by Hugh Wilikofsky
As I listened to this legendary songwriter’s latest, I had to confront an issue with my writing. Looking over notes, I noticed a recurrence of phrases like “emotionally gutting” or “cut to the core” or “shot out” in reference to lines that felt visceral in their acute honesty, but to describe them in terms that suggested violence felt wrong for music so steeped in love. Lyrically there is no shortage of pain on display here, as Kath Bloom remains a preternaturally gifted chronicler of the unknowing that stalks even our closest relationships, but violence doesn’t own pain.
Bye Bye These Are the Days is Bloom’s first album with her band of the last three years and her first to be released in as many. With David Shapiro on lead guitar, Flo Ness on percussion, and both contributing vocals, Bloom’s yearning folksongs take on a remarkably fluid sound that feels vulnerable but vibrant. Like her cherished work with Loren Connors, these tracks stand on the precipice of the abyss, staring down hard truths that most go out of their way to avoid. However, while those decades-old albums teetered on that edge, BBTATD stands firm, grounded by moments of unity and generous exchange, which in turn provides an undercurrent of hope at even its bleakest moments.
Take opener “Blinded,” in which Bloom struggles with the disconnect between herself and (presumably) a lover in simple, devastating terms. She confesses, “When I look in your eyes / I see a disguise / Sometimes it is all that I can see,” before waveringly acknowledging, “I’m not free.” Yet there’s a strength of resolve to be found in the bracing harmonica that follows and the lovely moments of call and response between it and Shapiro’s guitar, like the supportive voice of a trusted friend. Ness’ gentle percussion, wistful chimes, and airy backing vocals provides a richness that soothes. You can immediately grasp the fluent nature of the band’s interplay, the care and attention they bring to every moment, which only serves to bolster the lyrics. When Bloom ultimately croons, “I am so blind / But it’s so fine / It’s so fine,” you almost believe her. Even in stifled relationships there’s still room for moments of beauty.
That kind of weary but loving acceptance is all over the album. Bloom has never been one to minimize the complexities of intimacy, and time has only honed her insight. You can hear it in her voice too, not the brittle lilt of her early work, but a weathered one. It may be a divisive point for listeners, and admittedly it took a listen or two for it to fully click for me, but once it did I was enamored of its emotive depth. It made me realize how rare it is to find such a unique voice given this kind of space in contemporary folk music. Somewhere along the way we forgot that the genre tag was not always up for grabs for anyone who picks up an acoustic guitar and strums a few plaintive chords, that it’s roots lie with the folk, the untrained but studied, who value the genuine feeling in voices rather than an objective sense of “beauty.” Sure, maybe I’m being overly romantic here, as artists were satirizing these kinds of arguments well before Bloom’s voice was pressed to wax, but it’s a point I feel inclined to make for anyone who might dismiss the album outright without letting her inimitable style cast its spell.
Her performance on “How Do You Survive” exemplifies its power. Trying to understand a child’s pain, she asks question after question, seeking new insights as much as mourning what’s been lost (“Where is the mirth / That we felt at your birth? / Where is the joy / When you were a little boy?”). There’s a determination in her voice throughout the first verse and chorus, but when she returns to repeat the verse her voice is shaky, as if on the verge of tears. The verse itself is hollowed out, suggesting she’s given up on asking all these fruitless questions, the pain of their unresolved nature simply too much to bear. She has referenced familial challenges in recent interviews, and here I think lies the larger point I’m grasping for about what makes her voice special: it’s the difference between performances that are concocted and those that are simply lived.
Life and all its vagaries are embraced here, lyrically but also occasionally literally. At the final refrain of highlight “Leaving Things,” Bloom swallows her words in a way that feels reflective of the track’s rueful lyrics—“I’m outside without a key,” she sings before dropping the previously present line “C’mon and take that ride with me,” as if acknowledging that the damage she’s caused can’t be rectified. I think I hear her muttering “forget it” in there, perhaps just a dismissal of a flubbed line, but in the context of the song it carries real weight. Clearly she recognized this and had the good sense to leave it in. She’s noted that painting is her first art form and she approaches her music similarly. With her delicate watercolors adorning the album’s cover, BBTATD accepts that sometimes colors run and recognizes the magic of the incidental.
You can measure the value this embrace of happenstance adds against some of her more recent work. While “Let’s Get Going” appeared on her last album—2017’s This Dream of Life—there’s no question in my mind that the version presented here is the definitive one, and it puts into stark contrast what makes this album so special over other post-public resurgence releases. I don’t mean to discount those other albums, as they still have much to offer given that Bloom’s incisive songwriting remains at their core, but in hindsight the sense of dislocation imposed by their rather conventional production doesn’t suit music so deeply entrenched in the interpersonal. Her songs thrive when given enough space to invite everyone in—players and listeners alike—and these tracks benefit immensely from their live recording and the presence of long-term collaborators. In the years since her work with Connors, she has built a career working with children as a music therapist, and has expounded on the joy she gets from helping young people get comfortable making music, as well as the singular pleasure of playing music together. As such, imagining Bloom singing lyrics like “If we’re feelin this good / People wonder if we should / And they think maybe there’s / Somethin’ we’re stealin” alone in a booth feels antithetical to the song’s sentiment. So instead of the tentative tone struck by the 2017 version, here we have light-footed, even irreverent tone, unafraid to revel in the unknown. When she instructs, “Let’s find beauty / That’s our duty,” I’m ready to follow that rallying cry.
And that’s not the sole bright spot of the album, despite what my earlier musings on its emotional intensity may have led you to believe. “Found Love” is perhaps the most blissful track, unmarred by any personal strife, but not lost in its own sense of whimsy either. “Well you’re desperate and you’re lonely and you turn on your TV / And they tell you America is the place / And you go out and you try to be who you’re supposed to be / That American Dream just slaps you in the face,” she belts, only to revel again in the love she’s found, the dream she’s made real. Bloom’s songwriting never loses sight of the full spectrum of emotions and understands that we’re always subject to the tensions that exist between them. It sounds so simple, but so much music seems to miss that when measured against such intuitive songcraft.
“I guess I write out of pain,” Bloom posited in another interview from last year. “I write out of confusion. And sometimes, out of happiness. I don’t set out to write about anything in particular really, just what comes to me.” That pain she captures is one wrought by absence, not violence, one that you couldn’t feel if you hadn’t opened your heart in the first place. And if you managed to do that, perhaps there’s still some joy left to be found, even when it seems to all be in the rearview. Bye Bye These Are the Days comes as a welcome new chapter in Bloom’s career for long-time fans, and one that feels poised to win over new ones. While Bloom’s early work might have resonated with listeners in their fragile sense of sublimity, this record is decidedly more assured but no less sensitive. It’s like she offers with a well-earned sense of confidence on “Middle of the Night”: “In with the new / Out with the old / I’ve been so blue now I’ve gotta be bold.”