait."
Then came *Songland*, the NBC reality show designed to pull back the curtain on the songwriting process. It was a double-edged sword for Alice. She was invited onto the show before she even knew which of her "children" the producers had selected for the slaughter. When she found out it was "How Could You Not Know", the realization was bitter.
"Then Songland came around and I was asked to do the show before I was even told what the song was that they chose," Alice admits. "I won’t lie, I was pretty disappointed when I found out what song they chose. I didn’t think it was right for the artist and it was such a close song for me as an artist that I just felt like I don’t want to win this show."
It is a rare moment of televised honesty. Most performers would sell their soul for a winning segment, but Alice was actively rooting against herself to preserve the sanctity of her work. She wanted the experience, sure, but she did not want to lose the rights to a song that felt like a piece of her own skin.
"I’m really grateful to be here and I really want to experience it all but I really hope I get to keep my song and here we are," she says.
The legal aftermath of these shows is often a quagmire of red tape and non-disclosure agreements. It took a full year of waiting for the contractual dust to settle before she could reclaim the track as her own. With a new team behind her, the release finally felt right.
"A year after Songland came out I was finally legally allowed to release it and my team inspired me to do so and it’s just been a really fun path," Alice says.
Her vocal style often draws comparisons to the late Amy Winehouse, an artist whose shadow looms large over anyone with a soulful vibrato. For Alice, Winehouse was not just a stylistic influence; she was a cautionary tale about the industry's appetite for destruction. The day Winehouse died remains etched in her memory like a physical scar.
"I was on a bus on my way to work at a sushi restaurant in Calgary and I just cried that whole bus ride," Alice recalls. "I knew that she was suffering and that she didn’t have support. I think it’s another story of the Britney Spears type era where the paparazzi were just so dangerous and I understood why she was suffering so hard, but fuck, I wish that we got to hear more of her music."
The tragedy of Winehouse is often framed as a personal failure, but Alice sees it as a systemic one. She recognizes the same vultures circling the current crop of stars, though the medium has shifted from long-lens cameras to social media comment sections.
"I wish that we had more of her light because I just felt like she was such an honest artist and real artist too," Alice says.
There is a palpable frustration in her voice when she talks about the current state of the industry. In an age where a viral clip can bypass years of club gigs and vocal training, the definition of an "artist" has become dangerously thin. Alice is an old-school technician in a digital-first world.
"I get pretty discouraged lately seeing what’s connecting and a lot of it, no offense, is people that don’t have musical background or any experience whatsoever," she argues. "It shows when they get up there and they play those shows and it’s like, yeah, you’re definitely not ready to do this, which is fair, I mean, it takes a lot of experience. She was just an artist that I thought was absolutely born to do it, an old soul. I’m still kind of grieving that honestly."
The conversation shifts back to the people surrounding an artist. In Winehouse's case, the lack of a protective barrier was fatal. Alice is acutely aware that the people in your inner circle either act as a shield or a funnel for the bullshit.
"I wonder if she’d had better people around her, what would have happened?" Alice asks. "We all know her Rehab song and how her father basically said no, you don’t need help, when it was very clear to everyone that she did."
This realization has shaped the way Alice manages her own career. She is not interested in yes-men or corporate handlers who see her as a line item on a spreadsheet.
"It’s sad and it’s a good reminder as an artist for me to have only really safe, really strong, really honest people around me," she says.
Alice is a prolific writer, but she has had to change her relationship with the "grind." The industry rewards constant output, often at the expense of the creator's mental health. She has spent the last few years unlearning the toxic habits of the L.A. session circuit.
"I’ve been really taking a break from the way that I used to grind but I still want to write every day," she explains. "It’s just something that is really hard for me to not do."
I get pretty discouraged lately seeing what’s connecting and a lot of it, no offense, is people that don’t have musical background or any experience whatsoever. ... Amy Winehouse was just an artist that I thought was absolutely born to do it, an old soul. I’m still kind of grieving that honestly.
There is a technical proficiency that comes from that kind of repetition. But when the world feels heavy, the songs reflect that weight. Writing becomes a process of excavation rather than just composition.
"I think it really is worth it to work hard at what you love and I’ve seen that grow and my ability grow," Alice says. "I’ve definitely felt pretty discouraged the last few years just because things feel so heavy."
Lately, she has been stepping back into the collaborative ring, albeit on her own terms. A recent trip to Vancouver served as a litmus test for her readiness to work with others again.
"When I go to write, it just feels like all I want to write about is what’s really going on and I’ve been diving back into it and I just went to a little camp in Vancouver," she says. "It feels really good to be collaborating again because I’ve been writing on my own for the last little while."
Collaborating is a tricky business for an artist with a strong sense of self. Alice is the first to admit that she is not the easiest person to steer in a studio. She requires a specific kind of creative partner—someone who can hold their own against her "big personality."
"It’s funny, I actually don’t love it," she confesses regarding collaboration. "There are certain people that I really connect with and I fucking live for it, but it’s really hard for me to find those people, I won’t lie. It’s really hard for me to find someone that gives me enough space as a writer, and as a singer, and trusts me enough, but also finds a way to challenge me because I’m just a raging bitch most of the time. It’s not easy to tell me what to do and I’m aware of that."
The burnout she experienced in California was not just physical; it was a total systemic failure. The pressure to produce a hit every single day in a room full of strangers is enough to break even the most resilient performer.
"I used to work with everyone under the sun and I would be in L.A. doing sessions for three years straight, basically every day a different person and I just burned out, I literally had a mental breakdown," Alice says.
That breakdown was the catalyst for her move back to Canada. It was a moment of forced clarity. She realized that the "success" she was chasing in L.A. was costing her the very thing that made her an artist in the first place.
"That’s a big reason why I was starting to move back home to Canada and just re-establishing my priorities," she says. "I’m now at a place where I just really want to work with people that I love, that understand what I do, and that like my personality too because I’m a big personality. I definitely want to do more intentional collaborating in the future."
The irony of her L.A. tenure is that it was fueled by the massive success of "Jackpot". That song was the definition of an indie miracle. It was released without the backing of a major label machine, yet it managed to penetrate the mainstream through sheer force of will and a catchy-as-hell hook.
"Definitely. I was an indie artist with Jackpot, I had no teammates whatsoever," Alice recalls. "When that song came out I had just let a manager go and was kind of on my own and slowly started to build my team and that’s where Sony found me through Shazam. They were like, how are you doing this on your own? And I said I have no idea but I’m tired, you know? They signed me and pretty much said, 'You’ve got to move to LA' and then I signed as a writer as well."
The move to L.A. felt like a mandatory sentence. It is the narrative every young artist is sold: if you want to be a star, you have to be in the room where it happens. But for Alice, the room was suffocating.
"They were really adamant about me moving to L.A. and that wasn’t something I was necessarily dying to do at that time," she says. "I was pretty nervous about going there and I was right about all the things I was nervous about. I’m really grateful that I didn’t move there until I was in my 30s because it would have been a lot harder."
Before the L.A. experiment, there was Nashville. Music City is often touted as a songwriter's paradise, but the cultural friction of the American South proved to be too much for Alice. The "racial ignorance" she encountered there was a dealbreaker.
"I lived in Nashville right before I lived in L.A., and it’s an interesting place I will say," she notes. "I wasn’t really prepared for living in The South of America and what that really means and I just ended up leaving because I couldn’t handle the racial ignorance that was constantly around me, I just couldn’t handle it there."
Despite the social friction, she respects the technical discipline of the Nashville scene. It is a city that treats songwriting like a trade, like carpentry or plumbing.
"I learned a lot as a songwriter," Alice says. "I think that they’re really dedicated to the craft, which I respect a lot. I don’t find that to be as much the case in L.A. I find L.A. people are chasing what’s popular and chasing a hit song."
Alice is an Aquarius, a detail she points to when explaining her refusal to follow the rules of pop music. She is not interested in what is currently trending. In fact, if something is popular, her instinct is to run in the opposite direction.
"Not at all and that’s another thing that has been a real challenge in sessions for me, finding people that really understand that because I’m an Aquarius, and we are known for not understanding rules," she says. "We’re visionaries, we’re here to think of the future and the thought of doing something because it’s already popular literally makes no sense to me."
This contrarian streak is exactly why "Jackpot" worked. It did not sound like anything else on the radio at the time. It was sparse, almost skeletal, relying on a keyboard and a drum beat.
"I’m like, why don’t we do the total opposite of that then? I don’t understand that mentality at all," Alice says. "Jackpot was never meant to be on the radio, it was never expected to do as well as it did. I never expected if it did get on the radio to get onto Hot as well as the AC. I really thought it would just be AC because there’s really nothing going on in the production of that song. There’s a keyboard and drums, that’s it."
The industry often tries to overcomplicate the "hit" formula, but Alice proves that authenticity usually wins. If the vibe in the room is good, the track will reflect it.
"But I really believe in breaking those rules and I think artists should do that and it’s a big part of how I choose who I collaborate with now," she says. "Simple and authentic. I think you can hear in that song too that we were having a good time that day and I liked working with who I was working with, I think that really matters."
Her journey into music started far from the pop charts. She was a child of the Alberta rodeo circuit, a world where country music is the only currency that matters. She was groomed to be a country star, a role she played with professional competence but little personal passion.
"I did. I started doing rodeos around Alberta back in the day," Alice says. "I wasn’t allowed to choose my genre as a child. I was told I would be singing country music and that I was in Alberta and I looked like a country star and you know, let’s do this."
While she eventually broke away from the Nashville-lite aesthetic, she credits those early years for her stage presence. You cannot hide at a rodeo; you either command the crowd or you get trampled.
"I never wanted to take that route but it was a really great foundation for me to learn my skills on stage and eventually get to a place where I was confident enough to start my actual band," she says.
Then came *Popstars*. Long before YouTube made everyone a content creator, Alice was navigating the awkward waters of reality TV as a teenager. It is a chapter of her life she views with a mix of nostalgia and mild horror.
"I did Popstars, oh my God, and this is before YouTube by the way so this shit is not even online," she laughs. "I’m so grateful. It was so embarrassing. I was the most awkward 16 year old you’ve ever seen on screen."
But behind the awkward teenage exterior was a young woman dealing with a fractured home life. Her upbringing was marked by instability, abuse and the heavy shadow of mental illness. Music was not just a career choice; it was a survival mechanism.
"I definitely went through a lot," Alice says. "I went through my siblings living in different houses. I was taken from my mom’s house at a pretty young age. My mom struggles really heavily with bipolar disorder. I moved to my dad’s house and it was pretty abusive and pretty scary."
The bedroom became her sanctuary. While other kids were out socializing, Alice was refining her craft in the dark, using karaoke CDs as her vocal coaches.
"At the end of the day I’ve definitely been through a lot, but I’m really grateful for my music even more so because of all of that," she says. "I can remember as a kid I would just practice for hours and hours just so I wouldn’t be around the people in my house. It was definitely my saving grace being able to go to my bedroom and sing to karaoke CDs because that’s how we did it back then."
Today, she surrounds herself with a tight-knit circle of creatives. She is intentional about who she lets into her space, often featuring her friends in her videos and live shows. It is about creating a "safe space" in an industry that is notoriously dangerous for women.
"It’s so important to me to include the people around me," Alice says. "I also just seem to attract incredibly creative, kind people. I think I’ve also been through hell and back as an artist and so to be able to involve other artists and inspire them and also create a safe space for them means everything to me."
Alice is vocal about the lack of progress for women in the music business. Despite the "girl boss" branding and performative corporate feminism, she sees the same old power structures at play. She has chosen to step away from the label system to maintain control over her body and her work.
"When we start really paying women and paying songwriters, maybe I’ll say yes, but at this point, honestly, no, I don’t think it’s getting better," she says. "I think women have more of a voice now and situations like the Britney Spears movement and how she’s got her voice back and she’s finally really sharing the truth of what happened to her."
The decision to wait until she was 30 to release her first major single was a tactical move. She knew she needed the maturity to navigate the "darkness" of the industry without getting swallowed whole.
"It’s very easy for women to find themselves as performers in those kinds of situations and it’s a big reason why I didn’t release my first single till I was 30 because I knew how dark it was," Alice explains. "The reality is that women always seem to be the leaders of real change in the world and we have to take charge. This is why I’m not signed to a label anymore. This is why I try to make every decision myself and this is why I’m only working with women even higher up now because I just find they come with more empathy and more understanding. And again, it’s that belief that making more is not always better."
Her commitment to mental health led her to take a six-month hiatus from social media recently. In a world that demands constant engagement, disappearing is a radical act.
"This last year I literally took six months off social media because my team said, 'You’re going to do that, you’re going through a lot personally and you’re going to take some time off,'" she says. "I didn’t think I was really allowed to do that and it just completely recharged me and brought me back in a way that I’ve never experienced before creating from such a healthy place."
But Alice is not just looking out for herself. She wants to see a fundamental shift in who is allowed in the room. She is tired of the monochromatic, male-dominated sessions that have defined pop music for decades.
"I really hope that changes and I will do everything in my power to be the change, but I will also say I think women are tired," she admits. "I want to see more of those powerful men including women in their sessions. I don’t think it’s that hard to do, especially people of color. I think it’s the absolute bare minimum and I’m so tired of seeing rooms of all white men making music, like we don’t need more of that, honey, I’m sorry, no offense to you but you’ve been heard for years. It’s time and that’s the other thing, when you bring women in, when you bring people of color in and they’re involved in the creative process, the music is better obviously."
Looking ahead, a new album is on the horizon for the summer of 2022. Alice does not write for specific projects; she writes constantly and then curates the best of the bunch. The upcoming record promises to be as eclectic as her personality.
"There is going to be a release probably in the summer," she says. "It’s been a lot of fun to choose songs for this project. I always have a hundred demos sitting there unreleased, so I’m like, Okay, what’s the next album going to be? It’s never really me writing for the album."
One particular track, written during the height of the 2020 lockdowns, stands out as a career highlight. It marks her first foray into vocal production, a skill she picked up while stuck at home.
"I will say that one of the only songs I wrote in 2020, during the pandemic is the next song that’s going to be coming out and it’s probably the proudest song I’ve ever worked on," Alice says. "It’s an absolute pop banger. I’m so excited about it. I wrote it with Corey Lerue from Neon Dreams who are just killing it right now and it’s one of my first vocal productions. That’s something that I decided to take more seriously in the last year just so I would be able to work from home and I’m just so excited."
The record will likely defy easy categorization. Alice is not interested in staying in one lane. She wants to touch every corner of the musical map.
"Once again, it’s an album that’s all over the place and completely genreless and just touches every kind of music there is and that’s what I do," she says. "I’m really excited."
Despite the accolades and the platinum plaques, Alice remains vulnerable. The encouragement of her fans and peers still carries significant weight, especially after the psychological toll of the last few years.
"Thank you so much, we really need to hear that," she says when praised for her work. "It’s been a really discouraging time so that really means more than you know."
She views the recent global struggles as a necessary, if painful, evolution. It is a perspective born of a woman who has spent her life jumping into the fire and coming out the other side.
"I think you’re right and that’s the thing," Alice says. "It has been hard but at the end of the day I would never give away the lessons that I’ve learned from this time, so I’m really grateful for that."
The upcoming music video for her next single was another moment of personal growth. The fear was there, but she has learned to lean into the discomfort.
"It’s a brave attitude," Alice says. "We have a new music video coming up for this next single as well and same thing, I was so afraid I had a mental breakdown before we filmed because I felt like there’s no way I can pull this off. I realized I’m probably being offered this because I’m ready for it and I just have to jump into the fire and it was one of the happiest moments of my life so I don’t think you ever feel fully ready for anything in life.
