Richard Buckner’s 1994 debut album, Bloomed, heralded the arrival of a uniquely expressive and honest songwriter and reaped Buckner tomes of critical praise, a deal with MCA (now void), and heavyweight expectations — some of which he’s delivered on, some of which he hasn’t.
For me, though, Bloomed has a whole ‘nother meaning. It’s one of those rare records that triggers a deja vu reflex every time I hear it, conjuring vivid memories of the life I was leading when I came to know it. In the summer of ’94, I was living just outside of Boston, in a house full of close friends, working the graveyard shift at Kinko’s. I would listen to Bloomed on the long subway ride across town every evening, fall asleep to it on the ride back every morning. I remember listening to “22″, thinking about my own impending twenty-second birthday, and realizing that was the threshold for inspiration. The ages of 16-21 are the prime years for songwriterly musings, and 22 is pushing it, but nobody writes songs about 23-year-olds. I felt old when I realized that; older than I feel now, I think.
I reviewed the record for Popwatch magazine back then, and five years from now I’ll probably be embarrassed by this review too. Because the fact is I’m still putting up a smokescreen, still at a loss as to why Bloomed holds sway over me. It’s true, Devotion + Doubt is a much more intense album, and Since is a more adventurous one, but Bloomed remains Buckner’s most lucid statement to me.
It is as graceful as debut albums come. It’s also devoid of the voyeuristic ill-ease and lumpy-throated whispers that choke out much of what he seems to be trying to say these days. On Bloomed, Buckner sounds at ease with his talent; he channels his songs, rather than prying them loose. It’s a sharp distinction, made all the more evident by the five more recently recorded bonus tracks contained here — strong songs all, but weighted by a certain melancholy hesitancy that Buckner may never shake. Yep, ’94 really was a simpler time — for Richard and me both, I guess.
