Songs like “Automatic” and “Mon Amour,” meant to feel airy and perfumed, wind up coughing on their own musk. Ware’s adherence to such rigid disco blueprints also has the knock-on effect of making her voice sound less remarkable than it actually is.
A playful record that pushes in different directions without straying too far from the Seventies dancefloor brief.
Although the album lacks the emotional punch of Ware's preceding dancefloor-oriented albums, it's always entertaining, full of stunning vocal performances.
The strutting No Consequences and the triumphant closing number of Mon Amour end the album on a high, and surely ensure Superbloom’s status as one of the albums of the year.
Jessie continues her journey to becoming a modern, soul-pop legend with a set of songs so palpably feel-good that it’s impossible not to start shoulder-shimmying at any given moment.
Thanks to Ware’s effervescent vocals and era-agnostic production style, the escapism of Superbloom lingers so long that it starts to feel not so much like a fantasy at all but a promise of something brighter and more perennial.
While the record is sonically similar to her previous two studio efforts, Superbloom stands on its own merit as a bit raunchier, if you will, with more frequent double entendres. In the process, Ware created quite possibly her gayest record yet.
An album that, for all its kitschy moments, is very well written and well made. It lacks a banger quite as undeniable as its predecessor’s Free Yourself – a song that, in a sane world, would have been No 1 for months – but it definitely doesn’t want for great melodies or choruses.
Besides that show-stopping moment [on "16 Summers"] and those other brief, fleeting teases of disco-induced euphoria, many of the songs off Superbloom ultimately feel like polished B-sides, frequently activating a kind of deja vú in how similar their presentations are to Ware’s previous work.
“Mr Valentine won’t you be mine / Don’t be shy cos I’m sure you’re just my type”, she sings in the jovial boogie-belter ‘Mr. Valentine’, partly mimicking ’00s girl group pop. .... “Don’t you know who I am?” she exclaims with a touching and stoic delivery in the eponymous power ballad of almost Bondian scale.
On this LP replete with gleaming greenery imagery and lyrics about hard earned sunny ways, Ware doesn’t just sound like a natural dancefloor maestro. She proves to be a force of nature.
Altogether, it has the faintly dispiriting sheen of something commissioned by its own success. Ware is deft enough that the album still plays best when it coalesces her 2010s crooner poise with the 2020s reassertion of her pop bona fides.
Songs like “Automatic” and “Mon Amour,” meant to feel airy and perfumed, wind up coughing on their own musk. Ware’s adherence to such rigid disco blueprints also has the knock-on effect of making her voice sound less remarkable than it actually is.
A playful record that pushes in different directions without straying too far from the Seventies dancefloor brief.
Although the album lacks the emotional punch of Ware's preceding dancefloor-oriented albums, it's always entertaining, full of stunning vocal performances.
The strutting No Consequences and the triumphant closing number of Mon Amour end the album on a high, and surely ensure Superbloom’s status as one of the albums of the year.
Jessie continues her journey to becoming a modern, soul-pop legend with a set of songs so palpably feel-good that it’s impossible not to start shoulder-shimmying at any given moment.
Thanks to Ware’s effervescent vocals and era-agnostic production style, the escapism of Superbloom lingers so long that it starts to feel not so much like a fantasy at all but a promise of something brighter and more perennial.
While the record is sonically similar to her previous two studio efforts, Superbloom stands on its own merit as a bit raunchier, if you will, with more frequent double entendres. In the process, Ware created quite possibly her gayest record yet.
An album that, for all its kitschy moments, is very well written and well made. It lacks a banger quite as undeniable as its predecessor’s Free Yourself – a song that, in a sane world, would have been No 1 for months – but it definitely doesn’t want for great melodies or choruses.
Besides that show-stopping moment [on "16 Summers"] and those other brief, fleeting teases of disco-induced euphoria, many of the songs off Superbloom ultimately feel like polished B-sides, frequently activating a kind of deja vú in how similar their presentations are to Ware’s previous work.
“Mr Valentine won’t you be mine / Don’t be shy cos I’m sure you’re just my type”, she sings in the jovial boogie-belter ‘Mr. Valentine’, partly mimicking ’00s girl group pop. .... “Don’t you know who I am?” she exclaims with a touching and stoic delivery in the eponymous power ballad of almost Bondian scale.
On this LP replete with gleaming greenery imagery and lyrics about hard earned sunny ways, Ware doesn’t just sound like a natural dancefloor maestro. She proves to be a force of nature.
Altogether, it has the faintly dispiriting sheen of something commissioned by its own success. Ware is deft enough that the album still plays best when it coalesces her 2010s crooner poise with the 2020s reassertion of her pop bona fides.
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