Jessie Ware’s Superbloom sprouts from a more comfortable pop palette

The palpable eagerness to prove herself deserving of a career renaissance from 2020’s What’s Your Pleasure? and 2023’s That! Feels Good! has nearly vanished here. If Superbloom is her last in the supposed disco trilogy, then it definitely sounds the most subdued and comfortable of all three. The daring inclusion of “16 Summers” is arguably intentional as the album’s only ballad that revisits her estranged, pre-2020s sound. For many, it may be the weakest track, but what this carefree placement means is that Ware no longer feels the need to chase accolades or new audiences. Her music this decade has become instantly recognisable and constantly treasured. Superbloom is full of self-assurance gained from this knowledge.

Guided once again by her levitating voice, these thirteen tracks, two of which are half-minute interludes, sprout from a wider spectrum of disco than her two predecessors. There’s Madonna’s Confessions with a Spaghetti Western twist on “Ride”; 70s hedonistic club revival on “Sauna”; and modern British neo-soul draped in dreamy percussion on “Love You For”. The rather messy sonic diversity is both a celebration of Ware’s reign as retro dance’s singular star and a hindrance to the cohesion she’s often renowned for. Superbloom’s greatest, and deliriously funkiest, song “Don’t You Know What I Am?” spotlights her spectacular penchant for a vibrant mixture of old-school, outdoor playfulness and lush, elegant arrangements.

When Superbloom’s artistic direction is blurry and hinged on excessive and quixotic fantasy, Ware’s star power shrinks to the muddy ground, the music’s grandiosity succumbing to reverent pastiche of the greats. “No Consequences”, stitched into the album’s final leg, loses itself in Charles Stepney–inspired flowery strings: upfront and strangely straightforward in its stylistic execution. Ware enlists James Ford, a close collaborator since her breakthrough in 2020, for this sixth output, and the enigmatic allure of obscured and sophisticated production on the previous two records is shelved for a more easygoing pop palette. “Mr Valentine” flows like a hyperbolic, extroverted lost sister of the ever graceful “Beautiful People”.

It’ll be the general consensus that Ware should rev up a new melodic engine for her seventh release. The aesthetics of an escapist garden feels out of place and shallow when most songs here often dive into specific, dreamlike scenarios in actual places (“Sauna”, “Ride”, “16 Summers”). Only “I Could Get Used to This” and the title track exude the mystical charms of scented bushes and misty landscapes. She may have placed more focus and effort into her Table Manners podcast and other great opportunities that arrived with this newfound success. At the end of the day, there’s nothing much to lose for her to release a confident record that utilises what she knows best out of all the others in the same lane; she’s more than safe, at least for a while, to hesitate over the risks of leaping forward.