Jessie Ware
Superbloom
EMI

It’s hard to think of a singer better suited to the title Superbloom than Jessie Ware, whose transition from balladeer to disco revivalist has felt less like a pivot than a blossoming. She’s now three albums deep into her tenure as a pure-pleasure purveyor, an artist who harnesses the history of dance music to conjure bewitching romances and tasteful erotica. In the early days of the pandemic she put out a superb album called What’s Your Pleasure?, and ever since she has felt increasingly comfortable answering that question—sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with a wink, sometimes with swooning sincerity.

But if it’s true that she was put on this planet to make immaculate dance records, it’s also true that Superbloom feels more like a victory lap than an essential addition to her disco trilogy. Working with a small team of producers (among them her longstanding collaborator James Ford and erstwhile Madonna associate Stuart Price), Ware is supported here by a full complement of strings, flutes, and background singers, fully leaning into the featherweight grooves of the ABBA era. It all goes down smooth, but at times wants badly for a little more friction. The LP may have an earthy title, but it continues the trajectory of each album in this trilogy feeling less grounded than the one that came before it. Ware, who has been married since 2014, fashioned What’s Your Pleasure? as a collection of middle-aged couple fantasies; though it sounded perfect for a night out, it had an undercurrent of domesticity, its passion seasoned with a winning sense of wholesomeness. That! Feels Good! followed, its decadent punctuation signaling a shift toward the arch and the campy.

The personality of Superbloom feels harder to parse, with much of the songwriting choosing a middle lane of generic sensuality. “Got you hot under the collar,” Ware sings on lead single “I Could Get Used to This,” “Pleasure’s just around the corner.” Later, on “Automatic”: “He lets me lead, he’s Mr. Right.” That same lack of heft is evident in the arrangements, which swirl with impeccable adornment and period-piece filigrees; the grooves are welcoming, but the smooth, shiny surfaces occasionally blend together. There’s less of an anchor here in rumbling bass or stabs of guitar, and fewer occasions for Ware to deviate from the record’s floating, made-for-wedding-receptions cheer.

Yet if Superbloom doesn’t assert itself quite as strongly as its predecessors, it has just enough highlights to feel like a worthy capstone and epilogue. Toward the end of the album, Ware does get personal (and returns to her roots in sophisticated balladry) with “16 Summers,” a domestic lament that brings a welcome addition of wistfulness to the album’s emotional palette. There’s certainly pleasure to be shared on “Sauna,” a steamroom-ready remake of Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical,” further proof of just how much Ware has metabolized her dance music lore. Best of all might be the slinky “Don’t You Know Who I Am?,” which finds Ware at her most romantic and playful: “Don’t you know who I am? I’m the love of your life!” She sounds fully in charge of the scenario, and it serves as confirmation of just how much she’s flourished in her dancefloor diva era.

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